For the first time, the attorney looked the slightest bit flustered. “Did I?”

  “According to Elena.”

  “I don’t know. I must have seen Bluestone and then your bio.”

  “We don’t post bios.”

  “Google, then. I don’t know.”

  “No outside referral?”

  “No. Not that I recall.”

  “Not even from your client?”

  The practiced smile returned to Rainy’s lips. “I don’t remember it that way, and in any case, that information would be privileged. Good day, Ms. Stone. Have a nice flight home. And give my best to Elena.”

  With that, the attorney pivoted again and strolled quickly off. She watched him until he’d rounded the corner and was out of sight.

  For a moment, Bree thought of taking his advice and heading to the airport and a plane home. But given that she’d taken the time and spent the money to come all the way to Cleveland, she felt she should leave no stone unturned before her departure.

  Chapter

  63

  Hunting Valley, Ohio

  The rich are very different from you and me, Bree thought when, through a glen of budding hardwood trees, she caught sight of a sprawling mansion on a grassy knoll. She drove past the gate and around the perimeter of the twelve-acre estate off the Chagrin River Road, glimpsing a tennis court and then a pool still covered for winter.

  Her cell rang. Elena Martin.

  “Boss,” Bree said.

  “Explain why you are in Cleveland.”

  “Gerald Rainy called you.”

  “Uh-huh. And he was pissed.”

  “Can’t help that, I’m afraid.”

  “Bree, he pulled the plug on us yesterday. I told you that.”

  “I know. After a mass murder that occurred after I wrote a report.”

  Martin paused, then said, “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that until I understand exactly how I’m involved with a billionaire and a fashion icon and eleven dead people, I am still looking into this case. On my own dime and my own time.”

  After a longer pause, her boss said, “I can understand that. But be discreet, Bree. Tread lightly. People with that kind of money can be terribly dangerous if provoked.”

  Elena hung up. Through a hedge of rhododendrons, Bree spotted the roof of a greenhouse and decided she had to take the chance.

  On the plane, she’d read an article in Architectural Digest about Theresa May Alcott’s renovation of her Hunting Valley home and a piece in Better Homes and Gardens featuring her Wyoming ranch house. According to the second article, Alcott was a die-hard horsewoman out west. According to the first article, she spent an equal amount of time tending her gardens back east.

  “Gardening in Jackson is like doing combat with the elements,” Mrs. Alcott was quoted as saying. “And you nearly always lose. If I want to see something grow out of the ground under my care, I retreat to my gardens in the humidity of Ohio.”

  Hunting Valley was one of the six wealthiest towns in the United States, a quiet, wooded village that billionaires and society matrons called home. Bree knew that leaving a rental car behind the property of one of the richest women in America was bound to attract attention.

  Have to accept it, she thought, and pulled off the road by a thick grove of pine trees. She put on a tiny but sensitive Bluetooth microphone disguised as a small ebony carving hanging from a thin gold chain around her neck and connected it to her cell phone and a voice-activated recording app.

  Bree tested the connection, then got out, crossed the street, and pushed through the rhododendrons. She emerged onto a wide lawn that felt like plush carpet beneath her feet and crossed to a wooden archway that led to a high-fenced garden that covered more than an acre.

  Moving beneath the archway, she noticed the posts of it were wrapped in greening clematis vines, a few tentacles budding already. The walkway of crushed gray slate through the garden was bordered by five rows of raised beds on either side.

  The rich soil in the far beds looked recently turned over and ready to be planted. In the near boxes, the annual flowers were already thriving. In another one, tulips and daffodils bloomed in full riot.

  But Bree saw no sign of Theresa May Alcott anywhere in the garden. She caught movement in the greenhouse and walked to the door. Inside, a woman in her late sixties worked at a potting bench. She was tall, feline, with long pewter-colored hair in a braid, a classic beauty that put Bree in mind of the country star Emmylou Harris.

  A big Polynesian guy was working beside her. He saw Bree, came up with a pistol, and walked toward her fast. “Who are you? What are you doing here? You do not have permission to be here.”

  Bree held up her hands but before she could identify herself and apologize for the intrusion, Theresa May Alcott said, “It’s all right, Arthur.” She gazed at him and then Bree. “You have exceeded my expectations, Chief Stone,” Alcott said. “I predicted a phone call or a knock at my front door, not a barging into my greenhouse.” The billionaire laughed. “But then I guess you are a barging-in kind of person, aren’t you?”

  Bree wanted not to like her, for some reason. But Alcott’s smile and laugh were genuine and contagious.

  “I guess I am,” Bree said. “All elbows and knees.”

  Chapter

  64

  It took Thomas Tull an hour working with an FBI computer technician in a van outside the Kane crime scene, but using his cell phone and car GPS data, the writer began to convince us of where he’d gone after we’d lost him at the north end of Rock Creek Parkway the evening before.

  Tull’s data showed him bailing left off Cathedral Avenue and taking a quick right with his headlights off, which explained how he’d lost me and Sampson. From there, he’d zigzagged northwest through Chevy Chase back to Bethesda and close to Potomac, but he’d never come within six miles of the Kane home.

