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She hung up and phoned the NYPD detective for the second time that day.
“You don’t quit, Chief,” the detective said. “I—”
“Not that, Rosella,” Bree said. “I’m calling at my husband’s request.”
After a pause, she said, “Dr. Cross?”
“Yes. He wants to know if you know a Russian mobster named Dusan Volkov.”
“Volkov? I haven’t heard that name in quite a while. But yes, I know of him. They call him Wolf because of his last name in Russian and because he’s secretive, reclusive, operates deep behind the scenes.”
“Do you know how Alex can get in touch with him?”
“Volkov?” she said doubtfully. “I don’t know. I’d have to do some reaching out, and even then …”
“All they’re looking for is corroboration of an alibi,” Bree said, and she explained.
“Tull and Volkov, huh?” Salazar said. “Strange bedfellows, Chief. I’ll make a few calls and see what I can—”
Bree heard a slight gasp.
“Gotta go, see you tomorrow.” The detective groaned. “Big kick. Big, big kick.”
CHAPTER 80
AROUND THREE THAT AFTERNOONand finally armed with warrants, Sampson, Mahoney, and I donned blue booties, hairnets, and latex gloves while an FBI criminalist picked the lock to Thomas Tull’s Georgetown rental.
The green door swung open. After the criminalist photographed the narrow front hallway, Mahoney led us inside.
The writer had done little to make the lower floor of the luxury town house his own. The furniture in the living area was all steel and black leather. There were no televisions and no pictures whatsoever.
The kitchen had top-of-the-line major appliances but was otherwise sparsely outfitted: a cheap toaster, a cheap coffeemaker, basic cooking utensils, plates, pots, and pans.
“Looks like someone bought it in one swoop at Walmart,” Sampson said.
The fridge was empty save for a can of coffee, a carton of half-and-half, and leftover takeout Chinese food.
“Place is spotless,” Mahoney said.
“I wonder how much time he spends here,” Sampson said.
“You think he has another place in town?”
“There could be another local one, right? I mean, he’s loaded. Big bestselling author.”
“If he has somewhere local, we’ll find it,” I said, climbing the stairs to the second floor.
A door on the right revealed the master suite. The king-size bed was made military taut. Tull’s clothes were crisply folded in an armoire, his shoes set in tight order below. Books were stacked on both sides of the bed.
Sampson and Mahoney went through a locker in one corner. I went through the bathroom and into the second bedroom, which was the writer’s office.
It wasn’t what I’d anticipated. Or was it?
I guess I’d expected a rat’s nest, a disorganized mess that only Tull could make sense of. Or maybe an elaborate setup with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a heavy old writing desk.
Instead, the office was spartan, ordered, and efficient, a former Marine’s place of work: a ladderback chair with a cushion, a long folding table, an iMac, a MacBook Pro laptop, a smaller folding table supporting a printer, and two three-drawer filing cabinets. All of it faced the far long wall of the room, which had been transformed into a visual case control, with sections of each set of victims in the Family Man’s killing spree.
The murders were arranged in order of occurrence from left to right. The Hodgeses, the Landaus, the Carpenters, the Elliotts, and the Kanes.
