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“Chief Stone,” Salazar called, sounding weak but smiling. “Come in, come in.”

“I’m not interrupting?”

“Never,” she said. “You’re family now.” She introduced the people around the bed.

One of her brothers stared at Bree suspiciously and said something sharp in Spanish.

The detective’s brows knit. “Because she saved my life, fool!” Salazar looked back at Bree and grinned. “Come, come see my little one.”

Bree smiled as she went to the bed, and the family made room for her.

“A baby girl?”

“I’m as surprised as you are,” Salazar said. “I was sure it was a boy. And you know how they were worried that the baby was in distress? Turns out that her head was in the wrong position and she almost got wedged in the birth canal.”

“Wow. She’s tough!”

“She is,” Salazar’s mother said. “With a little help from the doctors, they got her out, and she’s fine now.”

Salazar said, “Better than fine. Six pounds, six ounces of pure beauty.”

“What’s her name?”

Salazar’s older daughter, Elaina, said proudly, “Analisa Bree Salazar!”

“What?” Bree said, looking at the detective in wonder. “That’s so sweet.”

“You saved my life.”

“You saved mine first.”

“I still owe you.”

Bree grinned so wide it hurt. “Well, I’m honored, Rosella and Debo. When do you get out of here?”

“Tomorrow,” Salazar’s mother said. “Rosella was running a fever earlier and they want to make sure she and the baby are okay.”

The nurse who’d directed Bree to the room entered and shook her head. “Too many people. Someone’s got to go.”

“I will,” Bree said. “I just wanted to stop in to say hi and meet Analisa.”

“When are you going back to DC?” Salazar asked.

“In a couple of hours, if I’m lucky,” Bree said. “If not, tomorrow.”

“Text me,” Salazar said, and after saying goodbye to everyone, Bree left.

She returned to Luster’s apartment and was gathering her things to head to Penn Station and the Acela train south to Washington when her cell rang. She looked at caller ID and saw a 212 area code and a number she did not recognize.

“This is Bree Stone,” she said.

“Bree,” a woman said. “This is Addie Wells. We met last night before …” Her voice trailed off.

“I remember you, Addie,” Bree said. “How are you?”

“I’m peachy, but I heard you were part of the gunfight with the Russians after they killed Frances Duchaine.”

Bree sighed. “You heard correct.”

“Well, I’m thrilled you’re alive.”

“I’m pretty happy about it too.”

Wells laughed. “You really impressed me last night, Bree. Even before the shooting started.”

“I appreciate that.”

There was a pause. “I’d love to talk to you about writing a book for me someday.”

“Me?”

“Why not? I specialize in true crime and until yesterday I was Thomas Tull’s new editor. Did I mention that?”

“I don’t think so. I should tell you that my husband is working the Family Man case.”

“I figured that out last night after I got home,” Wells said. “Which is also part of why I called you. Does Dr. Cross know that Suzanne Liu is representing some unknown writer and shopping a book proposal about the Family Man murders and Thomas Tull?”

That came out of left field. “I doubt it. How do you know that?”

“Suzanne sent me a teaser e-mail about the project an hour ago. Claims to have the inside story. She says it’s destined to be a classic and that it will never leave the bestseller list. The actual proposal is coming in an hour. I have thirty-six hours to decide whether to buy or not. Auction, best bid, nine a.m., day after tomorrow.”

“Who’s the unknown writer?”

“Uh, let me see,” she said and paused. “Lisa Moore—do you know her?”

CHAPTER 95

Washington, DC

WHEN BREE’S CALL CAME in, Sampson and I were driving across the Fourteenth Street Bridge reviewing our chat with Thomas Tull, who’d gone back to his cell looking as trapped as a man could be.

Over the Bluetooth connection, Bree’s voice filled the car. “Did you know Lisa Moore is writing a book about the Family Man killings and Thomas Tull?”

“What? No.”

Bree explained about meeting Tull’s editor the evening before and then hearing from her about Moore’s proposal, which was about to be submitted to publishing houses with Suzanne Liu as agent.

When she finished, I said, “Moore certainly never mentioned to us that she was writing a book. She claimed Liu was her lover and alibi, and that was pretty much it.”

“I think there’s more to it,” Bree said. “I mean, how long ago did you arrest Tull?”

“Four days ago.”

“Not a lot of time to put together a book proposal from an unknown writer.”

“It is fast,” Sampson said. “No doubt about it.”

I said, “Any chance we can see that proposal as soon as it lands?”

“I think I can make that happen,” Bree said. “I’ll call you back.”

She hung up.

Sampson and I glanced at each other, the ramifications of the book proposal beginning to sink in.

“Tull did think Moore was framing him,” John said. “And he did threaten Liu after selling his book to someone else. There could be bad, bad blood between them.”

“Could be. I’m getting suspicious now.”