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I exited the airport and got in a short line for a cab. “I kind of agree with her.”
“Right?”
“Okay, whathasSalazar told you?”
She said the detective told her there were indeed eleven dead, including the two bodyguards who had escorted Bree out of Duchaine’s mansion, a man named Victor Roby, and a woman named Katherine Wise. Roby and Wise were believed to have been the main recruiters for the sex ring.
Salazar said the shooters appeared to have slipped into and out of the house through an old coal chute in the basement that was supposed to have been welded shut. The killers mingled with the guests, started shooting with night-vision monoculars once the lights died, and left quickly.
“How many wounded?”
“None.”
“No wounded?” I said in surprise. “Hold on a sec.” I climbed into a cab and gave the driver our home address. As we pulled away, I said, “So, eleven specific targets?”
“That’s how we read it. Whoever the shooters were, they were disciplined assassins.”
“Assassins with a tight, targeted agenda. What about Duchaine?”
“Evidently in shock but safe and under Greenwich Police protection. Why?”
“The intimate knowledge of the party. The layout of Watkins’s home. The coal chute. The specific targets. The whole thing reeks of an inside job.”
“It does, doesn’t it,” Bree said thoughtfully. “And there’s no one more inside this stinking mess than Frances Duchaine herself.”
“That’s what it sounds like to me,” I said and yawned. “Why don’t you get some sleep and we’ll talk in the morning?”
“First thing. I want my head on straight when I go in to make a statement.”
“You always have your head on straight.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too, and I’m happy you’re safe.”
“Me too. Sleep well.”
I ended the call as the cab was crossing the Fourteenth Street Bridge. I returned to my queue of unread texts. I was going to look at the others from Bree but then saw an area code and a phone number I did not recognize, and I thumbed the message open.
Dear Dr. Cross,
My name is Thomas Tull. As you may know, I am a bestselling true-crime writer. I have a contract to pen a book about the Family Man killings ongoing in the DC area and would very much like to talk to you about them. Also, I think some of the things you’re being told about me and the way I work are completely off base. At the very least, I’d like the opportunity to set the record straight. Please call me at your earliest convenience.
All my best,
Thomas
CHAPTER 52
Manhattan
AT TEN THIRTY THEfollowing morning, a Thursday, Bree followed a criminal defense attorney named Natalie Reed into an interrogation room in a midtown precinct.
Rosella Salazar and her partner, Simon Thompson, were waiting inside with their backs to the one-way mirror, behind which, no doubt, several of their superiors were watching. The killings had made national news and Bree knew from personal experience how much of a pressure cooker cases like these became.
“Chief Stone, Ms. Reed,” Salazar said, gesturing to the chairs. “Please.”
Reed took a seat, saying, “Is this a formal interrogation?”
