Page 12 of Alex Cross Must Die

The questions started coming like fireballs, fast and overlapping. “Who are you?” “Are you from New York?” “How did you crack it?”

Poe spoke first, as cameras zoomed in on his somber visage. “Our firm is Holmes, Marple, and Poe Investigations.”

The room was buzzing. There were a few titters, and then more questions, as eager reporters tried to out-shout one another.

“Holmes, Marple, and Poe? Are those your real names?”

Marple leaned forward. “Why would you doubt it?”

“Are you mystery-novel fans?”

“Rabid,” said Poe.

“What did you figure out that the police couldn’t?”

“It’s our business to know what other people don’t know,” said Holmes.

“We simply followed the clues,” added Poe. “Sadly, they led to Sloane Stone’s body.”

Boolin, red-faced, shouted into the podium mic. “Thank you! That’s all we have for you right now!”

A squad of uniformed cops surrounded Holmes, Marple, and Poe, as if protecting them from the press. Then, at Boolin’s nod, they quickly hustled them behind the curtain. The commissioner walked over, clearly furious.

“What were youdoingout there,” he growled, “running for office?”

“Why?” Marple asked with a smile. “Is there an opening?”

Poe exchanged glances with Holmes. Their plan had worked. The crime was solved. And they were now the most famous private investigators in New York.

But they’d clearly made one very powerful enemy.

CHAPTER 13

BY NINE THATevening, the headquarters of Holmes, Marple & Poe Investigations glimmered with light and excitement. Marple had initially had reservations about following through with their company launch party just one day after solving a murder, but Holmes and Poe had insisted. And she had to admit that the timing was fortunate.

Just as they’d hoped, the press conference that morning had raised their profile dramatically, and curiosity had enriched the guest list. Anybody who mattered in New York was there. Reporters. Political operatives. And the cream of Brooklyn hipsterdom. The cheerful buzz had temporarily muted Marple’s sadness about Sloane Stone. Not that she was ready to get over it. Victims stayed with her for a long time. Especially when the victim was a young woman.

Marple was hearing a lot of compliments about the renovation of the old bakery and the unique use of space. In addition to the open offices, conference area, and chef’s kitchen on the ground floor, the partners had put in a lab and a small but fully equipped gym. The light-filled atrium space was ringed by interior balconies, leading to a private library and elegant personal apartments on the secondlevel for each of the three partners. Of course, the living quarters were off-limits to guests, which only added to the intrigue.

For the evening’s event, the lower level was illuminated by tiny lights wound through small potted trees in heavy steel bins. Out of respect for her partner’s freakish olfactory receptors, Marple had ordered scentless floral arrangements. Colorful combinations of sunflowers, dahlias, and hibiscus decorated every corner and tabletop. Marple was definitely more comfortable with flowers than she was with crowds. On the other hand, parties were wonderful opportunities for people watching, which she considered her specialty.

Office furniture had been moved into a back room for the occasion. Servers in black vests circulated through the open space with trays of blue cheese focaccia, salmon rillettes, and carrot harissa hummus. Music and lively conversation echoed off the brick walls. Some of the guests were a bit starstruck, not only by their hosts but also by their fellow attendees. Holmes, Marple, and Poe were not the only celebrities in the house.

“Is that …?” a guest asked Marple, pointing across the room.

“It is,” she replied.

While building their business over the past year, the firm had done some discreet snooping for some very prominent people. And tonight, some of those clients had come to repay the favor—which is why guests spotted Alicia Keys at the piano and Adrien Brody behind the bar.

Marple saw Holmes holding court on a sofa in the common area. Surrounding him was a crowd of young reporters, including an attentive Shelbi Scott. Marple hoped that Holmes wasn’t giving away any inside information on their cases. Knowing her partner, she realized that he was more likely to be sending them all down a rabbit hole. When she looked over, he gave her a conspiratorial wink.

Poe was on the other side of the room with his companion for the evening, a lithe, dark-haired young woman in a daringly cut dress.Her name was Dana. Junior associate at Sullivan and Cromwell. They made a stunning couple, and Marple was happy to see Poe distracted, even if it was just a temporary thing. She knew he was still aching over the loss of his late love, Annie—even after ten years. Marple looked at Dana again. The likeness was remarkable.

“Do you always keep your back to the wall, Ms. Marple?”

It was Detective Lieutenant Helene Grey. Hair down. Sleeveless dress. Vodka in hand.

“Don’t mind me,” said Marple. “I’m just the little old lady in the corner with a book. No life at all.”

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