Читаем Triple Cross полностью

We skirted the crowd and walked up the leafy road past the first satellite truck arriving on the scene, past our vehicle, and then past a midnight-blue Audi coupe.

“That’s your car, right?” Sampson said.

Tull brightened. “All six-hundred-and-seventy-five horsepower.”

“Rare car, I hear. An RS Seven.”

“Especially that one,” Tull said. “Audi built it for the car shows the year after they bought Lamborghini. The chassis, suspension, and engine block are all Audi, but every component after that is Lambo-made, from the transmission to the quad turbos. It’s a true hybrid. A one-of-a-kind beast. But you wouldn’t know it from the design. Sleek, but not outrageous. It’s like a James Bond car in that respect.”

When we reached Mahoney’s gray squad car, I opened the back door. “After you.”

Tull hesitated but got in. I shut the door, came around the other side, and climbed in beside him. Mahoney slid behind the wheel. Sampson took the passenger seat and swiveled around to look over his shoulder.

If the writer was nervous, he wasn’t showing it in the least.

“Mind if I record this conversation?” Tull asked. “For posterity?”

“An excellent idea,” Sampson said, getting out his phone. “We’ll do the same.”

Tull fumbled with his iPhone a moment, then nodded and said the date and time before continuing: “This is Thomas Tull with Edward Mahoney of the FBI, Detective John Sampson of Metro PD, and Dr. Alex Cross, a consultant to both agencies,” he said, looking at each of us in turn. “Now, before we get into particulars, this is a Family Man crime scene, right? Yes or no?”

For a moment, I thought Mahoney was going to blow a fuse. “We’re asking the questions, Mr. Tull.”

I said, “Where were you earlier this morning? Like two thirty to three a.m.?”

Tull cocked his head. “Uh—sleeping?”

“You’re unsure?” Sampson said.

“I’m something of an insomniac,” Tull said. “Sometimes it’s hard for me to tell if I’m sleeping or just kind of simmering there, hoping for unconsciousness. Why?”

“You can prove you were in bed?” Sampson asked.

“I … what’s this about?”

“You were here in Potomac or in Chevy Chase last night, weren’t you?” I asked.

The writer looked at me dumbly. “Maybe. Technically.”

Sampson spun a bluff. “Not maybe or technically. We’ve got you on CCTV footage in that rare beast of a car you have there, racing a black Porsche Turbo Carrera up the Rock Creek Parkway at more than one hundred miles an hour.”

Tull gazed at Mahoney. “And for that I get FBI attention?”

“You admit you were traveling in excess of one hundred heading toward Chevy Chase at roughly nine last evening?” Ned demanded.

He didn’t seem to know how to reply. He sighed. “I read this interesting piece online about the culture of people in the DC area who have high-performance cars and do time trials up Rock Creek in the middle of the night. I found out on my own that there are also eager takers for a more adventurous kind of urban racing.”

“You’ve done it before?” I asked.

“A few times, yes. Look, I know it’s against the law, but it’s just a way I blow off steam now and then.”

Mahoney said, “You will kill someone.”

“Or maybe you did,” I said. “Last night. In the Kanes’ house.”

The writer went from surprised to stone-faced in two seconds. “That is nonsense. I have never been anywhere near this address in my entire life.”

“And I suppose you can prove that?” Sampson said.

Tull thought about that. “That I have never been near here in my entire life? No. But last night? Absolutely. One hundred percent, I can prove I was nowhere near here between two thirty and three a.m.”

CHAPTER 62

Cleveland, Ohio

BREE LANDED BEFORE TEN Friday morning. She’d spent the flight working on her laptop, researching the people who had hired her and the Bluestone Group to investigate Frances Duchaine.

Gerald Rainy, managing partner of the venerable firm of Grady and Rainy, was in his early sixties. According to an article in a Cleveland business journal, the attorney spent every lunch hour at a gym near his office. Bree got a rental car and used her phone to search for gyms around the law firm’s downtown address; she found a high-end one within two blocks. She drove to the nearest parking lot, got out, and was on the sidewalk outside the gym when Rainy exited in a pale gray suit, crisp light pink shirt, no tie.

She recognized him from his pictures online: tall, lean, silver-haired, tanned, and with a patrician air about his handsome features.

The attorney gave her an appreciative glance and a nod as he passed, then stiffened and cocked his head when she called after him, “Mr. Rainy?”

The attorney pivoted and glared at her. “You’re not serving me, are you?”

“No, sir. Do I look like a server?”

“One I used to know. In a way. You kind of stand like her. Who are you?”

“My name is Bree Stone,” she said. “I work for—”