Triple Cross (Alex Cross #30)(72)

Alex was quiet and then said, “What’s going on there?”

Bree took a deep breath, examined her emotions. “I think it’s my feelings of inferiority at my inability to make the connections that I know are there,” she said. “If that makes any sense.”

“It does. But I’ve learned not to beat my head against the wall about these things. If there are connections, you’ll find them. Quite honestly, it’s not like we dug up the Tull connections ourselves. He made two mistakes, with the camera and with the hair.”

“Big mistakes.”

“He’s claiming an alibi, by the way.”

“Against DNA evidence and a photograph of him at the Allisons’?”

“Exactly, but I am under orders from Tull himself to do my job and check it out before rushing to judgment.”

“DNA evidence and a photograph, Alex.”

“Just the same, I think you might be able to help me.”

“Any way I can.”

“Could you get in touch with that pregnant NYPD detective for me?”

“Salazar?” she said.

“If I remember, you said she’d investigated Russian organized crime before looking at Frances Duchaine.”

“The Russian mob in Queens,” Bree said. “One of the leaders was killed in Paula Watkins’s house. She knew all about him.”

“I was hoping so,” Alex said and he explained what he wanted.

“I can do that. I actually spoke with her a little while ago and I have to go up to New York tomorrow morning to talk to the district attorney assigned to the Watkins/Duchaine case. When are you coming home to sleep?”

“I was going to wait for Tull’s arraignment so I could see his face when he pleaded. But the assistant U.S. attorney wants him stone-cold sober, so he won’t face a judge until the morning. I’m going to take another nap, then help search his house. The warrants finally came through.”

“Good,” Bree said. “I’ll let you know what Salazar says.”

She hung up and phoned the NYPD detective for the second time that day.

“You don’t quit, Chief,” the detective said. “I—”

“Not that, Rosella,” Bree said. “I’m calling at my husband’s request.”

After a pause, she said, “Dr. Cross?”

“Yes. He wants to know if you know a Russian mobster named Dusan Volkov.”

“Volkov? I haven’t heard that name in quite a while. But yes, I know of him. They call him Wolf because of his last name in Russian and because he’s secretive, reclusive, operates deep behind the scenes.”

“Do you know how Alex can get in touch with him?”

“Volkov?” she said doubtfully. “I don’t know. I’d have to do some reaching out, and even then …”

“All they’re looking for is corroboration of an alibi,” Bree said, and she explained.

“Tull and Volkov, huh?” Salazar said. “Strange bedfellows, Chief. I’ll make a few calls and see what I can—”

Bree heard a slight gasp.

“Gotta go, see you tomorrow.” The detective groaned. “Big kick. Big, big kick.”





CHAPTER 80


AROUND THREE THAT AFTERNOON and finally armed with warrants, Sampson, Mahoney, and I donned blue booties, hairnets, and latex gloves while an FBI criminalist picked the lock to Thomas Tull’s Georgetown rental.

The green door swung open. After the criminalist photographed the narrow front hallway, Mahoney led us inside.

The writer had done little to make the lower floor of the luxury town house his own. The furniture in the living area was all steel and black leather. There were no televisions and no pictures whatsoever.

The kitchen had top-of-the-line major appliances but was otherwise sparsely outfitted: a cheap toaster, a cheap coffeemaker, basic cooking utensils, plates, pots, and pans.

“Looks like someone bought it in one swoop at Walmart,” Sampson said.

The fridge was empty save for a can of coffee, a carton of half-and-half, and leftover takeout Chinese food.

“Place is spotless,” Mahoney said.

“I wonder how much time he spends here,” Sampson said.

“You think he has another place in town?”

“There could be another local one, right? I mean, he’s loaded. Big bestselling author.”

“If he has somewhere local, we’ll find it,” I said, climbing the stairs to the second floor.

A door on the right revealed the master suite. The king-size bed was made military taut. Tull’s clothes were crisply folded in an armoire, his shoes set in tight order below. Books were stacked on both sides of the bed.

Sampson and Mahoney went through a locker in one corner. I went through the bathroom and into the second bedroom, which was the writer’s office.

It wasn’t what I’d anticipated. Or was it?

I guess I’d expected a rat’s nest, a disorganized mess that only Tull could make sense of. Or maybe an elaborate setup with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a heavy old writing desk.

Instead, the office was spartan, ordered, and efficient, a former Marine’s place of work: a ladderback chair with a cushion, a long folding table, an iMac, a MacBook Pro laptop, a smaller folding table supporting a printer, and two three-drawer filing cabinets. All of it faced the far long wall of the room, which had been transformed into a visual case control, with sections of each set of victims in the Family Man’s killing spree.