Page 45 of Alex Cross Must Die

Franke flashed a conspiratorial smile. “I agree,” he said. “I find his work exhausting.” He put down his sherry. “Come with me.”

Marple stood up, pretending to lose her balance a bit. “Don’t tell me you’re about to show me your etchings.”

Franke smiled. “Just … come.”

He led the way down a short corridor and through an archway. Marple followed, sherry in hand, her purse under one arm. She was not the least bit surprised by the destination, but she was impressed by the décor.

The massive bed was mounted on some sort of central pedestal that made it seem to float in midair. Three walls of the room were glass, with stunning views of the sparkling city below. The sidefacing the bed held a massive flat-screen TV. Marple set her sherry snifter down on a small glass table.

“Luka. Really?” said Marple. “Do you justassumethis is where your evenings will end up?”

“Of course,” he said smoothly. “But not always like this.”

He pulled out his iPhone and tapped a code. A small servomotor whirred. The slim TV screen began to flip slowly on a seamless panel.

“Very Austin Powers,” said Marple with a slight grin. Franke’s lips twitched. She could tell that he didn’t like being needled by a woman—especially a woman he was planning to seduce.

When the panel came to rest, the kidding stopped.

The backing was black velvet. Affixed to the fabric was an antique painting—bright yellow flowers bursting from a round, brownish vase. Marple sucked in a quick breath. She recognized the work. Holmes had covered it in his tutorial.

The flowers were yellow poppies. The painting was a Van Gogh—the same painting that had disappeared without a trace from the Mohamed Mahmoud Khalil Museum in Cairo back in 2010.

CHAPTER 47

MARPLE CLEARED HERthroat. “What a lovely surprise.”

She pretended to be blasé, but she couldn’t resist approaching the piece.

She leaned in, astonished at the exquisite work on the petals and the amazing colors, still brimming with life after more than a century on canvas. She felt Franke move in beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. She noticed that he had shed his jacket.

“Shall we talk price now?” he said. “Or shall we wait …?” His hand slid down the smooth silk of Marple’s evening dress and over the upper curve of her left buttock. “You might get a better price.”

Marple flinched and angled her body away from him. She concentrated on maintaining her accent. “Luka. Please. I’m flattered. But no. Not interested.”

Franke moved in again, eyes flashing. “In me? Or in the painting?”

He placed his large hands on her shoulders and moved in, his lips suddenly on her neck and moving insistently down toward her chest. Marple twisted free. She reached back with one hand and found her glass. With a quick thrust, she tossed the sherry in Franke’s face. He staggered backward, furiously wiping his eyes.

“Knock it off,” Marple said tersely.

“What the hell iswrongwith you?” Franke shouted. He lunged for her. Marple reached into her purse and whipped out her pistol. Franke froze. Marple moved toward him. She backed him onto the bed and rested the barrel against his crotch.

“I’m only interested in two items,” she said calmly. “The Shakespeare and the Gutenberg. Where are they?” She glanced up. “Maybe under the ceiling mirror?”

Franke shook his head. “Why not just go online and print them out?” he snarled. “Like any other tourist.”

“I was told that you could deliver the originals.”

“You were misled.”

“That’s a shame.” Marple stepped back. “But at least I know where to find a stolen Van Gogh when I need it. Maybe I’ll tell some ofmyfriends.”

She turned and walked briskly out of the bedroom and down the short corridor to the living room. She could hear Franke’s footsteps behind her. She tapped the elevator button with one hand and raised her pistol with the other, stopping him cold.

“Good night,” she said.

The elevator opened. Marple quickly backed in and pressed the Down button. She flicked the pistol toward the display wall and squeezed the trigger. The bullet blew the erect penis right off the fertility statue.

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