  According to the data, at nine p.m., Tull was parking at an upscale Chinese restaurant in Bethesda. He used a phone app to pay for dinner a few minutes later.

  “That was a quick eat,” I said.

  “Takeout,” the writer said.

  “But you didn’t get back in the car for almost an hour,” Sampson said. “What did you do? Go for a walk? Eat outside? Meet someone?”

  Tull reacted awkwardly, then nodded. “I met someone. We ate outside.”

  “Who was that?”

  After another awkward moment, he said, “Suzanne Liu. My former editor.”

  “Who you threatened with violence,” I said.

  “Who I promised financial repercussions if she continued to spread lies about me.”

  The writer said that the editor had messaged him earlier in the day, apologizing for her behavior and inviting him to meet her before she returned to New York.

  “She said she wasn’t angry anymore, but she had things to say to find closure,” Tull said. “She told me she was going to change professions and work as a literary agent. She said she’d managed to find perspective and move on in the past few days, but deep down she loved me, and that had clouded her reactions to losing me as a writer and then losing her job.”

  Sampson said, “She’ll back you up on all that?”

  “Maybe not all of it. Women can be touchy about love. But the gist of it, I’m sure.”

  “Take us through the rest of your evening,” I said.

  “We hugged goodbye. She tried for a kiss, but I shut her down. She smiled, tears on her cheeks. And then she was gone. I took the leftover kung pao and drove home.”

  GPS data from the Audi and from his phone showed him back at his Georgetown rental at a little before eleven. The rest of the evening and until eight thirty the next morning, after he learned of the Kane killings, the Audi never moved.

  Tull’s phone was also largely stationary from eleven p.m. to eight thirty a.m.

  Sampson leaned over and tapped the computer screen, said, “Except for this hour and twenty minutes, from two ten to three thirty. When the Kanes were killed.”

  “Wait, what?” Tull said, agitated and coming around behind the computer tech. “Show me moving. I defy you to show me moving anywhere.”

  “Not moving,” the tech said. “Just not generating data between your phone, the cell tower, and the satellite. It was dead.”

  “You could have turned your electronics off,” I said. “It’s a stretch to make it from Georgetown to the Kanes and back in that time frame, but doable.”

  “Except I didn’t do anything but sleep,” the writer protested. “There must be a record of my phone turning off, right? Show me where it turns off and on.”

  The computer tech typed on his laptop. He looked at us. “You got me there. The phone was on the entire time, just not transmitting or receiving data.”

  “Is that possible in this day and age?” Mahoney said.

  “If the cell tower or the satellite went down, sure, it could look like this.”

  “Perfect,” Tull said. “Call Verizon. That’s my carrier.”

  “We will,” Sampson said. “Count on it.”

  “In the meantime, am I in or out of this investigation?” the writer asked me, John, and Ned.

  “As far as the FBI is concerned, you are out,” Mahoney said.

  Tull looked like he wanted to argue but said, “Fine, I’m out for the time being. Am I free to go home and get some work done? You’ve got my phone and car signals. They’re not electronic ankle bracelets, but then again, I’m not going anywhere.”

  Ned glanced at me and Sampson. I said, “We do know where to find him.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Cross,” he said sourly. “Appreciate the support.” He plucked his phone and car keys off the tech’s bench, saying, “It would be easier if we cooperated, you know. I’ve written three books and worked with multiple police agencies, and this is the most static I have ever encountered.”

  I said, “We tend to keep people at arm’s length until letting them in is warranted.”

  Tull paused at the rear of the van. “Suit yourself. I’ll write the book one way or another.”

  With that, he jumped down and was gone. A few moments later, we heard the RS 7 fire up with a low-throated rumble and roar off.

  Mahoney looked at me and Sampson. “What do you think? Is he our guy?”

  I said, “I’m leaning that way, but let me call the folks at Paladin.”

  “Why?” John asked.

  “In the data dumps from around every prior Family Man crime scene, the analysts at Paladin found localized blackouts of all digital information.”

  Mahoney said, “But Tull’s blackout was not around the crime scene.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’m interested in seeing if it happened other times around Tull’s place in the past month or so.”

  “Preferably close to the times of death.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “And if anyone can figure that out, it’s Ryan Malcomb and his team at Paladin.”

  Chapter

  65

  Hunting Valley, Ohio

  Theresa May Alcott removed the gardening apron she wore, went to a sink, and washed her hands.

  “Can you finish up for me, Arthur?” she asked. “I’m going up to the house with Chief Stone for a cup of tea. Shall I send some down for you?”

  Arthur was still regarding Bree suspiciously, but he nodded. “Tea would be nice. And don’t worry, I’ll have everything ready to put in the ground come morning.”

  “Seven sharp. I have meetings from nine on.”

  “Seven sharp, Terri.”

  Bree followed her out of the greenhouse and listened as Alcott chanted out the vegetables and herbs that would be “accepted into the ground” the following morning.

  “How do you eat it all?” Bree asked.

  Alcott led her out of the garden and up a short rise to the house. “What we don’t eat is donated to multiple food banks and school-lunch programs in the Cleveland area. Nothing goes to waste. And everything’s organic.”

