Page 46 of Alex Cross Must Die

Franke stood frozen in the hallway.

“You were right, Luka,” Marple said as the doors closed. “A very minor piece.”

CHAPTER 48

MARPLE PRACTICALLY JUMPEDout of the Uber when she arrived home at 2 a.m. Her heart was still racing. She couldn’t wait to tell her partners about her evening. As the car drove off, she looked both ways before crossing to the building. But no need. The street was deserted.

As she walked up to the entrance, she heard a loud pop. A chunk of brick blew off the building, inches from her face. Marple ducked, but there was no cover. Just bare stone stairs.

Then, another pop.

The second shot zinged off the wall and struck the door, blasting a small divot into the thick oak. Marple crouched, hands over her head. A few seconds later, the door burst open. Poe ran out, a pistol in his hands. Holmes was right behind him. He grabbed Marple by the arm and pulled her into the vestibule. He pushed her to the floor and sprawled on top of her, shielding her with his body. Marple had never seen him this panicked.

“Margaret! Are you hit?”

“I’m fine,” she wheezed. Holmes was pressing down so hard she could barely catch a breath. She felt his body relax and ease back. Hehelped her to her feet and wrapped his arms around her. Through her silk dress, she could feel his heart pounding.

“Sonofabitch!” Poe was back, gun held low.

“Anything?” asked Holmes.

“That last shot clipped my Pontiac!” he muttered. “My fault for not putting the GTO back into the garage with the Torino. The paint match will be impossible!”

Holmes sat Marple down gently on the sofa in the dimly lit office and wrapped her in one of her knitted blankets. “Don’t move,” he said. “I’ll get you some tea.” He hurried off toward the kitchen. Poe was crouched alongside one of the front windows, scanning the street.

Marple slipped her fingers under the liner of her blond wig and eased it off her head. Underneath, her real hair was pinned into a tight bun. She tossed the wig onto a table, then plucked a tissue from a box and started wiping off her lipstick. “Franke was the shooter,” she said, nodding toward the street. “Or somebody he sent.”

“I guess the disguise didn’t fool him,” said Poe.

“I think he appreciated the accent, though,” said Marple, reverting momentarily to her fake twang.

“I don’t blame him,” Holmes called out from the kitchen. “It’s very seductive.”

“We should have followed you,” said Poe. “The man is a menace.”

Marple shook her head. “He’s a pro. He would have made a tail in two seconds. And if he really wanted to kill me, I’d be dead.”

Holmes walked back to the sofa with a steaming mug. He handed it to Marple and sat next to her. “So what did you learn?”

“Your FBI friend was right,” said Marple. “Franke looks like a prime suspect. And he’s accumulated some very interesting loot.” Marple realized she hadn’t even mentioned the stolen Van Gogh. But first things first. She took a sip of her tea and reached for her cell phone. “Excuse me,” she said. “I need to send a text.”

She held the phone in her lap as Holmes peered over her shoulder.She entered the restricted number that had been so hard to come by. Luka Franke’s number. Her thumbs tapped out a short message:

Not scared.R U?

She sent it.

Holmes grabbed the phone out of her hands. “Margaret, enough!” he said. “You’re playing with fire.”

Marple picked up her mug and nestled back on the sofa. She looked at Holmes. “I know,” she said. “Isn’t it fun?”

CHAPTER 49

THE NEXT NIGHT.

“Auguste,” said Helene Grey, “I need to ask you a serious question.”

“Go ahead,” said Poe.

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