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.”

  “If you’re going head-hunting, why not go after the most high-profile head?”

  “There’s probably some of that involved too.”

  As Bree finished her stew, I put the rest in the fridge and cleaned up Nana Mama’s kitchen, bringing it up to a standard that would make her smile in the morning.

  “Bed?” I said when I finished.

  Bree said, “We haven’t talked about your day.”

  I gave her a quick rundown of our meeting with Thomas Tull, our subsequent surveillance of the writer, and the high-speed chase.

  “Do you think he knew you were chasing him?”

  “He had to have seen the bubble flashing.”

  “But he didn’t know it was you and John.”

  I thought about that. “I don’t see how he could have made us.”

  “No idea where he was going?”

  “None.”

  “Then bed,” Bree said and drained the rest of her beer.

  Upstairs, after we’d brushed our teeth, gotten under the covers, and turned off the light, she snuggled into my arms and laid her head on my chest. I expected her to fall asleep immediately, but I could sense she was still on alert.

  “What are you feeling?” I whispered.

  After a pause, she said, “Like I’ve been used by someone with an agenda that I had a right to know about before I agreed to take the job.”

  “A valid emotion,” I said. “What do you want to do about it?”

  “Go to Cleveland with or without Elena’s approval.”

  “Then you should.”

  “But on whose dime?”

  “I think we can afford a trip to Cleveland.”

  She sighed and I felt the tension gradually leave her.

  “I love you,” she murmured.

  “I love you too,” I said, and drifted off.

  Chapter

  59

  Potomac, Maryland

  The Family Man stood there in the shadows, highly aware of the respirator mask, which pushed against the goggles and the hood of the disposable jumpsuit. With latex gloves, the killer adjusted the goggles yet again before checking the time.

  It was 2:45 a.m. More than a week since the last strike.

  After a momentary thrill of anticipation, calmness settled over the Family Man, a mental and emotional cocoon that allowed near complete detachment.

  That’s the goal, isn’t it? Full detachment from these necessary actions? Yes, and I have the right to a perfect life too. A dream life just like this.

  The killer’s eyes ran up the sweeping lawns to a neo-Georgian manor with English gardens on seven manicured acres. Five bedrooms. Two offices. A stable in the back with stalls for four horses. A garage with bays for five vehicles. An outdoor basketball court. An indoor lap pool. A sauna. A gym.

  It defied belief that two people could amass this kind of wealth and prestige at such a young age. But here was the proof, right before any doubter’s eyes.

  Opportunity meets preparation, the killer thought, then lowered the night-vision goggles and left the shadows.

  After padding quickly across the lawn, the Family Man reached a junction box through which the electric, telephone, and broadband lines connected to the residence. Quickly, the killer was tied into the house intranet and running a clever software program bought on the dark web that soon elicited the password for the alarm system.

  With the system disarmed, the task ahead was easier. On a screened-in porch, the Family Man worked the lock to the sliding door of the kitchen and soon had it open.

  Inside, the killer stood stock-still and listened. Elsie, the family’s beloved eleven-year-old German shepherd, had passed nine days ago. The chances of them having gotten a new dog this quick were low, especially since there had been no mention of it on any of the four family members’ social media accounts, which the Family Man had studied in detail.

  Satisfied there was no new dog to make things complicated, the killer took in the kitchen. Even viewed in the dim light from a bulb over the red enamel six-burner stove, it was magnificent, with a long, stainless-steel sink with three different faucets and multiple cutting boards and racks. Pale gray quartz countertops, red cabinets to match the stove, and a dramatic island/bar.

  Impressed, the Family Man made a mental note of that last feature, then left the kitchen, passed the small library and a larger office, and climbed the stairs to the second floor. The upstairs was as well-appointed as the lower floor, with four bedroom suites off a central hallway.

  The killer crept to the only one with double doors, drew out a baggie, and shook free its contents, which vanished into the carpet pile. Drawing the pistol and turning the master suite’s doorknob, the Family Man took courage from the belief that this was the logical next step.

  We make them understand that no one is safe, no matter their wealth or race. That’s the story we want them to hear. That’s the story we want them telling over and over again to each other, undermining their certainty, building the collective terror.

  That last thought caused the killer to smile beneath the black mask.

  It was remarkable what a scary story could do, wasn’t it?

  Chapter

  60

  Shortly before eight the next morning, just after Bree left to catch her flight to Cleveland, I got the call about the Kane family. Sampson and I soon arrived in one of the toniest neighborhoods in Potomac, Maryland, and found Ned Mahoney and his forensics team waiting for us.

  “No one’s been inside except the maternal grandmother, who came by to pick up her nine-year-old granddaughter for a trip to New York,” Mahoney said, leading the way through the gates and up the slight rise in the driveway to a neo-Georgian manor. “Grandma was hysterical when I tried to talk to her. EMTs are giving her something to calm her down. Her husband is on the way.”

  “I gather the victims were big-time wealthy,” Sampson said.

