Page 5 of Alex Cross Must Die

“Only if he took the chopper,” said Poe.

The GPS had estimated a thirty-four-minute drive to Riverdale. It took twenty. Poe slowed the car to a crawl as they entered the narrow, tree-lined roads of the exclusive Fieldston enclave. The stately homes were set on natural hills and tucked away in cozy hollows. It was like a charming forest village, where low-end properties went for about two million. Poe drove slowly up Goodridge Avenue.

“I think your car might stand out a bit in this neighborhood,” said Marple.

Poe looked around. Marple was right. The curved driveways were dotted with Mercedes, BMWs, and Teslas. He parked the flashy red Pontiac in a shady spot across from the entrance to Boolin’s secluded estate, then climbed out of the car. Holmes and Marple followed. They took positions in a grove of fir trees near the stone pillars at the end of the driveway.

Just two minutes later, a black Suburban rolled up the street and pulled to a gentle stop. The rear door opened. Police Commissioner Boolin stepped out. He was tall and imposing, with wavy silver hair. Poe watched from behind a thick trunk as Boolin waved to his driver, who executed a skillful K-turn and drove off.

The commissioner walked to his mailbox and pulled out a small stack of envelopes and magazines, then started up the driveway, flipping through the mail as he went. Poe glanced at his partners and gave the signal. All at once, they stepped out from behind cover. Boolin looked up, startled.

“Anything interesting in the mail?” asked Holmes. “Or just the usual bribes?”

Boolin’s expression darkened as the three PIs approached. “What are you doing here? I told my girl to get rid of you.”

“Don’t blame Samantha,” said Holmes. “She did her best.” He pulled out a business card. “Holmes, Marple, and Poe Investigations,” he said. “When we said we needed to talk to you, we meant it.”

Boolin ignored the card. “Why are you skulking around in my woods?” he said, thrusting his square chin forward.

Poe stepped up. “Commissioner,” he said, “the information we have concerns Sloane Stone.”

Boolin waved dismissively. “Right. You and everybody else in town.” He started back up the driveway. “If you’ve got a lead, call the hotline. Or make an appointment through channels, like professionals—instead of a pack of goddamn stalkers.”

Poe glanced at Holmes. This was the moment.

“We know she was murdered,” Holmes called out. “And we know where she’s buried.”

Boolin stopped and turned around slowly. He took a few steps back down the driveway and looked from Holmes to Marple to Poe. “And how the hell do you know that?”

“When you have eliminated the impossible,” said Holmes, “whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

Boolin’s eyes narrowed. “That sounds like gobbledygook,” he said. “But sure. I’ll call your bluff.” He folded his thick arms across his chest. “Where is she?”

CHAPTER 6

THREE HOURS LATER, Holmes stood with Marple and Poe at the entrance to an abandoned farm about a hundred miles north of New York City. He looked around at the small caravan of police vehicles that had escorted them. Boolin hadn’t been ready to call out a full search team on the say-so of three unfamiliar PIs. But he’d agreed to send a couple of rookies and one homicide detective for a preliminary scout.

Holmes could feel his heart racing. The partners had agreed that he would take the lead on this case, but at the moment, he was way out of his comfort zone.

As soon as they’d arrived, the odors of fertilizer and manure had overwhelmed him. They were staggering, almost intolerable, clouding his olfactory sense just when he really needed it. He leaned back against a fence post and pressed his hands against his temples, breathing through his mouth. His superior sense of smell made him part bloodhound, part pointer, and part bulldog. But sometimes, it just made him sick.

He felt Poe’s hand on his shoulder. “Brendan, are you okay?”

Holmes nodded. “I just need a few minutes to adjust to the redolence.”

“What’s happening?” asked Marple.

“He’s recalibrating his nostrils,” said Poe.

“Not a fan of country air?” asked Detective Lieutenant Helene Grey.

Holmes could tell that she thought this was a waste of time, and he sensed that she was going out of her way to needle him.

Grey was a newcomer to the squad. Holmes estimated her age at thirty-eight, give or take a year. From quick observation, he determined that she was a natural blonde, with just a little salon assist. Normally, he would have been able to detect the level of ethanolamine in her hair dye. But not today. Too much olfactory competition.

“I much prefer the urban miasma,” said Holmes.

Grey cocked her head. “Tell me something, Mr. Holmes. How can you be so sure about the location of Sloane Stone’s body—unless you had something to do with hiding it?”

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