Triple Cross (Alex Cross #30)(17)

“I agree,” Sampson said. “It reads like the man knows he’s selling something that might not pan out the way this proposal suggests.”

“It’s more than that,” Liu said, her voice rising. “Do you know he owns guns? Lots of them? He almost always carries one.”

“He was a Marine and an NCIS investigator,” I said. “I can’t imagine him not carrying a weapon.”

“But—”

“Hear me out, Suzanne. I appreciate you coming all this way to talk to us, but I’m not seeing a shred of evidence to back up your suspicions.”

“They’re not suspicions!”

“They are,” Sampson said. “I’m sorry, but you sound like a former editor who is pissed at Tull because he took a bigger offer than yours and it got you fired.”

“That has nothing to do with it!” she said, standing up, slamming the lid of her briefcase down, and locking it.

“I think it has more than a little bit to do with it,” I said.

She gestured at the paperbacks angrily. “If you don’t believe me, read the books. Ask yourself how Thomas Tull could have known all these things. How could he have seen what no one else did? I was his editor and I always wondered. So did our legal department. Thomas had answers for every question we threw at him, but to be honest, I always came away feeling like there was more to his part in the story than he was letting on.”

We said nothing. Liu shook her finger at the three paperbacks. “My gut says there are things in those books that are not right, Dr. Cross. Maybe I don’t know enough about criminal investigation, or maybe I’m too close to the narrative to see them. But someone like you, an even better investigator than Thomas—you just might spot the holes in his books when you read them for the first time.”





CHAPTER 17




Manhattan


BREE STONE STROLLED UP Fifth Avenue around four Friday afternoon, killing time. She’d spent the train ride up from Washington the evening before studying the contents of several more of the Frances Duchaine files.

In them, she’d seen many references to possible quashing of a search-warrant request on Duchaine’s homes and offices; there was also a list of the times the fashion designer had been visited by police.

One detective, Rosella Salazar, had paid at least three visits to Duchaine’s pied-à-terre in the Dakota, the famed apartment building on the Upper West Side. Bree wanted to know why and had called Salazar.

Luckily, the detective answered, and luckier still, she had a cousin who had worked for DC Metro when Bree was the chief of detectives. Still, Salazar was a little hesitant to meet Bree when she found out she was now working as a private investigator.

But when Bree told her she was looking into Frances Duchaine on behalf of a very wealthy client, the detective immediately agreed to see her. They arranged to meet at the Lombard Lamp on the southeast corner of Central Park around five.

Six blocks south of the park, Bree realized she was approaching Duchaine’s flagship store. Since she was wearing her nicest blue suit with a cream-colored blouse and a fine red and gold silk scarf she’d bought in Paris, she decided to go in for a look.

The store oozed elegance, Bree had to admit, with its black marble floors, gold walls, and black marble spiral staircases with polished bronze railings. There were three floors altogether. The ground level featured Duchaine-designed accessories: purses, jewelry, scarves, hats, gloves, and shoes. Bree noticed that there were fewer shoppers than she would have expected for a famous store like this.

Many of the salesclerks, men and women wearing all white, were standing around chatting or looking at their phones. Bree walked by them without arousing their interest and climbed to the second floor, which was devoted to Duchaine’s ready-to-wear business and leisure fashions.

There were a handful of shoppers browsing the aisles there, but no one seemed to be buying much. She had not seen a customer at a cash register yet.

The third floor featured Duchaine’s evening wear, from daring black cocktail dresses to sequined ball gowns. There was no one there other than a pale, freckled clerk in her twenties who marched up to Bree, gave her a forced smile, and asked if she was on the correct floor.

Bree got the subtext, smiled sweetly, and glanced at the girl’s name tag. “Marjorie, I’ve been invited to a dinner at the White House in a couple of months,” Bree said. “I’m looking for an appropriate gown to wear. If you don’t mind.”

Marjorie seemed so shocked by this that she didn’t know what to do or say for a moment. Then she nodded and said, “Of course. What an honor for you, Ms ….”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bree said, walking past her to a rack of gowns. She ignored the lower-priced items and went straight to the most elegant and ornate dresses, the ones that reeked of cash.

Apparently realizing that she might be in for a decent commission, Marjorie bustled over and said, “There are three or four there that would look beautiful on you.”

“You think?” Bree said, pausing at a black one that featured a plunging neckline and intricate brocade across the bodice.

“That’s almost one of a kind,” Marjorie said. “Frances had only ten made.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t think it will fit me.”