Page 28 of Alex Cross Must Die

“Any boyfriends?” asked Marple.

“Not that I can find,” said Poe. “He doesn’t even drink at office parties.”

“What about the overseas business?” asked Marple.

“He travels a lot,” said Poe, bringing up a world map with pinmarkers in Singapore, Hong Kong, Berlin, Amsterdam, and Cambodia. “This is just the last six months. Flies first class. Five-star hotels. Not unusual for him to be out of touch with the office for a day or two.”

“Any shady dealings?” asked Holmes. “Drugs? Payola?”

“You can’t work in the building trades without getting your hands dirty, especially in certain corners of the world,” said Poe. “For example …” He clicked to a grainy image of Eton Charles conferring with a group of grim-looking Asian men on an urban construction site. “These are the guys whose palms you need to grease for a building permit in Phnom Penh.”

“Let’s hope he didn’t cross them,” said Marple.

Poe turned to Holmes. “What did you find on the marriage?”

“Nothing leaps out,” said Holmes. He clicked his laptop and took over the large screen. It filled with an image of a fit-looking middle-aged couple in bathing suits. Eton and Addilyn. “They met on Sint Maarten over ten years ago. Addilyn was a widowed single mom with a six-year-old. They got married in Cancun.” The screen clicked to a picture of the happy couple, with Zozi as the adorable flower girl.

“Addilyn already had the apartment from her first marriage,” Holmes continued. “Eton sold his condo and moved in. His business kept growing. No money worries on either side. Zozi’s got her own trust fund.”

“I bet the dog does too,” said Poe.

The whole time they talked, all three of their iPhones were vibrating on the table, like a small electronic riot. By mutual agreement, they were letting all calls go to voice mail. It was the only way to get any work done.

Calls had been coming in nonstop since the launch party. Their secure email server had already crashed twice. Most of the messages were junk. But they hadn’t even had time to follow up on thepromising prospects. Not with a possible abduction on their plate and Huntley Bain to manage.

Poe looked down at the devices humming on the table. “I think we overdid the publicity,” he said. “We can’t handle the onslaught.” That week alone, he’d had to skip his regular session at the firing range. And for the first time in years, he hadn’t finished theNew York Timescrossword. There were times that he wished he were on his own again—working lean, mean, and under the radar.

“Maybe we need to hire someone to winnow the chaff,” said Holmes.

“My thoughts exactly,” said Poe. The main phone in the center of the table started ringing with its own chirpy tone. Poe grabbed the handset, rubbing his eyes with his other hand. He made a smooth switch to his telephone voice.

“Holmes, Marple, and Poe Investigations, Poe speaking …”

He tucked the handset under his chin and started jotting notes on a scrap of paper. He looked up. “It’s Helene,” he whispered. “Another case.” He pressed the Speaker button and caught Detective Grey mid-sentence.

“… human skeletons,” she was saying.“We’re still counting.”

CHAPTER 27

THE AIR INthe abandoned subway tunnel felt dank and stale, as if it hadn’t stirred in a century. The curved tile walls were glistening with moisture. Holmes had brought along his own high-filtration face mask to ward off the odors, but he could still detect a faint scent of human decay. It disgusted him—and excited him.

Poe and Marple used standard-issue police masks. A cop in a bright yellow safety vest pointed them toward where Grey was standing, silhouetted by the glare of powerful scene lights. When she spotted the investigators, she walked back toward them.

“Goddamn nightmare,” she said. “Edgar Allan Poe himself couldn’t make this up.”

Poe raised his eyebrows. “You mean my great-great-great grandfather?”

Grey’s eyes narrowed. “What?Seriously?”

Marple winked as she walked past. “Don’t listen to a word he says.”

“But is he telling the truth?” asked Grey.

“That’s the thing,” Marple replied. “You never know.”

Ten yards down the tunnel, a small crew of MTA workers anduniformed cops stood at the edge of a mound of dirt. An area the size of a studio apartment had been staked out and marked with yellow tape.

“Where are we exactly?” asked Marple. They’d driven about two miles west from Bushwick to the tunnel entrance, but once they were underground, it was hard to stay oriented.

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