“Okay?”

  “They did use Paladin,” he said. “But, you know, turns out all sorts of companies and law enforcement agencies are using them. NYPD even has a contract.”

  “Does it? What about the Duchaine company itself?”

  “Uh, I don’t know that. Let me ask and get back to you.”

  “Thanks, Detective.”

  “Back at you, Chief.”

  Bree got up, put her shoes on, and freshened up in the bathroom. As she was leaving the bedroom, she heard keys jangle and dead bolts thrown down the hall.

  Phillip Henry Luster came in and saw her. “Still here?”

  “I’m so sorry, Phillip,” she said. “I never intended to stay even overnight.”

  “Nonsense, I’m thrilled,” he said with genuine enthusiasm. “We’ll order in. Can I do the honors?”

  “Please,” she said, following him into the kitchen.

  “Chardonnay?”

  “Double please,” she said. “Who was Frances Duchaine’s head of marketing?”

  Luster pulled the cork from a chilled bottle of chardonnay. “That would be Nellie Ray. She’s an old friend of mine and she’s assured me up and down that she had no idea whatsoever about the human-trafficking allegations.”

  “You’ve spoken recently?”

  “A few days ago. Why?” he asked, pouring wine into their glasses.

  “I’d like to talk to her.”

  “About?”

  “A tech company outside Boston that I suspect Duchaine used.”

  The fashion designer pursed his lips, then dug out his phone. A few thumb taps later, he put the phone on speaker and set it between them on the counter.

  “Phillip?”

  “Hello, Nellie. I’d meant to call earlier.”

  “Didn’t we all?” Ray said, her speech sounding a little slurred. “I can’t count the number of people I’ve called since I heard. It’s a nightmare!”

  “It is.”

  “You were cochair of the gala, weren’t you?”

  Luster said, “I was.”

  After a long pause, Bree heard ice clinking in a glass. Ray said, “I know it wasn’t your fault, Phillip. But I can’t help thinking the security should have been better, you know?”

  That annoyed Luster. “Nellie, I am standing here with one of the women who fought the Russians after they shot Frances.”

  Bree leaned over the phone. “Hi, Nellie. My name is Bree Stone, and I agree with you. Frances Duchaine should have had tighter security around her, given what happened at Paula Watkins’s party.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But that was largely Frances’s call, as I understand it,” Bree said. “She had her two guards and felt comfortable with the level of security.”

  Luster said, “That is correct, Nellie.”

  “Then I need another stiff drink,” Ray said. “And why not? Frances is dead. Paula is dead. And a once great company is…” She broke down crying.

  Luster said, “It’s going to be all right, Nellie.”

  “No, it’s not, Phillip,” she cried. “I’m forty-six. Who will hire me?”

  “Tess Jackson would in a heartbeat,” he said. “She’d be crazy not to.”

  After a snuffle and a hiccup, she said in a meek voice, “You think so, Phillip?”

  “I’ll talk to her in the morning,” Luster promised. “But before we let you go, Bree has a question for you.”

  Ray sighed. “Thank you, Phillip. What’s your question, Bree?”

  “To your knowledge did Duchaine, the company, ever use the services of a Massachusetts firm called Paladin?”

  Duchaine’s director of marketing laughed. “Paladin. One of the dumber moves we made in the past few years.”

  “How’s that?” Bree said.

  Ray told her that Frances Duchaine and Paula Watkins had followed the advice of hedge-fund manager Ari Bernstein and hired Paladin to mine hard data to determine where to put new stores as the company expanded. “The demographics they came up with from their algorithms were solid on paper—proximity to wealthy towns, reasonable rent and overhead, things like that,” Ray said. “But they didn’t account for how devastating e-commerce was going to be for the fashion-to-wholesale-to-physical-retail business, which was our business model.”

  Bree said, “Should Paladin have predicted it?”

  “Ryan Malcomb’s supposed to be the big genius, spotter of trends, right?”

