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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.”
“Highly. I feel like we should be turning around and going back to Alexandria, but Willow’s ballet debut is in two hours.”
“You’re going to that recital,” I said. “We’ll look at Moore’s proposal tonight and then see what Tull thinks of it in the morning.”
“Sounds like a plan,” John said, looking relieved.
“Willow has to come first,” I said. “Always.”
“Glad to be reminded, Alex.”
Sampson’s phone rang. He answered, listened, frowned, said, “Black Porsche? And he says we’ve met? I’ve never heard of the guy. Can you send over a photo of his driver’s license? Thanks.”
He hung up as we left the bridge and headed toward my house. “Some guy got arrested last night speeding in a black Porsche on the Rock Creek Parkway. He’s got four outstanding warrants in Texas.”
“Same guy who raced Tull?”
“Dunno, but he says he knows things we should know about Tull.”
We were almost to my home on Fifth when Sampson’s phone buzzed with a text.
He opened it, used two fingers to magnify the screen, stared, and, after a moment, said, “Son of a bitch.”
I glanced over at a Texas driver’s license with a grainy picture of a bald guy in his forties. “James Kenilworth? Who’s that?”
CHAPTER 96
AFTER CALLING ADDIE WELLSand asking the editor to forward the book proposal to both her and Alex, Bree tried to convince herself it was time to head to the train station and home. But she’d had only a few hours of sleep the night before and events had been moving so fast, she was suddenly and overwhelmingly tired.
She lay down on her bed in Luster’s guest room, told herself she’d nap for an hour and then regroup.
When her phone began to ring, Bree felt dragged from an almost drugged state, sure that she’d been asleep less than fifteen minutes. When she picked up the phone, however, she saw two full hours had passed.
“Hello?” she said, aware of how groggy she sounded.
“Chief Stone? This is Simon Thompson.”
“Oh, hi, Detective,” she said. “How are you?”
