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I was about to ask that when Bree said something, but her voice faded in and out like it was coming in over a shortwave. “Say that again, Bree.”
But the reception was even worse.
“One of us is having phone issues. I’ll see you at Union Station at seven thirty.”
“Love you” was all I understood before she broke the connection.
I pocketed my phone and looked up to see Mahoney and Sampson waiting. “Anything yet?” I asked.
Ned said, “Agents went into Haps Premium ten—”
His phone buzzed with a text; he looked at it, then nodded at us. “Cold/cold.”
We were soon in one of the rooms the detention facility set aside for law enforcement and attorneys to meet with prisoners.
Tull came strolling in wearing irons and a smirk on his face, which was less swollen but still black-and-blue.
“I saw on the news they were arrested,” he said, his words sounding clearer than the last time we’d spoken. “I told you they were framing me, and you’re finally coming to your senses, Dr. Cross. Finally seeing the light.”
He said it all with such satisfaction that I let him revel in it for several moments.
“I’ve always been a little slow on the uptake,” I said eventually. “I’m curious. Is that how you’ll write it? That Moore and Liu framed you to hide their roles in the murders?”
“Their roles?” he said with condescension. “Lisa’s a stone-cold killer. And Suzanne would stab her own mother in the back if it suited her purposes.”
“Moore admits she called up Google Earth on your computer and pinned the position of the Allisons’ house and the Kanes’.”
“Did she? What about the murder weapon?”
“What about it?”
“I read that they found Lisa’s fingerprints on it.”
“Partials.”
Tull laughed scornfully. “Some serial killer. Doesn’t even know to wipe her weapon down before she plants it in my storage unit.”
We said nothing.
His smug smile returned. “When am I getting out? I’ve got a book to write.”
I leaned forward, said, “I’m thinking you’ll have plenty of time to write that book.”
The writer blinked and retreated slightly. Good. I wanted him off balance.
Then the smile returned. He tilted his head. “When can I get out?”
“Just a couple of loose ends to take care of and you’re free as a bird, Thomas.”
“Let’s knot them up, then.”
I sat back. “There’s another explanation for why your hair was at the Kanes’ crime scene. Something other than that Lisa Moore planted the hair before she went on a killing spree in order to frame you and send you to prison.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“You planted it,” Sampson said. “You planted your own hair.”
CHAPTER 104
