Triple Cross (Alex Cross #30)(21)

“Why not?”

The detective groaned and struggled to her feet. “She took off, went back to North Carolina. Her family said she was flush with cash and acting wild. It’s probably what got her killed.”

Bree had feared that possibility. “Murdered?”

“Three months after she got home,” Salazar said as she started to waddle again. “Shot at two in the morning outside her apartment building. Police down there have no witnesses and no leads. And here we are. Tell me about this lawsuit that was dismissed and sealed.”

Bree gave her the highlights. The two young women and the young man had been lured to New York the same way Molly had, with promises of modeling jobs. Once there, they were told they needed to get plastic surgery and see a cosmetic dentist. After the procedures, they still weren’t hired for modeling jobs, and so, saddled with debt and alone, they were leveraged into the sex ring.

“But the young man was lucky,” Bree said. “A Russian named Victor offered him work as a gay prostitute, and he was about to say yes when a relative died and left him a lot of money, enough to pay off his debt. But he was still angry and joined the suit.”

“You talk to the attorney?”

“I’ve got calls in to her,” Bree said.

“Let me know what she says,” Salazar said. “I suspect there may be a lot of others like him and Molly.”

“I agree, but I’m still confused about the why, you know?” Bree said. “Why would someone like Duchaine get involved in a racket like this? She’s a billionaire.”

“Unless she isn’t,” the detective said. “Lots of rich people claim they are, but who can really check unless they own a publicly traded company? Duchaine’s brand has always been privately held.”

Bree thought for several moments. “I went to her flagship store on Fifth today and there were not a lot of customers.”

“That right?” Salazar said. “Well, there you go, then. Cash flow may not be what it used to be. Think about it: If Duchaine needs cash and can make a million a year off Molly, why wouldn’t she want fifty or a hundred girls just like her?”





CHAPTER 21




Washington, DC


AFTER DINNER, NANA MAMA went up to her room to read and I told Jannie I’d do the dishes so she could chill and rest before her big race tomorrow. When I finished in the kitchen, I found Jannie and Ali in the front room engrossed in a show about doctors.

“What’s this?” I asked.

Jannie looked up in awe and said, “It’s a documentary series called Lenox Hill, about a hospital in New York where they deliver babies and operate on brain tumors.”

Ali said, “And they really show the brain operations, Dad!”

“Really?” I said, wondering if it was appropriate for him.

Ali nodded. “Not everyone makes it, which is sad.”

“I’m sure,” I said. “Listen, I’ve got to get some work done tonight, so you’re on your own for bedtime. Jannie?”

“Ten sharp,” she said. “And don’t worry, Dad, I’ve got this.”

“I have no doubt. See you both in the morning. Love you.”

“Love you too, Dad,” they both said, their eyes back on their show.

I climbed up to the attic, which I’d long ago converted into a small office. I often went up there just to think, but that night, when I flipped on the light and weaved around stacks of old case files, I was on a mission.

I sat down at my desk and picked up Electric by Thomas Tull. My plan was to skim through the book, looking for the kinds of discrepancies or holes his editor said I might spot.

Except Tull had this compelling, propulsive narrative style that sucked me in and made the story come alive with three-dimensional characters who were constantly surprising me and twists I never saw coming. He also had a knack for interpreting the evidence and describing the way each of the murders must have happened.

Tull opened the book with the fourth victim, the one he’d known personally.

A year after an unwanted divorce had left her heart-broken and alone, Emily Maxwell was looking forward to her customary hot bath after a day on her feet seeing to the needs of Boston readers. She was usually home in her apartment in Cambridge’s Ward Two neighborhood by six thirty in the evening, and after she fed her Siamese cat, Jimbo, and ate, she’d take her bath.

That evening, Emily picked up a Caesar salad with salmon at the Whole Foods near work. After feeding the cat, she ate the salad and had a glass of white wine before filling the tub. She checked the locks on her doors and then the thirty-nine-year-old felt safe enough to pour herself a second glass of wine and go to her bathroom for what she called a “full decompression session.”

The music went on first, a playlist on her iPod that featured soft-rock hits by bands like the Eagles and Fleetwood Mac, tastes she’d inherited from her parents. She connected the iPod to a black JBL portable speaker plugged into the wall about two feet from the tub and sang, “You can go your own way!” as she climbed into the hot water.

Poor Emily Maxwell would not get out of the tub alive. Somewhere between seven thirty and nine o’clock that evening, the plugged-in speaker entered the tub water and sent one hundred and ten volts of electricity shooting through the bookstore clerk.