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“They are all great, different, and intricate stories in their own right,” she said. “But in some ways, they are the same. There’s a series of baffling murders. Intrigue. Drama. Very little evidence. The police are getting nowhere, and suddenly the author insinuates himself into the investigation, helps the cops, gets crazy access, then writes a blockbuster.”

Sampson said, “He helped in the investigations?”

Liu lifted her chin. “Thomas’s role is debatable. Some say he was involved in framing and railroading the men who were convicted.”

CHAPTER 15

SAMPSON SEEMED AMUSED. “THOSE are some strong accusations you’re throwing around about the author whose books you edited.”

Liu sat back. “Don’t you think I’ve thought about that? I haven’t talked to a lawyer, but does that make me an accessory after the fact?”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself by a mile, Suzanne,” I said, gesturing at the three paperbacks. “Why do you think he’s the real killer in these books?”

She’d obviously been thinking about this. But from the way Liu stared at the table, as if seeing long-ago events spin by, I could tell she was still confused, still not quite convinced herself.

“It helps to start at the beginning,” I said.

“Maybe it started in the Marines,” Liu said at last. “After high school, Thomas enlisted as shore police. The end of his second tour, he joined the Naval Criminal Investigative Service. Did you know that?”

I shrugged. “I may have read it somewhere.”

“Anyway, while Thomas was posted at Camp Pendleton, north of San Diego, there were several prostitutes murdered in northern San Diego County. You can look it up. Anyway, the San Diego sheriff’s investigators had no clues. The killer was that good, that clean.”

Sampson checked his watch. “Where’s this going, Suzanne?”

That irritated her. “To Thomas Tull, if you’ll be patient a moment. Most of northern San Diego County borders the Marine base. The second body was found in a canyon area about a hundred yards inside the boundary of Camp Pendleton, which got Thomas involved.”

“Okay. Did he solve the murders?” I asked.

“He did indeed,” she said. “The case made him. Writing about it in his admission essay is what got him into Harvard when he finally left the Marines and NCIS.”

“How old was he at that point?” Sampson asked, picking up a pen.

Liu thought about that. “Thirty?”

“Kind of late to be starting college,” I said.

The editor said Thomas had been a mediocre student in high school with little or no desire for higher education. Eight years in the Marines changed his mind. He wanted to study writing at Harvard because he thought the prestige of having a degree from that college would help his career in the long run.

“Did it?” Sampson asked.

Liu tapped the book on the left, Electric.

“Harvard helped Thomas long before he got his degree. He was able to get inside the investigation while he was living in Cambridge and attending classes.”

She said Tull was a sophomore when he got interested in the murders, all of which involved electrocutions. He started going around Cambridge and the surrounding towns asking questions.

“He’s good at that, I have to tell you,” Liu said. “Thomas has this ability to disarm people and get them to tell him things. Do you know that the three killers he wrote about in these books all love Thomas? They do. They consider him a friend, a good one, someone who’s on their side, even if he had a role in their convictions.”

“C’mon,” I said.

“It’s true,” she insisted. “They all say they were framed. They all maintain their innocence to this day. They say the police, the prosecutors, and the book had it wrong. And yet they consider Thomas their buddy. And to a man, they expect he will prove their innocence someday and rewrite their stories to reflect it.”

That was unusual and I said so, adding, “I’m still not seeing the basis for you thinking Tull is a killer.”

The editor hesitated before returning to her briefcase and coming out with a sheaf of paper about an inch thick. She set it on the table in front of us. “This is a copy of the book proposal he circulated in New York recently.”

In the middle of the first page were the words Family Man, by Thomas Tull. At the bottom was NDA in effect, followed by Suzanne Liu’s name, initials, and a date.

“Nondisclosure agreement?” I said. “You’re breaking it?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Liu said. “Look at the last two pages. Forty and forty-one. There are things there about the case that he could not have known when he wrote them. Things about the Carpenters and the Elliotts. See the date? He wrote this before they were killed.”

I picked up the document and flipped through it to page 40, which was headed “The Future.” Sampson moved closer to read.