Detectives Alex Cross and John Sampson are chasing a brilliant murderer called 'The Family Man' in the 30th instalment of the bestselling Alex Cross series.
ONE
SUZANNE LIU LIVED FOR days like this, days when her world seemed
like a great game and the sweet smell of opportunity and cash
hung in the air like lavender and sage.
In her late thirties, stylishly dressed, attractive, and very tall,
Liu arrived at work in Lower Manhattan two hours before her
crucial first appointment. She opened the door to a corner office
with dramatic views of the Hudson River, stepped inside, shut
the door, and paused a moment to take it all in.
On the inner wall to Liu’s left hung her diploma from Yale
and a photograph of herself playing Lady Macbeth in her first
and only year in the graduate program at that university’s fabled
drama school. She did not give them a glance.
Her attention was drawn instead to the wall to her immediate
right and three framed jackets of books by mega-bestselling
nonfiction writer Thomas Tull.
Liu took a step closer to the framed jacket of Tull’s most
recent work, Doctor’s Orders, which had been on the bestseller
list for sixty-three weeks and showed no sign of fading anytime
soon.
Liu studied Tull’s author photo, and despite herself, she
felt her breath and heart quicken. God, he was handsome and
photogenic. His charisma seemed to jump out at you.
In his early forties, with chiseled facial features and built
like a brick, Tull sported an unruly shock of sandy-brown hair.
He also had piercing gray-blue eyes and a smile so easy and
dazzling, it had played a big part in attracting female readers.
Tull’s natural good looks tended to disarm people, and Liu
could not afford to be disarmed.
Not today. Not with so much at stake. My entire career, really.
That last thought almost triggered a panic attack, so Liu went
quickly to her desk and put down her purse, her grande latte,
and the canvas bag she used to carry manuscripts. She sat and
forced herself to close her eyes and breathe deeply.
After fifteen minutes of meditating, Liu had calmed enough
to focus on her intention for how the day would go.
“I made Thomas Tull,” she muttered to herself. “He’s mine.
Tull is still mine. And no one is taking him from me.”
Liu said it five times before opening her eyes and smiling.
This was her day. She could feel it in her bones.
She took out a legal pad, and for the next hour, the editor in
chief of Alabaster Publishing sipped her latte and wrote out four
negotiating scenarios, every one of them involving a ridiculous
number. That was what it was going to take, wasn’t it? A ridiculous
number. Liu was sure of that. There was no way around a
ridiculous number, given Tull’s repeated monstrous successes.
And he’d made it clear he would entertain other offers.
How could he not?
At eight fifteen, Bill Hardaway, the founder and publisher of
Alabaster, knocked on her door and entered.
“Ready for battle?” Hardaway asked as he took a seat
opposite her.
“Always, Bill,” Liu said. “When have I not been a fighter?”
“Just don’t bankrupt us, Suzanne.”
Hardaway was in his early fifties and people tended to underestimate
him because he dressed like a stodgy college professor.
But while other publishing firms crashed and burned around
him, he had managed to build a thriving company. Hardaway
had a keen understanding of what books could touch a nerve
and reach blockbuster status, but he also ran a tight ship when
it came to expenses.
“What’s our top number?” she asked.
Hardaway shrugged. “I haven’t decided yet. But we can’t
afford to lose him.”
“We won’t, Bill,” she said. “I promise you that.”
TWO
BILL HARDAWAY STOOD UP. “I’m holding you to that promise, Suzanne.
Sorry I can’t be here for all the horse-trading. Cynthia’s got
tests and I need to be there.”
Hardaway’s third wife was carrying twins. She was in her second
trimester, and the pregnancy was considered high risk.
“Of course, Bill,” Liu said. “And don’t worry. I’ve got everything
under control. You just do what you need to do, and we’ll
celebrate with champagne when you get back.”
Hardaway left and she tried to return her focus to her legal
pad. Fifteen minutes later, Liu was interrupted by another
knock at the door.
Thomas Tull stuck his head in and threw a thousand-watt smile
at her. “How’s my favorite editor?” he asked in a teasing voice.
