Triple Cross (Alex Cross #30)(23)

Firsching and Tull believed the killer might be someone who had access to the drugs—a zoo worker, perhaps. That accusation caused an uproar, and the zoo administrators denied that any of their drugs had gone missing.

Two weeks passed with no additional murders. Then a heterosexual couple was found dead in an empty farmhouse in a rural area south of Berlin. The victims were both naked with plastic bags over their heads and cords around their necks. German investigators at first announced that the divorced housewife and her married lover had died of hypoxia during a bout of mutual “autoerotic asphyxiation.”

Even though there was no sign of struggle and the deaths did not involve tranquilizer darts, Inspector Firsching and Tull did not believe these two deaths were accidental.

“The different method of death was less important,” Tull wrote. “It was the time frame and motive that mattered. The noon hour. The illicit trysts.”

Firsching and Tull turned out to be correct, of course. But was this one of those illogical leaps that Suzanne Liu had described to me?

I made a note of it and glanced at the clock—it was close to midnight. I yawned and set the book down, figuring I’d continue reading in the morning. But as I shut off the light and started down the stairs, I admitted that I would get little, if anything, done until after Jannie’s big race was over.

I climbed into bed, reached out to shut off the light, and saw I’d received a text from Bree. It kept me smiling long after the room went dark.

I love you, baby. Wish you were here in my nice five-star hotel bed!





CHAPTER 23




Manhattan


BREE SLEPT IN A little that Saturday morning. Around eight, she went out for a run in Central Park, where she followed much the same route she’d taken the afternoon before with Detective Salazar.

After a shower, she ordered a room-service breakfast, sat at the desk, and wrote down the different angles she wanted to explore in the Duchaine case. Bree still had not received a return call from the attorney in North Carolina, and she made a note to try again before she left the hotel.

She also wanted to know what Wall Street analysts could tell her about the true financial health of Frances Duchaine’s companies, but she realized most analysts did not work weekends. Bree decided to go down that road first thing Monday morning. In the meantime, what about the people around Duchaine? People like Paula Watkins, the fashion designer’s close business associate, who Salazar said lured young, attractive people with dreams of model superstardom to New York. And the mysterious Katherine and Victor, who lured them with promises of rescue from disappointment and economic ruin—who were they? How had the fashion designer found them?

What were the traits of someone like Katherine or Victor? Bree wondered. She jotted down several that came to mind.

Cold, she wrote. Calculating. High emotional intelligence. Amoral. Narcissist.

A knock came at her door. Room service.

Bree waited as her breakfast was wheeled over to the desk, then ate an excellent cheese omelet with roasted peppers and onions on the side. She was pouring herself a second cup of coffee when her personal cell phone rang. She glanced at it, expecting Alex, only to see it was her boss, Elena Martin.

“Elena,” Bree said. “I was going to call. I made some headway yesterday.”

“Good,” Martin said. “I’ll let you make a little more. Frances Duchaine is hosting a black-tie fundraiser tonight at her estate in Greenwich, Connecticut. I’ve finagled you a ticket. I trust you have a gown with you?”

Bree laughed. “Uh, no, I was trying to travel light.”

“Then go get yourself one and rent a limousine to take you there,” Martin said. “Don’t scrimp. You need to fit in with the kind of people who will be there, and the client is paying all your expenses.”

“Okay. What do you expect me to do at this fundraiser?”

“Mingle. Talk a little. Listen a lot. Observe the women in her world.”

“I can do that,” Bree said.

“I know,” Martin said. “We’re sending you new identity documents by courier. They’ll be at the front desk of your hotel by noon. The event starts at seven thirty. You want to be there at seven forty-five.”

“With the main flow of arriving guests,” Bree said.

“When you’ll get less scrutiny,” her boss agreed. “Good luck. Keep me posted.”

Bree hung up and looked at her watch. It was nearly ten fifteen. She had fewer than ten hours to get a dress, get her hair done, and get to Greenwich before the crush of partygoers reached Duchaine’s estate.

Bree grabbed her purse and her phone, put on her shoes, went downstairs, and asked the doorman to hail her a cab.

“Destination, ma’am?”

“Frances Duchaine’s store on Fifth Avenue,” she said and was soon on her way.

It was raining lightly, which kept the crowds and traffic away. Ten minutes later, she was climbing out of the taxi in heavier rainfall.

Inside the store, Bree saw many more customers browsing than she had the day before. Maybe the lack of customers yesterday was a onetime thing?

But then Bree noticed that the flowers in the vase by the staircase looked a little droopy. So did the other flower arrangements positioned artfully throughout the store. Someone’s definitely cutting back, she thought, climbing past the second floor to the third and wishing she could find an analyst to talk to about Duchaine’s finances on a rainy Saturday morning in New York City.