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“Sorry, doc’s here and I got to go,” Bree said. “Love you.”
“Love you too,” Alex said and hung up.
It wasn’t until after Bree’s arm had been stitched up and she’d been released with prescriptions for antibiotics and painkillers that she realized she still had no place to stay for the night. Shefigured she’d sit down with her phone somewhere and try to find something.
But when she reached the lobby, she found Phillip Henry Luster waiting.
“I was told they’d brought you here,” he said. “I’ve got a car, and a stiff drink and a warm bed await you at my house.”
“Thank you, Phillip. You’re a lifesaver.”
“From what I hear, it’s the other way around.”
CHAPTER 93
Alexandria, Virginia
AT THREE ON MONDAYafternoon, Sampson and I walked into the federal holding facility in Alexandria and met Lindy York, Thomas Tull’s defense attorney, who looked more sour than usual.
Seeing a copy of that morning’sWall Street Journalsticking out of her leather bag, I said, “Does Tull know yet?”
“No. He’s being held in isolation for his own safety. There was an attack on him last evening. Seems there are a lot of family men incarcerated here.”
After we’d gone through security, we went to a room set aside for attorneys to meet with clients. Twenty minutes later, led by two corrections officers, Tull shuffled in. The writer’s jaw was swollen. His right hand was in a cast.
York was horrified. She shouted at the guards, “This is outrageous! My client needs medical attention!”
“He’s had it,” one of the guards shot back, sitting Tull down. “All night.”
“I’m aw wight,” Tull said thickly. “Been through worse, and they got me on oxy.”
His attorney rolled her eyes. “Not exactly the way you want to be talking to law enforcement, Thomas.”
“No choice,” he said. “What’s happened? Why are you here?”
York and I exchanged glances. “After you, Counselor.”
The attorney gave me an unhappy nod and retrieved theWall Street Journalfrom her bag. She unfolded it and slid it across the table.
The writer looked at it, puzzled at first. Then his stare hardened on the headline.
PUBLISHER DROPS BESTSELLING AUTHOR INDICTED FOR MURDERS
“I’ll sue,” he growled when he looked up. “I want to talk to my agent. Now!”
“You’re not exactly in a position to be making demands,” Sampson said.
“They can’t do this! I’ve done nothing wrong!”
York said, “Your new publishers say they can, Thomas. There was a morality clause in the deal memo governing your next book. They’re exercising it, and they say you now owe them the four-million-dollar signing bonus they gave you.”
“Not a chance! I will sue. I didn’t do this! I am not the Family Man, Lindy!” he shouted. He winced and glanced at me. “Volkov. Find Volkov, Cross, and you’ll know I was framed.”
“We did find him,” I said. “Or NYPD did. He was one of three shooters who gunned down Frances Duchaine and hertwo bodyguards last night. Officers on the scene returned fire, killing two and wounding the third.”
“Volkov?” he said.
“Shot multiple times.”
