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“These are completely different,” she said. “But I believe that the various killings are ultimately the work of one person.”
I took in her body language, her tone of voice, and her confident posture and decided she did not seem crazy. “Who?”
Liu looked around at the police officers and detectives streaming by us, going to the elevators and the bullpen. “Isn’t there somewhere quieter so I can explain fully? This is sensitive. I believe the killer is someone in the public eye—a celebrity, you could say.”
Inwardly, I groaned. It sounded nuts. But I saw the same confidence, the same even gaze and authority in her voice.
“Follow me,” I said and led her back to our desks, introduced her to Sampson, and asked him to join us in a conference room.
When I closed the door, I said, “Suzanne thinks she knows the identity of the Family Man. She believes he’s a celebrity and that he has also murdered other people.”
I could see John struggling not to roll his eyes.
Liu seemed not to notice as she took a seat and put down her sleek silver briefcase. “It just makes too much sense when I think about it and I wanted you both to know.”
Sampson growled, “Time out. Who are you exactly, ma’am, and how did you find all this information?”
She seemed a bit taken aback by John’s rough demeanor but said, “I’m a book editor in New York. You can Google me. I was recently fired from my job at Alabaster Publishing for not keeping a superstar writer in the fold. He went free agent and found a better offer, and now I’m out of a job, which has given me lots of time to think about things.”
Sampson and I traded glances. He played bad cop better than I did.
He leaned across the table. “Suzanne, can you please get to the point and tell us who you believe the killer is?”
Liu looked at her lap a moment and swallowed. Her voice was shaky when she said, “I think the killer is my former superstar writer Thomas Tull.”
Our reaction was clear and the same.
“I knew you’d be shocked,” she said.
“Thomas Tull?” I said. “The guy who writes the crime books?”
“I’ve seen him a bunch of times on television,” Sampson said. “Always comes across as a straight shooter to me.”
“To me too,” Liu replied. “And we worked together for ten years. I was his editor. You heard about the size of the deal for his next book?”
“We’ve been kind of busy to keep up on things like that,” I said.
“Well, it hasn’t been formally announced, but I know for certain that the advance was huge, and the book is about this case—your case, the Family Man case. He’s doing research here in Washington, DC, now.”
“Tull is?”
“That’s what I’m telling you,” she said. “He was here in DC last night. He’s rented a town house in Georgetown. Don’t you see? He had the opportunity and the motive.”
Her voice had gotten higher, her delivery quicker, and her eyes just a little wilder.
“To kill the Elliotts?” Sampson asked, incredulous.
“Yes,” she snapped. “That’s what I’m telling you.”
“What’s the motive?” I asked.
The editor flipped open her briefcase and came out with three thick paperbacks, all by Thomas Tull:Electric, Noon inBerlin,andDoctor’s Orders. Liu tapped them with her fingernails. “Here’s your motive.”
“I’m not following you,” Sampson said.
“You’ve read them, of course.”
“Can’t say I have.”
