Page 26 of Alex Cross Must Die

“May Anurak,” said Holmes.

Bain’s face went blank. “Who?”

“That’s her birth name,” said Holmes.

Bain looked perplexed.

“Marianne,” said Poe. “Your girlfriend.”

“Born in Bangkok,” said Holmes. “Nineteen years ago.”

“She’s in esthetician school,” said Bain. “I pay her tuition.”

“She’s also a professional escort,” said Poe.

Bain shook his head and let out a loud huff—part exasperation, part grudging admiration. “Okay,” he said, “so what? What do I care what her real name is? With her skills, she can call herself Little Miss Muffet for all I care. How the hell do you know this stuff?”

“You’re paying us a lot of money, Mr. Bain,” said Holmes. “You should expect us to be thorough.”

“We’re thinking maybe the young lady was a decoy,” said Poe.

Holmes leaned in. “Or an accomplice.”

Bain exploded. “That’s it!Out!Widen your goddamn search! Widen it beyond my fucking bedroom!”

Bain stood up and practically shoved the investigators into the elevator. As the door slid closed, Poe turned to Holmes. “He’s riled.”

“Good,” Holmes said with a smile. “The game, as they say, is afoot.”

CHAPTER 25

“DO Y’ALL EVERget used to that noise?”

A few blocks south, on Madison Avenue, a lanky young woman sat at the edge of her chair in a small reception area. She was nervous, just trying to make conversation. But it was an honest question. Even ten stories up, she could hear the clash of car horns, air brakes, and siren squawks from the street.

“You filter it out after a while,” said the stylish assistant behind the desk. She eyed the young woman from head to toe. “New to New York?” she asked. As if it weren’t obvious.

“Second day,” said the visitor. She was a little nervous, but she told herself she didn’t need to be. Back home in Texas, she’d been thrown off broncos and chased by bulls. How hard could a modeling interview be?

The young woman tugged her blue cotton dress over her knees, covering a small whitish barbed-wire scar. She was way more comfortable in Wranglers, but the short skirt showed off her legs—and her legs, she had been told more than once, were money. Her sun-streaked hair hung loose, brushing the tops of her shoulders. For footwear, she had chosen her favorite black boots, theones with the red leather inlays on the side—in the shape of Texas. They’d always brought her good luck.

There was a soft buzz on the phone console. The receptionist looked over. “She’s ready for you.”

The young woman straightened up to her full five-foot-ten-inch height and smoothed her dress over her narrow hips. She took a deep breath and walked past reception and down a short hallway.Game on.

The woman waiting for her in the sunny office looked instantly familiar. Her magazine covers hung in a row along one wall; her face had hardly changed at all since her first swimsuit issue twenty years ago.

“Hello, there,” she said. “I’m Betsy Bronte.”

“I know,” the visitor replied, trying her best not to stare. She held out her hand.

“I’m Lucy. Lucy Ferry.”

Betsy leaned over her sleek glass desk for a quick handshake and then came around to the other side. She moved with a model’s ease, and her trademark curls were still full and wild. She gestured toward two elegant leather chairs facing each other at the other end of the room. “Over here, honey,” she said. Lucy walked to the chair on the right and turned to sit.

“Not yet,” said Betsy. “Look this way.”

Lucy straightened up again. She looked at Betsy, who was standing about four feet away with her hand on her chin. Betsy wiggled her index finger in the air. “Turn, please.”

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