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Even with that caveat, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something off about the triangular relationship of Thomas Tull, Suzanne Liu, and Lisa Moore. “Let’s make double sure,” I said. “Bree’s in New York. I’ll ask her to go to Liu and get her side of the story, maybe get her apartment building’s security footage on the days Moore said she was there.”

“Do it,” Mahoney said, yawning. “I’m calling it a day.”

“Right behind you,” Sampson said, checking his watch. “Willow’s got the dress rehearsal for her ballet recital tonight and I don’t want to miss a second.”

I went to the interrogation room and told Moore she could go. She seemed relieved and followed me out. On the sidewalk, the researcher thanked me, turned to leave, and stopped. “Would you talk to me about all this someday?” she asked. “When Thomas is behind bars? I think it’s important for me to understand what’s been going on right under my nose.”

“I can do that,” I said and watched her walk away. I called Bree.

She answered breathlessly. “Alex?”

“Where are you?”

“Being fitted for a dress.” She groaned and then explained she was staying the night to attend a gala with Detective Salazar and Phillip Henry Luster.

“You’re going to end up in the society pages one of these days,” I said.

“Do those still exist?” she said. She breathed deep. “God, Phillip, that’s too much!”

“I’ll let you go,” I said.

“No, why did you call?”

“Tull’s researcher claims she’s the lover of Suzanne Liu.”

“The book editor?”

“Correct. If you have time between galas and cotillions, could you check it out with Liu in person?”

“As long as tomorrow works.”

“It does.”

“Then I’d be glad to. Call you later! Gotta go!”

She hung up. The air was pleasant for late April and I decided to walk home to get some exercise and take time to think.

I’d covered no more than a block when my phone buzzed again. I didn’t recognize the phone number, which had a 703 area code. Northern Virginia.

“This is Alex Cross,” I said.

“Deputy Lance Conrad, sir, with Fairfax County Sheriff’s Department. I was blocking the road near Lake Barcroft when you went to the Allison residence?”

“I remember, Deputy,” I said. “How can I help you?”

“I apologize because it slipped my mind that I was supposed to call you with the contact info on Tim Boulter, the jogger with the Jack Russell terrier?”

“Right. Can you text it over to me?”

After a pause, he said, “I can, but I don’t think it will do much good.”

“Why is that?”

“I looked up him and the bakery he said he owned. Tim Boulter is the owner of the Sunrise Bakery. But the real Tim Boulter is no two a.m. runner. They’ve got lots of pictures of the real Boulter on the bakery website. He’s big. Beefy. Bald. Looks nothing like our lean running guy with the dog.”

That came out of nowhere, and I paused at an intersection to collect my thoughts. “Send over the contact info he gave you anyway, Deputy Conrad. And I’ll take a look at that website. Thanks.”

“Anytime,” he said and hung up.

After looking at the Sunrise Bakery website and confirming the deputy’s observations, I spent the rest of the walk home trying to figure out who the runner was and why it was so important that he impersonate a baker and his dog out for a very early-morning jog.

CHAPTER 88

CIPRIANI ON FORTY-SECOND STREET was as opulent and grand a venue as Bree had ever seen. Were it not for the white evening dress Luster had literally sewn her into, she might have stayed longer to stare at the beauty of the Italian Renaissance architecture, the massive marble columns, the high ceilings, the inlaid floors, and the stunning chandeliers.

As it was, she grunted and said, “Even with the Spanx, I don’t think I fit into this, Phillip.”

Rosella Salazar laughed. “I think I fit perfectly in mine, Phillip. Thank you!”

The detective was wearing a simple but elegant full-length, flowing black gown that Luster had literally designed and made in under two hours. Looking at her move, you’d never have known she was pregnant.

“Let’s hope the stitches hold in both of your dresses,” Luster said, offering an arm for each of them to take. They swept into the room, where guests were already crowding the tables and the bars to either side of the front door.

“Where are we sitting?” Salazar said. “I have to get off my feet for a few.”

“Table four,” the fashion designer said. “I’ll take you. Bree, could you get me a glass of champers? The rosé Taittinger, please?”

“I could use one of those myself,” Bree said and got in line.

A well-put-together woman in her forties in front of her turned and smiled.

“I know absolutely no one here, so I’ll introduce myself,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m Addie Wells.”

“Bree Stone,” Bree said, shaking her hand. “Nice to meet you, Addie.”

“Are you in fashion?”

“A friend of a designer at Tess Jackson. How about you?”

Wells said, “I was invited by an agent who’s trying to convince me to buy a book set in the fashion industry.”

“You work in publishing?”

“I’m an acquisitions editor. And you?”