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The writer gave us the address but said he had no idea who owned the property. “For all I know, it was an Airbnb place or VRBO,” he said. “Anyway, I have a weakness for three things in life: good wine, good women, and good cocaine. I don’t indulge often, but I binge once or twice a year, which is what I was doing last night. I rarely get in a car for at least a day afterward, but I got it in my head that I wanted to sleep in my own bed, and the ladies could not stop me.”

Sampson said, “Names of the ladies and the other people at the party?”

“Lola, Heart, and Bambi. No one else.”

His attorney’s nostrils flared as she stared at the table.

I said, “No last names?”

“They weren’t offering any,” Tull said.

“How was this party organized? Who put it together?”

The writer studied me with a smile. “Exactly the question I would ask if I were you. I called someone I know in Queens, a Russian expat, who arranged for the condo, the women, the cocaine, and the wine.”

“Name?”

A slight ripple of what I took to be fear flickered over his face. He said, “He will not like this.”

Mahoney said, “I expect not, but you’re going to need an alibi that’s a hell of a lot better than three one-name hookers and a nameless Russian expat in Queens.”

When the writer hesitated, his attorney said, “Tell him or we proceed to arraignment and the destruction of your good name.”

Tull looked at the ceiling and said, “Dusan. Dusan Volkov.”

Sampson said, “Phone number for Mr. Volkov?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Tull said. “You have to go through security checks, and Volkov calls you. If he feels like it. Sometimes it takes a few days.”

Mahoney cleared his throat, said, “I’m tired of this road to nowhere because we know this story’s not true.”

“It is true!” Tull said. “Just give the process a little time.”

“I don’t need to give the process a little time, and I don’t think I’d trust the word of a Russian mobster anyway,” Ned said, and he put the documents with the results of the mitochondrial analysis and match on the table. “We found hairs at the Kane family crime scene.”

“Slam-dunk match,” I said, watching as Tull and York scanned the document. “Retired U.S. Marine MP and NCIS investigator Thomas Adrian Tull.”

He jerked his head up. “No! This is BS! I have never—”

York put an arm across his chest. “Not another word, Thomas. Or you’re wasting the thousand dollars an hour you’re paying me.”

Tull glared at each of us in turn. “Utter BS,” he said. “Do your job, because I will remember this when it comes time to tell the truth about this story.”

Then he shut up and looked off into the distance.

CHAPTER 79

BREE RETURNED FROM HER run and showered, and she was getting dressed when Alex phoned her.

“It’s him,” he said. “Tull’s the Family Man. We have DNA evidence that puts him at the Kane crime scene.”

“No kidding,” she said. “Wow, that’s … that’s great, Alex. Well, we all knew you’d figure it out sooner or later. You always do!”

To Bree’s surprise, she’d said this all with increasing irritation.

Alex was quiet and then said, “What’s going on there?”

Bree took a deep breath, examined her emotions. “I think it’s my feelings of inferiority at my inability to make the connections that I know are there,” she said. “If that makes any sense.”

“It does. But I’ve learned not to beat my head against the wall about these things. If there are connections, you’ll find them. Quite honestly, it’s not like we dug up the Tull connections ourselves. He made two mistakes, with the camera and with the hair.”

“Big mistakes.”

“He’s claiming an alibi, by the way.”

“Against DNA evidence and a photograph of him at the Allisons’?”

“Exactly, but I am under orders from Tull himself to do my job and check it out before rushing to judgment.”

“DNA evidence and a photograph, Alex.”

“Just the same, I think you might be able to help me.”

“Any way I can.”

“Could you get in touch with that pregnant NYPD detective for me?”

“Salazar?” she said.

“If I remember, you said she’d investigated Russian organized crime before looking at Frances Duchaine.”

“The Russian mob in Queens,” Bree said. “One of the leaders was killed in Paula Watkins’s house. She knew all about him.”

“I was hoping so,” Alex said and he explained what he wanted.

“I can do that. I actually spoke with her a little while ago and I have to go up to New York tomorrow morning to talk to the district attorney assigned to the Watkins/Duchaine case. When are you coming home to sleep?”

“I was going to wait for Tull’s arraignment so I could see his face when he pleaded. But the assistant U.S. attorney wants him stone-cold sober, so he won’t face a judge until the morning. I’m going to take another nap, then help search his house. The warrants finally came through.”

“Good,” Bree said. “I’ll let you know what Salazar says.”

She hung up and phoned the NYPD detective for the second time that day.

“You don’t quit, Chief,” the detective said. “I—”

“Not that, Rosella,” Bree said. “I’m calling at my husband’s request.”

After a pause, she said, “Dr. Cross?”