  “You’ve met him?”

  “Five or six times,” she replied as Bree’s own cell phone rang. “He, uh, em, uh…well, I think he uses the whole muscular dystrophy thing to his advantage.”

  “Hold that thought,” Bree said, seeing who was calling her. She answered it as she walked from the kitchen. “Detective Thompson?”

  “The docs say they’re going to bring Volkov out of his coma tomorrow evening,” Salazar’s partner said. “But they don’t think he’ll be coherent enough to answer questions until the following day. If you’re available, Rosella wants you there when we question him.”

  “I’ll be there,” Bree replied. “FYI? Paladin did do business with Duchaine.”

  “Good to know, I guess,” he said with little enthusiasm. “Gotta go.”

  When Bree returned to the kitchen, Luster was pouring himself a second glass of wine. His phone was dark.

  “Nellie had to go, unfortunately,” he said. “Her mother phoned. She said you can call her back tomorrow if you need to. Another round?”

  He was holding the bottle up toward her. Bree felt odd about something Nellie had said but couldn’t quite put her finger on it. What is it? Does it matter?

  “Why not?” Bree said finally, and held out her glass.

  Luster gave her a generous dose. “How does organic Chinese sound?”

  “Perfect,” she said. Her cell phone buzzed, alerting her to a text. She thumbed the screen, saw it was from Addie Wells, and opened it. It contained an attachment titled “Write Me a True Story, Family Man.”

  Chapter

  97

  Washington, DC

  At ten minutes to nine on the morning of the auction, Lisa Moore lounged on a couch, sipping espresso and watching Suzanne Liu pace back and forth across the living room of the Airbnb Moore had been renting in Kalorama.

  “Are you always like this before an auction?” Moore asked calmly.

  Liu looked at her as if she were mad. “Of course. Everyone is when something is hot like this.”

  “But you’re the agent now, not the editor,” Moore said, putting her coffee down.

  “All the more reason to be biting my nails. This is my first time on the other side of the table, Lisa.”

  Getting up and walking toward Liu, Moore said, “So you should be even chiller. You said it yourself last night—we’re holding an ace-high royal flush. Six different publishers said they intend to bid.”

  The former editor shook her head. “You don’t understand, Lisa. Sometimes projects get too hot. For whatever reason, the suits start thinking the price is going to be too high for them to even bother bidding or that the writer isn’t seasoned enough to execute the narrative in a bestselling manner. In that case, we could get six different no-bids in the next hour.”

  Moore came around behind her and started massaging her neck. “That won’t happen, Suzanne. I guarantee they’ll bid. How could they not? It’s too juicy, too delicious, the way it takes Thomas to his knees. Everyone loves to see the big man fall, don’t they? And besides, I’ll have you as an editor to guide me.”

  Leaning back into her lover’s hands, Liu said, “Everyone does adore seeing an a-hole like Thomas brought low. And you’re right. You have me as a guide.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  Liu’s laptop dinged.

  Liu pulled away from Moore, mild terror on her face as she hurried to the machine.

  “You would have been terrible in combat,” Moore said, sighing.

  “I’d have a nervous breakdown in combat,” Liu agreed and looked at an e-mail that had just come in. “Damn it!”

  “What?”

  Liu was trembling when she turned. “I told you it might get too rich for some people’s blood.”

  “Which house?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said, stalking away. “We need someone to believe in us here. We need someone to step forward so I can do my magic.”

  “You’ll get it. We’ll get it. We haven’t gone through what we’ve gone through not to get the brass ring, Suzanne.”

  “Publishing can be a fickle, subjective business. I’ve told you that.”

  Moore gritted her teeth. “Have more faith. What’s the worst that can happen? We don’t get a deal and we self-publish on—”

  Liu held up her hands in horror. “Don’t even say it!”

  Ding!

  Liu ran over and was fumbling with the trackpad when—ding!

  She opened the new e-mails, her eyes widening. She spun around, grinning wildly, and pumped her fist.