Feeling a little rattled, Liu got to her feet. “You’re forty
minutes early, Thomas.”
“Because I knew you’d be here already, and as you might
imagine, my day’s full as well,” Tull said. He came over to her,
took her hands, and blew a Euro-kiss past each cheek. “You look
stunning as always, Suzanne.”
Liu tried to ignore the little thrill that went through her and
said, “And you’re looking better than ever. How often do you
bleach those teeth?”
He grinned. “No need. Good genes.”
“Something to drink?” she asked as they both sat down.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Bill going to join us?”
“Cynthia’s going in for tests. He left me to deal with you.”
Tull laughed. “Okay, then. As soon as we finish here, I’ll e-mail
you a detailed proposal for the next book. But it’s about the Family
Man murders going on down in the Washington, DC, area.”
Liu had heard of them, of course. Who hadn’t? “You on the
inside?” she asked.
“I will be shortly,” he said. “I’ve already been down there
several times doing research. Every time I leave, I wonder why.
The story’s gotten hold of me, Suzanne, and you know what
that means.”
She did. Tull favored total immersion in his subjects. When
he got into that kind of all-encompassing state, he came up with
a remarkable story, the kind that few readers ever forgot.
“I do,” Liu said. “I’ve been with you all the way, haven’t I?”
“Not all the way,” he said.
“No one else would give you an offer on Electric, Thomas.”
He chuckled. “Look who benefited from one of the all-time lowball
advances.”
“We all benefited,” Liu said, shifting in her chair. “As I
remember, you bought a Tesla with the first royalties. The fact
remains that we stepped up. We made you.”
Tull’s good cheer faded. “I made me, Suzanne. You and Bill
helped. And I’m forever grateful. But your offer has to reflect
the market and the interest in my work. I’ll expect your best
offer for world rights by five.”
“World rights?” she said. “Best offer?”
“Glass shattered. A voice roared in pain from the office on the opposite corner of the building, near the elevators. Liu stopped and stared; she heard choking noises coming through the open door.”
“No negotiations; I want it to be clean,” he said, getting to his
feet. “I want a home and a partner and clear income for the next
few years. And I want it to be simple.”
“This is simple, and you’ve got a partner,” she said, feeling
anxious as she followed him to the door.
“We’ll see,” he said, blowing a kiss past each cheek again.
“May the best editor and publishing house win. And remember,
this isn’t personal. It’s business. I love you and Bill no
matter what.”
“Of course,” she said, putting on a brave smile. “Good luck.”
Tull grinned and walked off, looking at his phone. “I’m sending
you that proposal now. I’d read it soon if I were you,” he
called over his shoulder.
“Right away,” she said and hurried to her desk.
An hour later, Liu shook her head in admiration and a little
awe. How did Tull always manage to find the powerful angle?
How did he get so many people to speak to him? Even the
people with something to lose!
Her cell rang.
“Sorry I didn’t call earlier,” Hardaway said. “Cynthia’s been
admitted and the wing she’s in at Lenox Hill has zero service.”
“Admitted? I thought she was just getting some tests.”
“She was until she started bleeding.” The publisher sighed.
“Right there in the ob-gyn’s office. It’s touch and go.”
“Oh God,” Liu said. “I’m so sorry, Bill. I’m praying for her
and you.”
“I’ll take the prayers,” he said. “How was Tull?”
“Smug,” she said. “But he has a right to be. The proposal is
dynamite, blockbuster material as strong as the others. Maybe
stronger.”
“I wish we could clone him,” he said and then paused.
“Hold on.”
The editor waited, tapping her pencil, looking at her legal
pad and her negotiating strategies. They would have to be
adjusted in light of — ”
“Suzanne, I have to go,” Bill said. “It’s not good.”
“I’m sorry, Bill,” she said. “But I need some guidance here.
He wants — ”
“I trust you,” he said. “Make your best call and keep him in
the fold.”
He hung up.
THREE
AT SIX THAT EVENING, Liu kicked off her heels and began pacing
again.
