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“I’m not,” Tull said. “I was nowhere near Virginia last night.”
Mahoney stood. “Why don’t we give you a few minutes, Counselor, to consult with your client and get your stories straight?”
Mahoney gestured to Sampson and me. We followed him out the door, where Deputy Marshal Cox was standing, holding a sheaf of paper.
“Quantico did not want to e-mail you the results,” Cox said. “Your office rerouted it to our secure fax.”
Mahoney took the papers and scanned them. “The lab finished a preliminary mitochondrial analysis yesterday on those hairs found at the Kane murder scene—not a full DNA workup, but enough for them to feed the results into IAFIS. They got a dead-on hit this morning from U.S. military files.”
He showed me and Sampson the results page.
I was, frankly, astonished.
CHAPTER 78
WHEN WE REENTERED THEinterrogation room, we had an entirely different perspective on the Family Man murders.
Lindy York, Tull’s defense attorney, was drumming her manicured nails on the tabletop, slight disgust twisting her lips. Tull looked a bit less dazed. “My client wishes to tell you where he was last night,” York said curtly.
Tull arched his eyebrows and shrugged. “I’m not proud of it, but I’m not going to prison for something I did not do.”
“Out with it,” Mahoney said impatiently.
He cleared his throat. “I was at a small get-together at a condo in Silver Spring.”
“Address? Owner’s name?”
The writer gave us the address but said he had no idea who owned the property. “For all I know, it was an Airbnb place orVRBO,” he said. “Anyway, I have a weakness for three things in life: good wine, good women, and good cocaine. I don’t indulge often, but I binge once or twice a year, which is what I was doing last night. I rarely get in a car for at least a day afterward, but I got it in my head that I wanted to sleep in my own bed, and the ladies could not stop me.”
Sampson said, “Names of the ladies and the other people at the party?”
“Lola, Heart, and Bambi. No one else.”
His attorney’s nostrils flared as she stared at the table.
I said, “No last names?”
“They weren’t offering any,” Tull said.
“How was this party organized? Who put it together?”
The writer studied me with a smile. “Exactly the question I would ask if I were you. I called someone I know in Queens, a Russian expat, who arranged for the condo, the women, the cocaine, and the wine.”
“Name?”
A slight ripple of what I took to be fear flickered over his face. He said, “He will not like this.”
Mahoney said, “I expect not, but you’re going to need an alibi that’s a hell of a lot better than three one-name hookers and a nameless Russian expat in Queens.”
When the writer hesitated, his attorney said, “Tell him or we proceed to arraignment and the destruction of your good name.”
Tull looked at the ceiling and said, “Dusan. Dusan Volkov.”
Sampson said, “Phone number for Mr. Volkov?”
“It doesn’t work like that,” Tull said. “You have to go through security checks, and Volkov calls you. If he feels like it. Sometimes it takes a few days.”
Mahoney cleared his throat, said, “I’m tired of this road to nowhere because we know this story’s not true.”
