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Dr. Walter Stevenson, also of Charleston, was in his late sixties, a retired physician who made extra money as an expert witness in medical-malpractice suits. In fact, Dr. Stevenson had testified against each of the five doctors, all of whom had been deemed justified in their actions at the end of court proceedings and suffered little or no penalties.

It turned out that Dr. Stevenson’s beloved wife, Mirabelle, had died from a botched medical procedure, and he had not received a dime after he sued.

“There’s a motive,” I said.

“It was there all along, but only Thomas sensed it,” Parks said. “You know, despite what happened between us, you have to give him credit. He saw it all.”

“Which is why I’m here,” I said. “What’s the chance Tull was involved somehow?”

The detective frowned. “You mean, like aiding and abetting?”

“Or framing.”

She snorted. “Well, Stevenson’s still claiming he was framed. But he’s also quick to condemn ‘doctors who are all about business before patients and get away with it.’ Look, the evidence was there. And I certainly saw no link between Thomas and the evidence we found in Stevenson’s house.”

I was quiet a moment. “Did you see any differences between what you know happened during the investigation and Tull’s version? As you saw it, I mean?”

Parks thought about that. “Well, he did twist a few things and omit some others, I guess. And Thomas was always pushing the spotlight toward me.”

“Did you ever call him on that? On not taking credit?”

“Once,” she replied, looking into the distance again. “After the book was published and shortly before we broke up.”

“And what did he say?”

“That it wasn’t his job to shine, that he was supposed to let the characters shine. He said the writer’s job was to disappear, to be an invisible hand at work.”

CHAPTER 48

Manhattan

IN THE REAR OF a black utility van parked down the street from Paula Watkins’s fabulous double brownstone on the Upper East Side, NYPD Detective Rosella Salazar groaned and shifted uncomfortably on one of the metal folding chairs.

“I never should have let you talk me into this,” Detective Salazar said, rubbing her stomach. “And I’m getting kicked in the ribs.”

Bree felt bad. “What else can I do? The DA wouldn’t give you the wiretap.”

“Because there was not enough evidence.”

“Well, in the end it doesn’t matter. Luster gave his consent to the recording, volunteered to wear a wire for his own purposes. We’re just listening in.”

Salazar shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re hoping to hear.”

“Something that proves there is sexual trafficking and maybe slavery going on in there tonight,” Bree said.

“And then?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

Looking annoyed, the detective said, “I’m giving you an hour once your friend is inside. If he can get inside.”

“My money’s on Luster,” Bree said, getting up and going to the tinted glass window at the back of the van.

She trained binoculars down the street toward the home of Frances Duchaine’s second in command, saw town cars and limousines disgorging guests. There seemed to be several types in this crowd—men in their twenties, men in their fifties, and women in their twenties.

Soon enough, Phillip Henry Luster in a chic black suit climbed from a town car; he was followed by a tall, lanky, tawny-haired man in his twenties. Blessed with GQ looks, he was dressed in gray high-water slacks, no socks, black shoes, and a blue blazer with a starched white shirt, collar open.

“Luster’s here with Brad Jenkins,” Bree told Salazar. “We should be picking his audio up any—”

The closed-band receiver squawked. Over the sound of the breeze and other voices, they heard Luster say, “After you, Brad.”

Bree made sure she was recording, returned to the rear window, and saw Luster and his date climb the stairs and disappear inside. The van was filled with the sounds of a cocktail party under way.

“My God, I didn’t think Paula had so many friends,” Luster said.

“Or enemies,” Jenkins said. “She believes in keeping them close.”

“Does she?”

“It’s why she agreed to let you be my date, Phillip.”

“Ha-ha.”

Bree noticed a limo pulling up outside. A man in white robes and an Arab kaffiyeh headdress climbed out with two men who looked like bodyguards.

“Middle Eastern heavy hitter going in,” Bree said.

Salazar rubbed her belly. “I’ve got a heavy hitter of my own right here.”

Over the receiver, Luster said, “Gin and tonic, please. And a Shirley Temple for my young friend.”

“You’re such an amusing ass, Phillip,” Jenkins said. “Sorry, make that an old-fashioned, please. A double.”

“A double?” Luster said. “Are you compensating for something, Brad?”

“Fortifying something,” his date said. “Victor says this night might make or break my career. Especially the after-party.”

“What after-party?” Bree said.

The NYPD detective sat forward to listen.

“What after-party?” Luster asked.

“I don’t know, but Victor said it’s supposed to be intimate. A chance to connect.”

“Like an orgy?”

“Oh God, I hope not,” Jenkins said. “I’m not up for that kind of scene on a Wednesday night.”