She’d been doing it off and on since sending Tull Alabaster’s
formal offer, which she’d made without Hardaway’s final approval
because she hadn’t heard from the publisher since that
morning.
Even her texts had gone unanswered.
It’s a good offer, the editor thought, ignoring the beautiful sunset
over the Hudson. No, it’s a great offer for world rights. And we
made him. I made him. Rescued him when there were no other offers. He’ll
take that into account, won’t he?
An hour passed. It was dark. She could hear other employees
calling it a day and leaving.
Liu looked at Tull’s framed book covers once again: Electric,
Noon in Berlin, Doctor’s Orders.
Every one of them had sold millions of copies, even Electric,
which he’d written while an older undergraduate student at
Harvard after a stint as a military police investigator with the
Marines and NCIS.
“I was the only one who saw your talent back then,” Liu
whispered to Tull’s most recent author photo. “You owe me,
Thomas. You owe me big-time. And it’s a great offer. No one
will be more generous than me. You know that. I’ve given you
everything, haven’t I? You know I — ”
Her cell phone buzzed. She walked over, saw a message
from Tull.
“You’re mine, Thomas,” she said, opening the text.
Liu’s stomach began to drop even before he’d stated it plainly.
“No,” she whispered. “That’s not right.”
Anger surged up through her and she punched in Tull’s
number. The call went straight to voice mail. “Call me,” she said.
“You’ve got to allow me some time to counter. I can’t — ”
The line went dead. The editor stared at her phone, her anger
turning to the kind of rage only a scorned woman knows.
“No, no, no,” she said, punching in the number again. The
line disconnected after one ring.
Liu grabbed her coat and shoes. “This is not happening! You
are not ghosting me, Thomas Tull! You owe me!”
The editor charged out her door and down the hall, muttering,
“He’s at the Ritz. Thomas always stays at the Ritz. He’ll be
at the bar and — ”
Glass shattered. A voice roared in pain from the office on the
opposite corner of the building, near the elevators.
Liu stopped and stared; she heard choking noises coming
through the open door. She hurried over and saw Hardaway
sitting at his desk, hunched over and sobbing.
“Bill?” she said, the bad feeling in the pit of her stomach
growing. “What’s happened?”
The publisher looked up at her, ruin in his face and rheumy
eyes. “They’re gone,” he said hoarsely. “Both stillborn.”
“No,” she moaned, stepping into his office. “You must be
crushed. Cynthia?”
“In shock,” he said. “We’re both in shock. It was our last
chance to have kids and . . . she’s sedated. I want to be.”
Liu swallowed. “Bill, I know this isn’t the time to talk about
the offer I made.”
Hardaway stared at her blankly. “How much?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Liu said. “He didn’t take it.”
He blinked. “Tell me that’s not true.”
“He took a higher offer. One book. Eleven point two million
for world rights.”
“Eleven point two?” the publisher said, sounding stunned.
“Well, that’s . . . why didn’t you offer twelve?”
“Twelve million?” she said angrily. “We’d have to sell almost
a million and a half copies in hardcover to make that — ”
“So what?” Hardaway snapped, red-faced. He got to his feet.
“You should have counteroffered it.”
“There were no counteroffers heard, Bill,” she said. “His
terms. Make the best offer by five, that’s it, winner takes all. I
tried to tell you that this morning and — ”
“What was your best offer?”
“Ten.”
“Ten?” he shouted and then shot her a disgusted look.
“Were you trying to insult him? Drive him out? The man
who made your career and this house? The man you still
have — ”
“No, I don’t,” Liu shouted back, cutting him off. “And we
made him, Bill. Not the other way around. I thought ten million
was insanely generous. I thought — ”
“You thought wrong,” Hardaway roared. “You lost the golden
goose on the worst day of my life, Suzanne! For that, you’re
fired!”
“Fired?” she said, shocked into a whisper. “Bill, you can’t — ”
“I just did,” he said coldly. “Get your things and clear out. I
need new blood in here before everything around me dies.”
Extracted from Triple Cross by James Patterson, out now.
