Page 31 of Alex Cross Must Die

As she passed Addilyn’s building, she tried to blot out the incident and focus on the task at hand, which was finding Zozi Turner and Eton Charles alive.

She had already scanned through the surveillance footage from the building garage and exterior for the day of the kidnapping. Time-stamped video from three days earlier showed Eton’s Lexus heading uptown as usual at 8 a.m. and returning at 6 p.m. Zozi left for school in her sporty Miata at 7:30 a.m. and returned at 4:30 p.m. the same day. Neither car had moved since.

The video showed the comings and goings of other residents and delivery people but nothing suspicious. Marple hadn’t spotted anybody surveilling the building, and according to Addilyn, nobody but the family and the dog had entered the apartment that day.

It was time for canvassing. It was a task most cops and detectives hated. So did Holmes and Poe. Canvassing was a low percentage game and a notorious time suck. Marple loved it. In fact, she got up early for it.

As she walked down Thompson Street, she had a gallery of new photos on her phone—a few of Eton Charles, swiped from Poe’s presentation, and a few of Zozi Turner, lifted from her Instagram page. A lot of those photos included Toby.

Her first stop was a small bodega, kitty-corner from the Charleses’ apartment building. The entrance was covered in thick strips of clear plastic and the interior smelled of ripe fruit and fresh coffee. An air conditioner dripped rusty water onto the tile floor in the corner. A few customers wandered through the narrow aisles. Two senior citizens huddled near the coffee machine. Marple headed straight for the front counter, where the owner was stocking cigarettes.

Marple had found the proprietor’s name in the city licensing records. She knew that Balam Ahn was fifty-five years old, widowed, with two grown children, and that she’d purchased the bodega from her uncle eighteen years ago, the year Zozi was born.

“Mrs. Ahn?” Marple asked as she stepped up to the counter. She knew better than to use the proprietor’s first name. To a native-born Korean, that would’ve been unforgivably rude, especially coming from somebody younger. Marple prided herself on her cultural etiquette. She considered it a dying art.

The tiny, black-haired woman placed the last pack of Salems into the slot behind the register and turned around. Her face was lined and friendly.

“You want coffee?” she asked.

“Do you have tea?” asked Marple. “Chamomile?”

Mrs. Ahn nodded.

“Lovely,” said Marple. “Thank you.”

The tea came with the tag hanging out of a lidded to-go cup.Marple put a five-dollar bill on the worn counter, and Mrs. Ahn handed her the change.

“Can I ask you a question?” said Marple.

The proprietor rested her arms on the counter.

Marple pulled out her phone and swiped to a picture of Eton Charles. “Does this man look familiar?”

Mrs. Ahn took the phone in her hands and studied the screen carefully.

“Sorry, no,” she said. She paused and held the phone out at a distance. “Wait. Maybe.” She handed the phone back. “You cop?”

“Family friend,” said Marple. She swiped to a picture of Zozi. “What about her?” Mrs. Ahn didn’t even have to look twice.

“Zozi!” she said cheerfully. Her smile exposed a missing incisor. “Every day she come here. Nice girl.”

It took only a few more exchanges for Marple to learn that Zozi had been a regular at the bodega since she was old enough to cross the street on her own. She liked Snickers, Ben & Jerry’s, Diet Coke, and, more recently, Red Bull. Never tried to scam cigarettes or beer. Never shoplifted. Mrs. Ahn had seen Zozi after school on the day before she disappeared. About 5 p.m. She was sure of it.

“Anybody with her?”

“Just the dog. Toby,” said Mrs. Ahn. “Always waits outside.” She pointed to a handwritten sign over the counter. It readNO PETS PLEASE!

“Do you have a security camera?” Marple asked. Maybe there’d been somebody else in the bodega, or somebody waiting on the sidewalk.

Mrs. Ahn pointed to her eyes and opened them wide. “No camera. Just these. And good memory.”

“What did Zozi buy when she was here last time?” asked Marple.

Mrs. Ahn gave it some thought. “Diet Coke. Fruit bars. And cold boxes.”

“Cold boxes?” asked Marple. “You mean juice boxes?”

Mrs. Ahn turned and pointed at a row of cheap vinyl coolers on a high shelf over the cigarette slots. “Cold boxes,” she said. “Like for picnic. Two of them.”

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