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“Where’s Tull?” Sampson said, hitting the brakes before the split.

I caught a glimpse of taillights on Shoreham.

“Cathedral Avenue,” I said. “I think that’s him.”

Sampson took Shoreham and then Cathedral Avenue, a much narrower road that goes along the northwest side of Rock Creek Park. The road curves left entering the avenue, which features trees on the right and apartment buildings on the left.

When we came out of the curve, I expected to see taillights ahead. But there were none.

“Where the hell did he go?” Sampson demanded and slowed as we came up to Woodley Road, a left.

We both looked up Woodley and saw only a minivan pulling out of North Woodley Place, heading west toward Connecticut Avenue. Sampson turned off the siren and bubble and sped north on Cathedral Avenue to where it crossed Connecticut.

No Tull.

We backtracked. Sampson took us the length of Woodley Place and then up an alley between homes, apartment buildings, and small parking lots closer to Connecticut Avenue.

We shone police flashlights into every dark corner. Tull and his midnight-blue RS 7 were nowhere to be seen.

“We lost him,” Sampson said, exasperated. “A goddamn writer at the wheel and we lost him.”

CHAPTER 58

BREE LOOKED EXHAUSTED WHEN she finally came in the front door around eleven that evening. I’d been home less than twenty minutes and was still frustrated by our inability to stay with Tull.

We’d contacted our bosses and tried to have an APB put out on the writer, but since he hadn’t done anything other than race the nameless Porsche driver, we were told we were on shaky grounds as far as cause.

“Hey, baby,” I said, ditching my frustration and hugging her. “You look like you’ve been through a lot.”

Bree hugged me tighter. “I feel like I’m back from another universe.”

Between family and work, we’d had no time to talk and had communicated throughout the evening by text. I led her into the kitchen, where Nana Mama had left a pot of chicken stew warming for us. She and the kids had already gone to sleep.

I got Bree a bowl of stew and a cold beer.

“You’re an angel,” Bree said, sipping the beer and closing her eyes for a second.

“You want to tell me about your day?” I said after she’d taken a few spoonfuls and another swig of beer. “Your interrogation? Duchaine’s?”

Bree looked relieved to be asked and recounted in full her discussion with Detective Salazar and her partner and then the interrogation of Frances Duchaine.

“Wow,” I said. “I didn’t see that coming. Do you think Duchaine ordered the hits?”

“It’s almost all I’ve thought about since she stormed out of the interrogation room with her lawyer,” Bree said. “She claims she knew nothing about the sex trafficking, but how is that possible? I mean, I suppose she could have been willfully ignorant.”

I nodded. “Knew something was off but didn’t want to put her nose in there and find out what Watkins was really up to.”

“See no evil,” Bree said. “But I’m not buying it. Not totally. She had to have known the financial hole she was in. Right?”

“I would think so. There’s only so far you can go in business when you’re a pure artist, not beholden to the market.”

“Exactly. And look how huge she got. She knew.”

“But did she order them killed?”

Bree took another swig of beer, set the bottle on the table, and dropped the tension from her shoulders. “My gut says no. If it’s there, Salazar will find it. She’s good. Real good. But my gut still says no.”

“So who else could have ordered the killings? And why?”

After swallowing another spoonful of stew, she said, “I’ve got three possibles: Rivals of the two crime bosses who may have been cut out of the deal. Or rivals of that sheikh. I mean, if the Saudis can murder and cut up a journalist in their embassy, a mass murder over sex trafficking is not out of the question.”

I thought about that and nodded. “You have to keep it on the table. And number three?”

“The person who evidently hired me through that attorney in Cleveland,” she said. “Theresa May Alcott. The heir to the Alcott and Sayers soap fortune. Her granddaughter got caught up in the modeling scheme and ended up killing herself.”

That took me by surprise. “When did you find this out?”

“This morning,” she said. “From an attorney Bluestone hired.”

“Really. What does Elena say?”

“That she didn’t know Alcott was our client. That she wished she’d known the motive, but ultimately our job is to investigate what clients want investigated and report back.”

“And I can’t imagine Theresa May Alcott is going to pay to have herself investigated by Bluestone.”

“No,” Bree said, brooding. “But look at the timeline, Alex. I submit my report to Elena Martin on Monday evening. She sends it to the attorney that night or the next morning, and he forwards it to Alcott. Wednesday evening the party is attacked and most of the major players in the sex ring are dead.”

“But Salazar and NYPD know this,” I said. “They’re not going to look at Alcott?”

“For now, Salazar is convinced it’s Duchaine and that’s where her efforts are focused.”