Triple Cross (Alex Cross #30)(83)

“From what I hear, it’s the other way around.”





CHAPTER 93




Alexandria, Virginia


AT THREE ON MONDAY afternoon, Sampson and I walked into the federal holding facility in Alexandria and met Lindy York, Thomas Tull’s defense attorney, who looked more sour than usual.

Seeing a copy of that morning’s Wall Street Journal sticking out of her leather bag, I said, “Does Tull know yet?”

“No. He’s being held in isolation for his own safety. There was an attack on him last evening. Seems there are a lot of family men incarcerated here.”

After we’d gone through security, we went to a room set aside for attorneys to meet with clients. Twenty minutes later, led by two corrections officers, Tull shuffled in. The writer’s jaw was swollen. His right hand was in a cast.

York was horrified. She shouted at the guards, “This is outrageous! My client needs medical attention!”

“He’s had it,” one of the guards shot back, sitting Tull down. “All night.”

“I’m aw wight,” Tull said thickly. “Been through worse, and they got me on oxy.”

His attorney rolled her eyes. “Not exactly the way you want to be talking to law enforcement, Thomas.”

“No choice,” he said. “What’s happened? Why are you here?”

York and I exchanged glances. “After you, Counselor.”

The attorney gave me an unhappy nod and retrieved the Wall Street Journal from her bag. She unfolded it and slid it across the table.

The writer looked at it, puzzled at first. Then his stare hardened on the headline.

PUBLISHER DROPS BESTSELLING AUTHOR INDICTED FOR MURDERS



“I’ll sue,” he growled when he looked up. “I want to talk to my agent. Now!”

“You’re not exactly in a position to be making demands,” Sampson said.

“They can’t do this! I’ve done nothing wrong!”

York said, “Your new publishers say they can, Thomas. There was a morality clause in the deal memo governing your next book. They’re exercising it, and they say you now owe them the four-million-dollar signing bonus they gave you.”

“Not a chance! I will sue. I didn’t do this! I am not the Family Man, Lindy!” he shouted. He winced and glanced at me. “Volkov. Find Volkov, Cross, and you’ll know I was framed.”

“We did find him,” I said. “Or NYPD did. He was one of three shooters who gunned down Frances Duchaine and her two bodyguards last night. Officers on the scene returned fire, killing two and wounding the third.”

“Volkov?” he said.

“Shot multiple times.”

“Tell me he’s alive.”

Sampson said, “Your alibi’s in a medically induced coma, hanging on by a thread.”

The writer gaped at us for several moments as if suddenly overwhelmed by this newest twist in his predicament.

He shook his head, said, “I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried.”





CHAPTER 94




Manhattan


ON MONDAY AFTERNOON, BREE climbed out of a taxi in front of NYU Medical Center. She’d slept fitfully at Phillip Henry Luster’s place but had felt well enough that morning to go to Salazar’s precinct and make a detailed statement about the previous evening’s events to the detectives there, including Rosella’s partner, Simon Thompson.

Thompson, who’d been cold to her before, had taken her aside and thanked her for saving Salazar’s life. Bree was still feeling good about that when she exited the elevator on the maternity ward and asked the nurses where she could find Rosella.

Room 302, she was told. “She’s having a party in there,” the nurse said.

Bree went to room 302 and found Salazar in bed, an IV in her arm and a newborn in a pink blanket on her lap. She was surrounded by family: her four-year-old daughter, her husband, her sister, her mother, and two men who turned out to be the detective’s brothers.

They were all bantering in Spanish when Bree knocked on the open door.

“Chief Stone,” Salazar called, sounding weak but smiling. “Come in, come in.”

“I’m not interrupting?”

“Never,” she said. “You’re family now.” She introduced the people around the bed.

One of her brothers stared at Bree suspiciously and said something sharp in Spanish.

The detective’s brows knit. “Because she saved my life, fool!” Salazar looked back at Bree and grinned. “Come, come see my little one.”

Bree smiled as she went to the bed, and the family made room for her.

“A baby girl?”

“I’m as surprised as you are,” Salazar said. “I was sure it was a boy. And you know how they were worried that the baby was in distress? Turns out that her head was in the wrong position and she almost got wedged in the birth canal.”

“Wow. She’s tough!”

“She is,” Salazar’s mother said. “With a little help from the doctors, they got her out, and she’s fine now.”

Salazar said, “Better than fine. Six pounds, six ounces of pure beauty.”

“What’s her name?”