Page 35 of Alex Cross Must Die

“But you know who was behind it,” said Holmes.

Blythe offered a small, appreciative smile. “I have a pretty good idea. But he’s dead. Murdered by associates. Died for his art, you might say.”

“Unfortunate,” said Holmes. “I would love to have consulted with him.”

Blythe closed the binder. “His death wasn’t the end of it. The man in question had a relationship with a married Boston art curator. Ten years before the Gardner job, they had a son. The relationship was a well-kept secret, but the son is very much alive, and active in the family trade.”

Blythe pulled a folder from the table and opened it. Inside was a surveillance photo of an elegant-looking man leaning against a wall near a European street. A stamp on the margin of the photo read “Amsterdam / 10.4.2019.” The man was slim, handsome, early forties. He wore a stylish, tightly fitted shirt, collar open.

“This is Luka Franke,” said Blythe. “Or so he calls himself at the moment. Don’t bother looking for a criminal record, because he doesn’t have one. Never been caught. For a theft that was impossible to pull off, he could be the man you’re after.”

Holmes picked up the photo and studied it carefully, staring into the eyes of the stranger in the image. He felt a twinge of excitement. And maybe a touch of kinship. He was always intrigued by people who worked in the margins.

CHAPTER 34

THE NEXT MORNING, Auguste Poe paid a completely unauthorized visit to the New York City morgue, with Helene Grey as his accomplice.

“Five minutes,” said Detective Grey. “And do not touchanything—or I swear I’ll putyouon one of those slabs.”

Fortunately for Poe, Grey knew the medical examiner on duty. And right now, according to Grey, the ME was on the fourth floor in a weekly status meeting.

The detective, of course, had a free pass to look at dead bodies, but visitors were not welcome, unless they were there to ID a decedent. Poe understood that he was trespassing on city property. For him, that only heightened the experience. He’d always felt most alive in places where he didn’t belong.

Grey led the way through the tiled entry corridor to a large room filled with stainless-steel tables, where the subway skeletons lay like partially reassembled puzzles. And Poe loved puzzles—the harder, the better.

He leaned over to peek at the edges of one of the large bones. “Holmes was right about the saw marks.”

Grey nodded. “Every single one, butchered the same way. Transverse cuts midway along the humerus and femur. Same with the smaller leg and arm bones.”

“Some hand cut, some by a power blade …” said Poe, almost to himself.

He moved to another table, looking closely at one of the skulls and its accompanying jawbone. He fought the urge to pick up the specimens and turn them over in his hands.

“The teeth were removed first,” he said. “Then the flesh and hair were stripped off with some kind of acid,” he said. “Probably hydrochloric or nitric. Soon after death.”

“Okay,” said Grey. “So why not just dissolve the bones too?”

“That would take a stronger acid, like sulfuric,” said Poe. “The stench would be tremendous. You’d need an isolated spot or a hermetically sealed lab. It would takeweeksto do a thorough job. Whoever did this was just being efficient. Pull the teeth. Cut up the corpse. Get rid of the soft bits. Bury the bones.”

“What the hell are you doing in here?” said a short Black woman with a commanding presence and a booming voice with a marked Mississippi accent. Poe glanced at Grey. It was Medical Examiner Verna Crown. The status meeting had apparently ended early.

Crown was dressed in black slacks and a bright pink blouse. A city ID tag dangled from her belt.

She pointed at Poe. “Who’s he?”

“Sorry, Verna,” said Grey. “He’s with me.”

Poe extended his hand. “Auguste Poe, private investigator.”

“You don’t want to shake my hand right now,” said Crown. She wiggled her fingers, which glistened with a viscous liquid. “I got maple syrup all over me.”

She walked to a deep stainless-steel sink at the side of the room and pressed the water lever on the floor. She pumped soap from a huge dispenser and ran her fingers under the stream. “Your name’sPoe?” she asked, turning her head toward him as she washed. “Is that for real?”

“I can show you my driver’s license.”

Crown turned off the water and shook her hands over the sink. “Didn’t Edgar Allan Poe write a book about a morgue …?”

“‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue,’” said Poe. “Short story. But there’s no morgue involved. Rue Morgue is the name of a street in Paris.”

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