Page 44 of Alex Cross Must Die

He was a bit older than he looked in the pictures but even more attractive. The bearded man sized up the competition quickly and glided back down the bar.

“May I?” Franke asked, gesturing toward the empty chair.

“Please,” said Marple. She quickly swept the clutch onto her lap. Franke eyed her glass.

“What are you drinking?”

“Harvey’s,” said Marple.

“You like sherry?” said Franke.

“It was my mother’s favorite,” said Marple. Her inflection turned “my” into “mah.”

“We can do much better.” Franke leaned forward and eyed theyoung woman behind the bar. One glance was all it took. In a second, she was standing in front of him, wiping an errant streak of moisture from the mahogany surface.

“Good evening, sir. What can I get you?”

“We’ll each have a González Byass. The Matusalem oloroso, if you have it.” Franke picked up Marple’s half full glass with two fingers. “And you can take this away.”

The bartender raised her eyebrows appreciatively and nodded. Franke shifted in his seat. Marple felt his thigh press against hers, and not by accident. She adjusted her clingy little cocktail dress and patted the outline of the .22 Beretta in her bag. As a rule, she avoided firearms, but Holmes had insisted.

Franke moved closer. One way or another, it was going to be an interesting night.

CHAPTER 46

“YOU DID NOTlie, Luka,” said Marple. “This was worth the limo ride.” She was admiring the beautifully lit display in Franke’s penthouse living room—shelf upon shelf of exotic pieces from all over the globe. African tribal masks. Colorful Egyptian pottery. And an Aztec fertility statue with a prominently erect penis.

“And how exactly did you manage to assemble all this?” asked Marple. “On loan from a museum?”

“Severalmuseums,” said Franke. “And a few private collections. And ‘on loan’ is one way to put it.”

Marple knew hubris when she heard it. It was exactly what she’d expected. Men like Franke couldn’t help flexing their egos. He was letting her know that everything she was looking at had been stolen.

“You’re not worried about somebody recognizing one of these pieces from an Interpol notice?” she asked.

“I’m very selective about my visitors,” said Franke. He held up a fresh bottle of Lustau. “More sherry?”

“I shouldn’t,” Marple said, settling back onto an elegant sofa, “but since when has that stopped me.” They’d had several rounds beforeleaving the bar. But thanks to Marple’s prior arrangement with the attentive bartender, all of her servings had been radically cut with iced tea. With each drink, Marple had deliberately loosened her drawl until she appeared pleasantly, pliably looped.

Franke pulled two snifters from a cabinet and poured. He made a little toast. “To art.”

Marple lifted her snifter in return. “How have you done it, Luka?”

“Done what?”

“Slipped the noose all these years?”

He took a sip. “Luck.”

“Nobody’s that lucky.”

“And friends.”

Marple looked across the gallery. “You must have very tasteful friends.”

“These are nothing,” said Franke. “Minor pieces. Any thug with a fake passport and a duffel bag could assemble a collection like this.”

Marple took a small sip of her sherry. “I hear you’re trying to unload some Rembrandt sketches. And what else? An El Greco?” Marple let out an exaggerated sigh. “I have to tell you, Luka, the man does nothing for me.”

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