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“I thought you might like to talk,” he said.
Sampson said, “What are you doing here, Mr. Tull?”
“I’m assuming something happened.”
The three of us ducked under the tape and surrounded him.
“I’m Edward Mahoney, FBI special agent in charge,” Ned said quietly. “Walk with us, please, sir.”
“What’s going on?” the writer demanded.
I said softly, “We can get away from here and talk quietly, or we can put you in cuffs, make you look bad for television, and take you downtown to talk.”
“I bet you make a lot of men shiver with that kind of chitchat.”
I shrugged. “Your call, Thomas.”
The writer took off his sunglasses and studied me. “Let’s talk quietly.”
“Good,” Mahoney said. “We’ll go up the street. My car.”
We skirted the crowd and walked up the leafy road past the first satellite truck arriving on the scene, past our vehicle, and then past a midnight-blue Audi coupe.
“That’s your car, right?” Sampson said.
Tull brightened. “All six-hundred-and-seventy-five horsepower.”
“Rare car, I hear. An RS Seven.”
“Especially that one,” Tull said. “Audi built it for the car shows the year after they bought Lamborghini. The chassis, suspension, and engine block are all Audi, but every component after that is Lambo-made, from the transmission to the quad turbos. It’s a true hybrid. A one-of-a-kind beast. But you wouldn’t know it from the design. Sleek, but not outrageous. It’s like a James Bond car in that respect.”
When we reached Mahoney’s gray squad car, I opened the back door. “After you.”
Tull hesitated but got in. I shut the door, came around the other side, and climbed in beside him. Mahoney slid behind the wheel. Sampson took the passenger seat and swiveled around to look over his shoulder.
If the writer was nervous, he wasn’t showing it in the least.
“Mind if I record this conversation?” Tull asked. “For posterity?”
“An excellent idea,” Sampson said, getting out his phone. “We’ll do the same.”
Tull fumbled with his iPhone a moment, then nodded and said the date and time before continuing: “This is Thomas Tull with Edward Mahoney of the FBI, Detective John Sampson of Metro PD, and Dr. Alex Cross, a consultant to both agencies,” he said, looking at each of us in turn. “Now, before we get into particulars, this is a Family Man crime scene, right? Yes or no?”
For a moment, I thought Mahoney was going to blow a fuse. “We’re asking the questions, Mr. Tull.”
I said, “Where were you earlier this morning? Like two thirty to three a.m.?”
Tull cocked his head. “Uh—sleeping?”
“You’re unsure?” Sampson said.
“I’m something of an insomniac,” Tull said. “Sometimes it’s hard for me to tell if I’m sleeping or just kind of simmering there, hoping for unconsciousness. Why?”
“You can prove you were in bed?” Sampson asked.
“I … what’s this about?”
“You were here in Potomac or in Chevy Chase last night, weren’t you?” I asked.
