Page 47 of Alex Cross Must Die

“Exactly how many cars do youown?”

“More than five, less than ten,” said Poe.

“Evasive answer,” said Grey. “As usual.”

She was sitting in the passenger seat of a clean-lined sedan as Poe drove north through Westchester County. She was still furious with Poe and his partners about the kidnapping case. It had put her in a bad light with the FBI, which was the last thing she needed in her life.

So why had she given in to Poe’s persistent invitation for a date? Out of curiosity, she realized. Curiosity about him, and about the place he was taking her.

“My GTO is in the shop,” Poe explained. “Bullet scratch.” The car surged forward with a growl. “This is my Oldsmobile 442—’65. A little tame in the style department, but a total beast.”

“Wait,” said Grey. “Somebodyshotat you? When??”

“To be honest,” said Poe, “I was just an innocent bystander.”

“Did you file a report?”

“I hate paperwork.”

“You should be more careful.”

Poe turned and smiled at her. Grey hadn’t seen him smile very often. But when he did, she had to admit, he was hard to resist. “I look out for myself,” he said. “And I always come prepared.”

Grey assumed that he was referring to the gun strapped under his jacket. It was the same model she had in her purse. The difference was that hers was licensed, and his was not. She’d checked. Nobody with the name Auguste Poe had ever registered a firearm in the state of New York. In theory, that made him a dangerous man.

Grey wondered if he was dangerous to her.

Poe exited onto a dark two-lane road. Grey shifted in her seat, adjusting her dress. She hoped Poe wouldn’t notice that it was the same one she’d worn to the launch party six nights ago.

“Hungry?” asked Poe.

“Starving,” said Grey.

“Too bad. I hear this place has very small portions.”

He downshifted as they approached the sign. It was unlit. Just a small rectangle with the restaurant name: Harlowe Farm. Poe turned the sedan onto a gravel drive that wound through a pasture and past a series of geodesic greenhouses. A small farmhouse glowed amber in the distance.

As Poe pulled up to the entrance, a young man in a crisp white shirt and black slacks hurried to the driver’s side.

“Good evening, sir. Welcome to Harlowe.” He looked down the length of the car, clearly impressed.

Poe left the car running and stepped out. Grey exited the passenger side. The young man slid into the driver’s seat and put his hands on the steering wheel. He shifted into gear and headed toward the parking area with a spin of the rear tires.

“You just made his night,” said Grey.

Poe smiled and slipped his arm through hers. Grey felt a slight tingle run through her. She wasn’t entirely sure what to make of it.

They walked through the stone vestibule, lit by a thick candle on a sturdy wrought-iron stand. Poe pushed open the heavy wood door. They stepped inside. The initial impression was stunning.

The main dining room was lit only by candles, which gave the whole place a shimmering glow. A glass wall looked out on neat crop rows that extended into the darkness. The other three walls were made of heavy fieldstone. The room was filled with low murmurs of conversation. The aromas floating through the air were amazing.

A maître d’ in a crisp suit approached and nodded warmly. “Mister Poe, Lieutenant Grey. So glad to have you with us. Follow me, please.” He led the way toward the back of the room, past an impeccably neat server station and through a heavy swinging metal door.

Suddenly, they were in a whole different world—the disciplined intensity of a five-star kitchen. Wiry young cooks in striped aprons hovered over flaming stoves and squeezed past one another with bins of ingredients. White clouds of steam rose from skillets. Pots clanged against iron burners. The space was filled with the urgent cadence of commands and responses, all in French.

Here, the aromas were even richer and more visceral. Oil sizzling. Herbs roasting. Meat searing. At the edge of a low counter at the far end of the kitchen was a small wooden farm table. Just one. Set for two. Grey looked at Poe in amazement. The maître d’ pulled out one of the chairs for her.

“The chef will be with you shortly,” he said.“Bon appétit.”

---