  “Game on!” she cried. “Two seven-figure offers!”

  The fax machine began churning out paper. Liu grabbed those pages and whooped with joy. She did a little shimmy and then jigged toward Moore. “We got ourselves a serious bidding war, lover!”

  Moore took her agent in her arms, and kissed her hungrily. “Of course we do, little girl. Didn’t I tell you if we paid attention to details, things would work out for us in a big, big way?”

  Chapter

  98

  Two hours later, Suzanne Liu and Lisa Moore strode triumphantly down Water Street in DC’s trendy Navy Yard district.

  “I feel like we’ve slain Goliath,” Liu said breathlessly. “I’m serious.”

  “You didn’t think they’d go that high?” Moore asked.

  “You did?”

  “When four of the six were in the game, I figured we were heading right in the ballpark of where we ended up.”

  “Maybe you should be the agent,” Liu said.

  “Where would that leave you? Writing?” Moore said it a little snidely.

  Liu stiffened and said, “Don’t forget, that proposal would not have been in the shape it was without my guiding hand, lover.”

  “No doubt. And I deeply appreciate it, little girl.”

  They arrived at Osteria Morini, Moore’s favorite lunch spot in the nation’s capital. The maître d’ recognized her immediately.

  “Business or celebration, Ms. Moore?” he asked.

  “Definitely celebration, Brian. I’d like a bottle of your finest prosecco brought to the table.”

  “Magnifico,” Brian said, beaming.

  He led them to their table along the wall, handed them two menus, and promised to have their prosecco brought right away.

  “Good food here?” Liu asked.

  “Brilliant cuisine,” Moore said, as if Liu should have known. “The brodetto, an Adriatic-style fish stew, is incredible.”

  “Sounds a little rich for lunch. I’d have to take a nap later.”

  “I was actually hoping we might find our way into bed afterward.”

  Liu’s smile turned saucy. “That does sound like a delicious dessert.”

  Their waiter brought over the prosecco packed in ice in a silver bucket, made a nice show of popping the cork, and poured the wine into two flutes.

  “I understand a celebration is under way,” he said.

  Liu gestured at Moore. “I just sold her first book.”

  “Yes? This is fantastic!”

  “Thank you,” Moore said, blushing a little.

  “Can I make recommendations?”

  Liu said, “I heard about the brodetto. Sounds a little rich?”

  “Then the branzino, seared Mediterranean sea bass.”

  “Perfect.”

  “That does sound good,” Moore said. “Make it two.”

  The waiter made note of it, bowed slightly, and walked away; Moore raised her champagne flute and said, “To many, many more of these kinds of celebrations.”

  “Hear, hear,” Liu said, clinking her glass against Moore’s. “And to many, many more books sold.”

  “And auctioned to Hollywood,” Moore said. She drank deeply.

  “Of course,” her agent said and she stared into her lover’s eyes as she drank from her own glass. “I have a feeling we’re going to need another bottle, don’t you think?”

  “Mmm,” the newly minted writer said. “What a grand idea!”

  Liu grabbed the bottle and refilled Moore’s flute. She was starting to refill her own when she noticed her companion glance up and freeze. The color drained from Moore’s face.

  Liu twisted in her seat and saw Dr. Alex Cross, Detective John Sampson, and FBI special agent in charge Ned Mahoney heading right to their table.

  Mahoney smiled at them and said, loud enough for half the restaurant to hear, “Lisa Moore and Suzanne Liu, you’re under arrest for the Family Man murders as well as multiple other crimes and conspiracies. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to…”

  Liu barely heard any of it. She was staring at Cross in disbelief. “I’m innocent,” she said.

  “No, you’re not,” Cross said.

  “I didn’t kill anyone!”

  “Maybe you didn’t,” Sampson said, looking at her and then at Moore, who had gone stone-faced. “But you did.”

