Triple Cross (Alex Cross #30)(69)

The writer wavered on his feet a moment, then threw back his thick shock of sandy-brown hair and chortled at some recent memory.

“Someone’s been drinking,” Sampson said.

“He’s hammered,” Mahoney agreed and moved at him fast with his badge in one hand and his service pistol in the other. “Mr. Tull. We’d like to talk to you.”

Tull made a jerky motion with his head before pivoting, stumbling, and almost face-planting on the street. He peered at us, then shook an index finger at us with glee.

“Gang ish all here,” he slurred. “Three Stooges redux.”

“Mr. Tull, how much have you had to drink?” Mahoney asked.

“Too much?”

“We’re taking you into custody,” Sampson said, going for his zip ties. “Turn around, hands behind your back. You know the drill.”

Tull gave him a puzzled and scornful look. “Why? I’m right here. I live here. I’m not hurting anyone.”

Sampson was having none of it. He spun the writer around expertly and fitted the zip ties on him. “Drunk-driving’s the least of your worries, Thomas.”

When he turned the writer around, he’d sobered a little. “What is this?”

Mahoney said, “Thomas Tull, you are under arrest on suspicion of multiple mass murders, including those of the Hodges family, the Landaus, the Carpenters, the Elliotts, and the Kanes.”

Sampson said, “You have the right to remain silent—”

“What? No,” Tull said, shaking his head like a horse pestered by flies. “No, no, no. It’s nothing like that.”

John kept reading him his Miranda rights.

“I know my rights, damn it, and I did not do this!” Tull roared. He jerked free of Sampson’s grasp and tried to take off. Still in restraints, he made it three feet before tripping and actually face-planting on the street.

We rushed to pick him up. Tull’s nose was smashed and gushing blood. One of his upper incisors was broken. The other was gone. Blood ran from that wound.

In what had to have been some agony, the writer got belligerent.

“You beat me, threw me down,” he said. “Police brutality. I want my lawyer.”





CHAPTER 76


ALEX CALLED BREE AT home around eight thirty that morning to tell her Thomas Tull was being held on suspicion of being the Family Man.

“How clear was the video still?” Bree asked, sipping her coffee.

“Like I said, it’s not the straight-on or quartering-to shot you’d want ideally, but you’ll see the dramatic resemblance: the chin, the cheekbones, and especially the hair.”

“You sound exhausted.”

“I took a long nap while we waited for Tull to sober up and for his attorney to arrive.”

“You’re going to interrogate?”

“Part of the team. And your day?”

“I’m going to try to relax, regroup, maybe go for a run. I’m officially done with work until Monday.”

“Sounds like a nice agenda. I have the feeling I’ll be home earlier than usual and facedown in bed.”

“You deserve it,” Bree said.

“Oh, here’s Ned. Gotta go.”

The call ended.

Nana Mama was sitting at the kitchen table reading the Washington Post and drinking coffee. She looked up. “What time did he get that call?”

“Half past two? I heard him pounding down the stairs.”

“It’s a wonder he stays on his feet half the time. You too.”

Bree smiled. “We’re both committed.”

“If you take care of yourself, you’ll live and stay committed longer. Look at me.”

“Nana,” Bree said in a teasing voice. “With all due respect, you’re a legitimate freak for your age.”

Alex’s grandmother did not like that. “Freak?”

Bree said, “Someone who defies the norms. An outlier.”

Nana Mama relaxed. “I’ll take outlier.”

“How’s the hip?”

“It’s been better. When Jannie gets up, we’re going to stretch again.”

“I’m going for a run,” Bree said. “Clear the cobwebs.”

“Keep it up and you’ll be an ancient outlier like me someday.”

Smiling, Bree went upstairs, changed into her running gear, and went out onto the front porch. It was a warm morning for late April, but she liked running in the heat.

After doing her routine series of stretches and ballistic drills, she bounced down the stairs and headed toward Capitol Hill. Most days, she wore earbuds and listened to music or a podcast. But Bree wanted to tune everything out and just run for a while. Like Jannie, she found that running set her free in a way few kinds of exercises did, and normally she let go of thought, absorbed in the effort.

For the first fifteen minutes or so, she ran her usual route and quickly fell into that calm state the endorphins gave her. But about thirty minutes in, as she ran on Independence Avenue along the Mall west of the hill, questions about the Duchaine investigation began to creep back in.

Could Theresa May Alcott be behind the murders at Paula Watkins’s home? Was her nephew and his company involved? And what happened to his twin brother?