Page 70 of Triple Cross
The parkway ahead of the sports cars was near empty. Both drivers took advantage of that, the 911 in the right lane and the RS 7 in the left, burying their accelerators. The cars became a blur.
“That’s it—they are going to kill people,” I said. “Put the bubble up.”
Sampson did as we entered the turn north of Montrose Park. He flipped on the siren and accelerated again.
“I don’t know if I can catch up,” Sampson said as I peered ahead, trying to pick out the rear lights of the Porsche and the Audi as we raced through the densest woods along the parkway.
We were going eighty when I caught sight of the split at the end of the road where Shoreham angles northwest and Beach Drive goes northeast. “That’s the Porsche going up Beach,” I said.
“Where’s Tull?” Sampson said, hitting the brakes before the split.
I caught a glimpse of taillights on Shoreham.
“Cathedral Avenue,” I said. “I think that’s him.”
Sampson took Shoreham and then Cathedral Avenue, a much narrower road that goes along the northwest side of Rock Creek Park. The road curves left entering the avenue, which features trees on the right and apartment buildings on the left.
When we came out of the curve, I expected to see taillights ahead. But there were none.
“Where the hell did he go?” Sampson demanded and slowed as we came up to Woodley Road, a left.
We both looked up Woodley and saw only a minivan pulling out of North Woodley Place, heading west toward Connecticut Avenue. Sampson turned off the siren and bubble and sped north on Cathedral Avenue to where it crossed Connecticut.
No Tull.
We backtracked. Sampson took us the length of Woodley Place and then up an alley between homes, apartment buildings, and small parking lots closer to Connecticut Avenue.
We shone police flashlights into every dark corner. Tull and his midnight-blue RS 7 were nowhere to be seen.
“We lost him,” Sampson said, exasperated. “A goddamn writer at the wheel and we lost him.”
CHAPTER 58
BREE LOOKED EXHAUSTED WHENshe finally came in the front door around eleven that evening. I’d been home less than twenty minutes and was still frustrated by our inability to stay with Tull.
We’d contacted our bosses and tried to have an APB put out on the writer, but since he hadn’t done anything other than race the nameless Porsche driver, we were told we were on shaky grounds as far as cause.
“Hey, baby,” I said, ditching my frustration and hugging her. “You look like you’ve been through a lot.”
Bree hugged me tighter. “I feel like I’m back from another universe.”
Between family and work, we’d had no time to talk and had communicated throughout the evening by text. I led her into the kitchen, where Nana Mama had left a pot of chicken stew warming for us. She and the kids had already gone to sleep.
I got Bree a bowl of stew and a cold beer.
“You’re an angel,” Bree said, sipping the beer and closing her eyes for a second.
“You want to tell me about your day?” I said after she’d taken a few spoonfuls and another swig of beer. “Your interrogation? Duchaine’s?”
Bree looked relieved to be asked and recounted in full her discussion with Detective Salazar and her partner and then the interrogation of Frances Duchaine.
“Wow,” I said. “I didn’t see that coming. Doyouthink Duchaine ordered the hits?”
“It’s almost all I’ve thought about since she stormed out of the interrogation room with her lawyer,” Bree said. “She claims she knew nothing about the sex trafficking, but how is that possible? I mean, I suppose she could have been willfully ignorant.”
I nodded. “Knew something was off but didn’t want to put her nose in there and find out what Watkins was really up to.”
“See no evil,” Bree said. “But I’m not buying it. Not totally. She had to have known the financial hole she was in. Right?”