  “Stop talking, Suzanne,” Moore hissed as Mahoney cuffed her. “Say nothing until you’ve spoken to a lawyer.”

  Chapter

  99

  Manhattan

  On Wednesday, in an empty hospital room in a section of the NYU Medical Center far from the maternity ward, Bree watched a screen that Rosella Salazar’s partner had set up for her.

  Connie Ellis, the assistant Manhattan DA overseeing the Paula Watkins investigation, stood next to her, also watching the screen.

  It featured a feed from an iPhone that Detective Thompson had mounted on a tall tripod and carried to the room Dusan Volkov had been moved into after being brought out of a medically induced coma. Volkov’s head was heavily bandaged, but doctors had told Thompson and Salazar that while Bree’s bullet had grazed the side of his skull, he had not suffered a severe brain injury.

  The Russian was certainly alert when Salazar, who’d been released from the hospital just the day before, walked slowly and gingerly into the room, followed by her partner. She ignored Volkov, who was handcuffed to the bed, and said something to the uniformed officer who’d been guarding him.

  The officer left the room. Thompson turned on the sound as Salazar eased into a chair by the foot of Volkov’s bed. He was watching both of them closely but said nothing until she and Thompson identified themselves.

  “I know who she is,” Volkov said to Thompson, gesturing at Salazar. “You? No. Does not matter, I say nothing until lawyer comes here.”

  “Someone from the public defender’s office is on the way,” Thompson said. “Not that it really matters. The evidence against you is overwhelming and it will get even more overwhelming once we execute search warrants on your home and businesses.”

  “What evidence? I know no evidence.”

  Salazar said, “Give me a break, Dusan. I saw you and two of your men kill Frances Duchaine and her bodyguards in cold blood. I shot your men. You were shot trying to kill me. I’ll testify to that in court. Security footage up and down Forty-Second Street ensures that you will never see the light of day as a free man again.”

  The Russian said nothing.

  “I wish this state still gave the needle, Dusan,” Thompson said. “You deserve it.”

  A man who looked about seventeen knocked and entered. “I am Sergei Andreyev,” he said. “I will be representing Mr. Volkov.”

  “You’re from the public defender’s office?” Thompson asked.

  “No, I was hired by friends of Mr. Volkov.” He said something to the mobster in Russian. Volkov smiled.

  Andreyev looked at Thompson and Salazar. “I would like a moment with my client, please. And turn the camera off.”

  Thompson helped Salazar up and shut off the camera. A few moments later, they returned to the room Bree and Ellis were in.

  Salazar groaned as she sat on the edge of the bed. “God, I hate getting up and down, and I’m going to need to pump if Junior takes a long time in there.”

  Thompson said, “TMI, Rosella. Anyone need coffee?”

  “Bad for the baby,” Salazar said.

  “I’ll take a small one,” Bree said.

  Thompson left. Salazar said, “I’m not expecting him to say much. Just doing this as a courtesy for the lieutenant before I go on serious maternity leave.”

  “How long?”

  “Six months,” she said, smiling and then yawning. “I’m going to need it.”

  Salazar’s partner returned with coffee ten minutes later. Bree was mixing in cream and stevia when Volkov’s attorney knocked on the doorjamb.

  “My client has something valuable to trade,” he said to the assistant DA. “In return, you take life without parole off the table.”

  “After he killed three people in cold blood?” Ellis laughed. “I don’t think so.”

  Andreyev said, “You will think differently when you hear what he has to tell you.”

  “Can’t take anything off the table unless I have some idea of what he’s offering.”

  “How about the person behind the Paula Watkins and the Frances Duchaine killings? All of the killings.”

  Bree said, “He knows?”

  Volkov’s attorney looked at her. “Who are you?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Ellis said. “Answer the question.”

  Andreyev nodded. “He knows who hired him to kill Duchaine and he knows who tried to hire him to do the Watkins murders.”

  The assistant DA studied him. “This better be solid.”

  “He’s betting his life on it.”

  Chapter