Triple Cross (Alex Cross #30)(43)

“That was quite the impressive report. Do you believe it?”

“Wasn’t I convincing?”

“Well, to be honest, from the thirty-thousand-foot perspective, I’m still skeptical because you don’t have witnesses willing to go on the record. And this banker, Sammy, he knows for certain Duchaine is carrying that kind of personal debt?”

“He has a financial position that will be negatively affected by that debt if she goes bankrupt,” Bree said. “So, yes, he sounded upset enough to know. And don’t forget Detective Salazar has heard the same kinds of stories about money pressures.”

“And she has been unable to get a search warrant because none of the stories came with hard evidence or a group willing to step forward and speak against Duchaine.”

Bree took a deep breath, actually glad for the challenge. “Elena, I agree there’s a long way to go to get it nailed down, but just in the half an hour since I submitted my report, I got the kind of break that could flip things. Paula Watkins is having a party the day after tomorrow, in the evening.”

“Okay …”

Bree explained and Martin was quiet for a long time. Finally, she said, “I wore Frances Duchaine clothes for more than a decade. They make my skin crawl now. Be careful, and I’ll send your report to our client to get approval for you staying on up there. Have you told the NYPD detective?”

“She’s my next call,” Bree said.

“Really impressive work, Bree,” Elena said.

“Thank you, and you still have no idea who we’re working for?”

“An attorney in Cleveland who represents other parties. That’s as far as I’ve gotten. But Tess Jackson is originally from Cleveland. Maybe she knows more than she’s letting on. Maybe that’s why Luster’s been helping you.”

“To end competition from Frances once and for all?”

“I’ve heard worse motives in my time.”





CHAPTER 46




Charleston, South Carolina


DUE TO A FLIGHT delay, I didn’t get into Charleston until one a.m. on Tuesday. The desk clerk at my hotel in the French Quarter could not find my reservation until nearly two. My luck finally changed around ten that morning.

After six hours of sleep and a breakfast heavy on the creole coffee, I’d gone to the Charleston police headquarters on Lockwood Drive, presented my credentials to the desk sergeant, and asked to speak with Detective Heidi Parks of the violent crimes unit.

Before he could answer, a woman behind me said, “I’m Detective Parks.”

I turned to find a tall, attractive brunette dressed in a black polo shirt, jeans, and running shoes and wearing a gold badge on a chain around her neck.

“Alex Cross,” I said. “I work as an investigative consultant for the FBI and the DC Metro Police.”

Detective Parks cocked her head, smiled, and shook my hand, oozing Southern warmth. “I know you, Dr. Cross. Back in the day, I attended several lectures you gave on criminal psychology during a six-week investigative course I took at Quantico.”

“I hope my talks were helpful?”

“Very much so,” she said. “To what do I owe this honor?”

“I wanted to talk to you about the Doctor’s Orders murders.”

Parks frowned. “I closed the file on them a long time ago. The right man is sitting on death row in Kirkland.”

I held up my hands. “I’m not here to reopen your case, Detective Parks. I just want to talk.”

“About what, exactly?”

“Well, among other things, Thomas Tull.”

The detective stiffened, looked past me at the desk sergeant, who was filling out paperwork, and blew out her breath in resignation. “I figured someone official would come sniffing around about Thomas eventually. I’m actually glad it’s someone of your caliber, Dr. Cross.”

“Okay,” I said, a bit surprised by her answer. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

Parks hesitated. “This is supposed to be my day off. But sure, just not here.”

She gestured toward the doors. We walked outside. It was gorgeous weather, low eighties with a light breeze that caused the palm trees to sway.

“How much do you know about the case?” Parks asked.

“I read the first hundred and fifty pages of Doctor’s Orders last night on the flight down from Boston.”

She gave me a sidelong glance. “You were up there looking into the Electric murders?”

I nodded.

“Well,” Parks said and cleared her throat. “That is interesting.”

“Can you bring me up to speed on this case? From your perspective?”

Parks thought about that and then shrugged. “Why not? Let’s take my car.”

For the next few hours, the detective drove me around old and new Charleston, showing me the locations of the pivotal scenes in the murders of five prominent physicians. All of the victims had lived in gated communities.

“The first two were out on Johns Island,” Parks said. “The last three were up on Daniel Island, facing the Wando River.”

Dr. Carl Jameson was the first to die. A divorced surgeon with a thriving practice who was part owner of a private surgical center, Jameson had lived in a big home on the eighteenth fairway of a golf course in Kiawah River Estates.