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“An outside shot on the family killings. I don’t think there’s much there, but I feel obligated to try. Also, I need to report a pass a woman made at me.”
Bree’s right eyebrow rose. “A pass?”
“Hug and attempted smooch on her part. It came out of nowhere with zero provocation from me.”
She watched me closely. “Who was this woman?”
“Suzanne Liu,” I said. “She used to be Thomas Tull’s book editor. She called me this morning to say Tull had beenthreatening her. She claims there is more to the author than meets the eye.”
“Did he threaten her?”
I nodded.
“And what happened then?”
Bree has always been a thorough investigator, so I expected no mercy until she was done with her questions.
“We were supposed to meet for breakfast in a restaurant at the Watergate Hotel,” I said. “But when I got there, she said she was terrified of Tull and wanted me to meet her in her suite for breakfast on the balcony. I said okay.”
Giving me a look, Bree said, “Well, that was dumb.”
I held up my palms. “In the extreme.”
“And what preceded the hug and attempted smooch?”
“She was amped up, said she was spending too much time in her head and was afraid no one would believe her about Tull. After hearing a recording of the threats, I said I believed her. The pass ensued, and I shut her down hard, said I was deeply in love with my wife.”
“Good response,” Bree said, getting up.
“Thank you. She apologized. End of story.”
“End of story,” she said, smiling as she crossed the room to me.
“Do you have plans for dinner?”
“Reservations at Gramercy Tavern at seven thirty,” she said, sitting on my lap.
“Nice,” I said, kissing her. “And in the meantime?”
“Well, I was wondering about that special delivery you promised at the door.”
CHAPTER 36
AS I WALKED THROUGHBoston’s South Station around eleven o’clock the next morning, the pleasant aftereffects of an incredible dinner and a special delivery were still lingering in my mind and making me smile.
Outside, a raw, dank, late-April wind cut through my sport coat and open rain jacket. Shivering, I zipped it up and then ordered an Uber to take me to Cambridge and the Harvard Book Store.
“You work there or something? Harvard?” asked Vic Daloia, the driver, a nice guy in his forties with a thick Boston accent. He had an all-news station playing softly on his radio.
“Just visiting the area,” I said. “You remember the electrocution killings in Boston years ago?”
Daloia sat up straighter. “Sure, I followed that one. And Iread that book about it,Electric. Great book. I’m a true-crime buff and he nailed it.”
“Thomas Tull.”
“That’s him. Stickler for details. I like that.”
“I do too,” I said. “I work with the FBI.”