  “And young,” Mahoney said. “Irwin and Linda Kane, of Kane Tech Advisers. They made a fortune doing consulting work for the government—Justice, Pentagon, and CIA.”

  “Any indication that that work is involved here?” I asked.

  “As motive?” Ned said. “None so far. Sounds like Family Man all the way.”

  After donning blue booties, hairnets, and gloves, we went inside through the garage door, which Mrs. Kane’s mother had opened with her key. The alarm system had been disarmed.

  The lower floor looked untouched. The second floor was all crime scene.

  The double doors to the master suite were open, revealing the Kanes dead in their bed. Irwin Kane had been shot through the temple with a small-caliber bullet. Linda Kane took one through the palm of her left hand and into her left eye and brain.

  “She heard the first shot,” Sampson said. “Held up her hand to protect herself.”

  “At this range, she couldn’t have protected a thing,” I said, feeling disgusted at the callousness of the act. There was no passion here. Quite the opposite.

  We went into the other rooms and found Nate, age eleven, and Melissa, nine, dead in their beds. From a few feet away, you would have sworn they were sleeping.

  I could not help but think of Ali. Almost the same age as Nate. They could have been classmates. Friends.

  “Makes me want to punch a wall,” I said. “It’s just so…”

  “Ruthless?” Mahoney said.

  “I was thinking more like cowardly.”

  Sampson said, “In what way?”

  “Shooting them as they sleep. Probably with a suppressor on the gun. He’s unwilling to acknowledge the humanity of the targets. If they’d been awake, begging, he’d have to see them as fellow human beings. Executing them like this is a way of avoidance, a way to rationalize what is not rational. He doesn’t have to think of them as a mom, a dad, and two children. They’re just objects.”

  “Targets,” Sampson said.

  “But why?” Mahoney said. “What does he get out of this?”

  I said, “Some thrill, no doubt. Other needs being met. And maybe…”

  “What?”

  “A means to an end,” I said. “A more concrete end than what we’re seeing here.”

  “You’re saying these killings are part of a bigger picture?” Mahoney asked.

  Before I could reply, Meagan McShane, a medical examiner, came to the doorway. “I’ve got a time of death on the mom and dad. Shortly before three a.m.”

  A sheriff’s deputy in protective gear appeared in the hallway behind the ME. “I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “But there’s some guy out at the yellow tape asking for you.”

  “Who’s that?” Mahoney asked.

  “He says he’s Thomas Tull. You know, the writer?”

  Chapter

  61

  Thomas Tull had nerve, I’d give him that.

  Among fifteen lookie-loos and some camerapeople, the writer stood at the yellow tape, dressed to look dark and mysterious in black jeans, cowboy boots, shirt, and jacket. His sunglasses were black-framed wraparound reflectors. His hair was perfectly out of place. He smirked in reproach as Sampson, Mahoney, and I came near.

  “I thought you might like to talk,” he said.

  Sampson said, “What are you doing here, Mr. Tull?”

  “I’m assuming something happened.”

  The three of us ducked under the tape and surrounded him.

  “I’m Edward Mahoney, FBI special agent in charge,” Ned said quietly. “Walk with us, please, sir.”

  “What’s going on?” the writer demanded.

  I said softly, “We can get away from here and talk quietly, or we can put you in cuffs, make you look bad for television, and take you downtown to talk.”

  “I bet you make a lot of men shiver with that kind of chitchat.”

  I shrugged. “Your call, Thomas.”

  The writer took off his sunglasses and studied me. “Let’s talk quietly.”

  “Good,” Mahoney said. “We’ll go up the street. My car.”

  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—”

  Several men in business suits left the gym. Rainy took a few steps toward her, glanced at them, smiling, and hissed to her softly after they’d moved on, “I know who you work for, Ms. Stone. What are you doing here?”

  “Tying up loose ends,” Bree said.

  He gazed at her a moment, the barest of practiced smiles on his lips. “I told Elena that, given the terrible events in New York, we considered the private investigation complete. Let the police take it from here.”

  “You know I used to be police,” Bree said.

  “But you are no longer. You are a gun for hire. I hired you. You did your job. Events overtook things, resolved them. Now your job is done.”

  “Is everything resolved? Frances Duchaine is still alive.”

  “So she is,” Rainy said.

  “She claims she knew nothing about the sex trafficking.”

  The attorney wiggled his fingers while raising his hand dramatically. “Maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she does. My client and I are sure, however, that our involvement is no longer needed. As I said, the police will take it from here.”

  Bree studied him. “What about going to Sixty Minutes?”

  “What would be the point now? Whatever the truth is, it will come out in court. And, seeing that, my client has decided it would be in her best interest to keep her family’s name out of it if possible.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Rainy’s practiced smile disappeared. “Because the loss of her grandchild’s life is enough pain. She doesn’t have to drag the girl’s memory through the mud if it isn’t necessary. Are we done, Ms. Stone? I have an appointment.”

  “Just one more thing,” Bree said. “How did you come to hire Bluestone and why did you ask for me in particular to work the case?”