  “Was this always an interest of yours? Gardening?”

  “My mother was a gardener, but I hated it as a girl. It was only over time that I came to appreciate the power and fulfillment of helping to nurture something to life.” The billionaire said it was similar to her cattle ranch outside Jackson. “The ranch was my late husband’s passion,” she said, opening a rear door to the house. “He made me see the beauty in being part of the greater food cycle.”

  They entered a mudroom, where Alcott kicked off her rubber boots. Bree slipped off her sneakers and padded after her down a short hallway that emerged into a beautiful, immaculate, yellow-and-white kitchen.

  A woman in her forties sat at the table. She put down her People magazine. “Terri?”

  “Tea, please, Marie. In the office?”

  “Coming up.”

  Alcott motioned for Bree to follow her down another short hall to an expansive office. The desk was huge and cluttered. Several computer screens glowed on and behind it.

  “My reckless command center,” Alcott said.

  “Looks like you have a lot on your plate.”

  Alcott smiled and pointed her to one of two overstuffed chairs flanking a small cocktail table. “You have no idea.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  The billionaire took the other chair, sighed. “You must think me cut off from the realities of life.”

  “Not at all, Mrs. Alcott. You seem surprisingly genuine.”

  “Call me Terri, and bless you for that. It took years in therapy and more than a few monthlong retreats in India after Gil—my husband—died for me to get to this point.”

  She chuckled wistfully. “And now to your loose ends,” she said, sobering. “What has brought you to my greenhouse door, Chief Stone?”

  “Tell me about your granddaughter.”

  Alcott’s face fell. “Olivia. Olivia May. My younger daughter’s second child.”

  The older woman proceeded to tell a story similar to the others Bree had heard: Duchaine scouts luring seventeen-year-old Olivia into a trap. The promises of fame. The excitement of moving to New York. The rejection. The plastic surgeries. The mounting debt. The sex trafficking.

  “All the things you described in your report,” Alcott said. “Olivia could have come to her mother or me for money. But by then, shame had set in and she was using drugs. When we found out what was happening, she could not face us. She intentionally overdosed, leaving us a letter that described her ordeal.”

  Marie came into the room carrying a tea service and a basket of cookies. When she’d gone and Bree had had a sip of tea, she said, “So you hired Bluestone and me to investigate at that point?”

  “You were the second firm hired to investigate Olivia’s death. The first dug up what was given to you when they reached a dead end.”

  “Why us? Your attorney indicated you had some sort of recommendation?”

  Chapter

  66

  Bree had bluffed about the recommendation. Alcott seemed confused and looked into the middle distance.

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “That’s right, from a small company I’ve invested in. Bluestone evidently worked on their internal security setup when they started doing some projects for the government.”

  Bree had not expected that, and Bluestone did do government IT security-compliance work. Quite a bit of it, in fact. She decided to move in another direction. “After you read my report, what was your reaction?”

  Bree watched the older woman think back, her eyes softening a few seconds before sharpening. “I could not believe it was happening on that kind of scale.”

  “Did it make you angry?”

  “Weren’t you? Writing that report? I felt it.”

  “I was. I am.”

  “There you are, then,” the billionaire said. “I was angry. Infuriated. Appalled.”

  “When did you hear about the killings at Paula Watkins’s home?”

  “The morning after, I believe. On the news.”

  “And what was your reaction to the murders?”

  Alcott thought about that. “To be honest, I was horrified for maybe ten seconds, but then, as the names of the dead and their reputations came out, I felt less so.”

  “You didn’t feel deprived of a chance to expose them, to get revenge?”

  She curled her upper lip. “I admit that’s been a bitter pill to swallow. But now I ask myself, what good is revenge? Will that bring back Olivia? No. Will it hurt my daughter Anna, Olivia’s mother? Yes. And so, it is enough now. I can see that some kind of cosmic justice has been done. Powers greater than yours or mine were at play. And it is enough.”

  Bree said, “You won’t go to the journalists with the evidence I dug up?”

  “Again, will that bring back my granddaughter? The media will get its meat when Frances Duchaine goes on trial.”

  “She claims she’s innocent.”

  Alcott turned colder. “So did Saddam Hussein.”

  A phone on the desk rang before Bree could respond.

  “Can you hold on a moment?” the billionaire asked. “I rarely get calls on the landlines anymore.” Alcott got up and went to her desk, picked up the receiver, and punched a button. “This is Terri.”

  She listened closely and then smiled, said, “Give me a minute, will you, Emma, dear? I’m with someone and I’ll need to pick up in another room.”

  Alcott hit the Hold button and hung up. “I am sorry, Chief Stone. This won’t take long, but it can’t wait.”

  “Please. Take your time.”

  The older woman hurried from the room, closing the office door behind her. Bree got up and walked around, looking at the books and framed pictures on the shelves. Many featured Theresa May Alcott with her husband, Gil, at various places around the world. In others, the couple posed with various famous people: Presidents Bill Clinton, George W. Bush, and Barack Obama; LeBron James and Phil Mickelson; Meryl Streep, Denzel Washington, and Robert Redford. Jerry Lewis was featured in at least three of them.