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The writer looked at me dumbly. “Maybe. Technically.”
Sampson spun a bluff. “Notmaybeortechnically. We’ve got you on CCTV footage in that rare beast of a car you have there, racing a black Porsche Turbo Carrera up the Rock Creek Parkway at more than one hundred miles an hour.”
Tull gazed at Mahoney. “And for that I get FBI attention?”
“You admit you were traveling in excess of one hundred heading toward Chevy Chase at roughly nine last evening?” Ned demanded.
He didn’t seem to know how to reply. He sighed. “I read this interesting piece online about the culture of people in the DC area who have high-performance cars and do time trials up Rock Creek in the middle of the night. I found out on my own that there are also eager takers for a more adventurous kind of urban racing.”
“You’ve done it before?” I asked.
“A few times, yes. Look, I know it’s against the law, but it’s just a way I blow off steam now and then.”
Mahoney said, “You will kill someone.”
“Or maybe you did,” I said. “Last night. In the Kanes’ house.”
The writer went from surprised to stone-faced in two seconds. “That is nonsense. I have never been anywhere near this address in my entire life.”
“And I suppose you can prove that?” Sampson said.
Tull thought about that. “That I have never been near here in my entire life? No. But last night? Absolutely. One hundred percent, I can prove I was nowhere near here between two thirty and three a.m.”
CHAPTER 62
Cleveland, Ohio
BREE LANDED BEFORE TENFriday morning. She’d spent the flight working on her laptop, researching the people who had hired her and the Bluestone Group to investigate Frances Duchaine.
Gerald Rainy, managing partner of the venerable firm of Grady and Rainy, was in his early sixties. According to an article in a Cleveland business journal, the attorney spent every lunch hour at a gym near his office. Bree got a rental car and used her phone to search for gyms around the law firm’s downtown address; she found a high-end one within two blocks. She drove to the nearest parking lot, got out, and was on the sidewalk outside the gym when Rainy exited in a pale gray suit, crisp light pink shirt, no tie.
She recognized him from his pictures online: tall, lean, silver-haired, tanned, and with a patrician air about his handsome features.
The attorney gave her an appreciative glance and a nod as he passed, then stiffened and cocked his head when she called after him, “Mr. Rainy?”
The attorney pivoted and glared at her. “You’re not serving me, are you?”
“No, sir. Do I look like a server?”
“One I used to know. In a way. You kind of stand like her. Who are you?”
“My name is Bree Stone,” she said. “I work for—”
Several men in business suits left the gym. Rainy took a few steps toward her, glanced at them, smiling, and hissed to her softly after they’d moved on, “I know who you work for, Ms. Stone. What are you doing here?”
“Tying up loose ends,” Bree said.
He gazed at her a moment, the barest of practiced smiles on his lips. “I told Elena that, given the terrible events in New York, we considered the private investigation complete. Let the police take it from here.”
“You know I used to be police,” Bree said.
“But you are no longer. You are a gun for hire. I hired you. You did your job. Events overtook things, resolved them. Now your job is done.”
“Iseverything resolved? Frances Duchaine is still alive.”
“So she is,” Rainy said.
“She claims she knew nothing about the sex trafficking.”
