Triple Cross (Alex Cross #30)(76)

“I told you that.”

“Explain your relationship with him.”

Tull said he had interviewed the Russian four years before when he was considering changing course in his writing career and doing an in-depth study of the world of modern organized crime.

“The book never went anywhere, but Volkov and I stayed in touch because he could help me with my … vices. That’s it. Look, I’m a victim here, I’m being framed, and Volkov will corroborate that I was nowhere near the Kanes’ home that night.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle. “Please, Thomas. DNA, video, website searches, and the smoking gun?”

He shook his head violently. “I’m telling you, I’m being framed, Dr. Cross, and I think I know by who. My research assistant. She has access to the research laptop, my DNA, all of it.”

I frowned. “I didn’t know you had a research assistant.”

“Lisa Moore has worked with me on and off since Boston, since the electrocution murders,” he said. “But we go back even farther.”

“I read the acknowledgments in your books and I can’t say I remember you mentioning anyone named Lisa Moore. Or a research assistant, for that matter.”

Tull closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “She wanted it that way. In return for more money. Lisa cares nothing for acclaim.”

“Then why would she frame you?”

He hesitated. “Revenge. Because I would not keep increasing her pay.”

Sampson said, “Has she asked you for more money lately?”

“Constantly. Once on the day after I’d given her a raise. And she … uh, she recently threatened to reveal certain things about the way we work together unless I gave her a fifty percent increase in her salary. Fifty!”

His attorney said, “Thomas, you told me none of this. I advise you to—”

“I advise you to shut up or you’re fired, Counselor,” the writer shot back. He returned his attention to me and Sampson. “I’m not proud of this, but I used Moore in the past to … gin things up. In the stories, I mean.”

My brows knit. “Give us an example of ginning things up.”

He took an uncomfortable breath. “In Boston, she staged a break-in to heighten the public tension in the case. She did the same kind of thing in South Carolina during the Doctor’s Orders murders. She’s meticulous, though. Doesn’t get caught. She’s trained not to get caught.”

“Who trained her not to get caught?” Sampson asked, sounding incredulous.

“My suspicion is either DIA or CIA. Certainly one of the alphabet agencies. When I met her, I was working for NCIS on a case that required travel to Iraq and Afghanistan. Moore was a, quote, ‘private contractor’ who pointed me in the right direction a couple of times in my investigation. We hit it off. A year later, in an op gone wrong, she evidently killed two civilians, a mother and a daughter, but she avoided jail by ending her contract with the U.S. government.”

I said, “And going to work for you?”

“She came to visit me at Harvard and told me what had happened. I needed someone smart, someone …”

“Willing to bend and break the rules if it helped the story,” Sampson said.

“That almost describes Lisa,” Tull replied. “I’d actually describe her as someone who is eager to break the rules if it gets her to the end result that much faster.”





CHAPTER 85


SHORTLY BEFORE ELEVEN SUNDAY morning, Bree watched as Newark flickered by her window. She was on the Acela bound for Penn Station, where Detective Rosella Salazar would be waiting to take her to talk with members of the Manhattan district attorney’s office assigned to what the press were calling “the Paula Watkins murders.”

Setting aside the newspaper, Bree called Phillip Henry Luster. She had not heard from him since the night of the murders and wondered how he was.

On the fourth ring he answered in a flat voice, “This is Phillip.”

“This is Bree Stone.”

“I know.”

“How are you, Phillip?”

“Wanting bourbon and quaaludes,” he said. “Tell me, why has it taken so long for you to call and inquire as to my condition?”

“I could say the same thing.”

“Except you are a former cop and used to these sorts of unspeakable events. I can’t sleep because I keep seeing the lights go out at Paula’s, the flashes of the guns. I keep hearing the screams. I can’t get certain things about that night out of my mind.”

“I apologize for not calling sooner, Phillip,” Bree said. “It was callous of me and I’m sorry. You’ve been such a big help. And what you’re suffering from is PTSD.”

“Even I can diagnose that.” He sniffed. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“Do what?”

“Deal with all the violence,” he said.

“I deal with it as little as possible and so should you. Phillip, you were caught up in things beyond your control and you lived. Be thankful.”

“Oh, I am. But I fear I am more sensitive than others. I mean, look at Frances. Just plunging on as if nothing’s happened.”

“Plunging on in what? Business?”