Page 50 of Alex Cross Must Die

“Do you have a lead on something?” asked Grey.

Virginia stepped close and handed Grey a huge mug. “Careful, it’s hot.”

Grey took the mug. “Thank you, Virginia. I’m Helene, by the way.”

“Detective Lieutenant Helene Grey. Badge number 1514. Of course. I was just looking at your file.”

Grey looked at Marple. “You have a file on me?”

Marple smiled. “Just the basics. Precinct. Contact info. Last known address. SAT scores. Favorite color …”

Grey stared at Virginia as she walked back to her desk, then she turned again toward Marple. “Sorry. You were saying? About Hart Island? Anything I should know about?”

“Not at the moment,” said Marple.

Grey took a sip from the mug. Her eyes widened. “God, this is delicious.” She raised her voice and said, “Excellent coffee, Virginia!”

Virginia nodded. “Cubano whole bean. It’s in your file.”

Grey took three more sips and then stood up. “I really need to get out of here before …” Her voice trailed off. She cleared her throat and started again. “Will you please tell Auguste …”

“That you got called in early on a case. Of course.”

Virginia smiled. “I already ordered you a car, Detective. It’s out front.” She returned to her work.

“Damn, she’s good,” said Grey.

Marple nodded. “Poe has very high standards.”

Grey started toward the door, then paused and looked back. “Nobody in the department needs to know about this, right?”

Marple looked up. “About what?”

Grey smiled. “Thanks, Margaret. I owe you.”

“Don’t worry,” Marple said sweetly. “I plan to collect.”

CHAPTER 52

“WHO DIED THIStime?” The ferry captain tucked the fresh packet of bills into his pocket.

“Who knows?” said Marple. It was her standard answer. And as usual, it ended the conversation. The captain shuffled back across the deck and climbed the stairs to the bridge. A minute later, the lumbering metal craft was on its way across the channel. Marple was left staring down at the grey water churning past the hull, thinking about all the times she’d made this sad trip, and afraid of what she was about to find.

Hart Island was not an easy place to get to. There was no bridge or causeway. The only access was by water, and visitors were not allowed, except in “managed visitations” under the careful watch of park rangers. Unless, of course, you had a connection—and a stack of cash. This was definitely an unmanaged trip, and Marple was the only paying passenger.

She hadn’t been totally bullshitting earlier when she blew Grey off about her morning’s mission. Sometimes her information was solid,sometimes just a hunch. No need to swarm the island with police until she had more clarity.

All Marple knew from her source was that an unidentified young woman was being buried on the island that morning. And she was hoping—for Addilyn’s sake—that the young woman would not turn out to be Zozi Turner.

The trip took only ten minutes. As the ferry settled against the dock, Marple walked off the metal ramp and down the short road that led to the center of the island, a jagged puzzle piece of land about one mile long and a third of a mile across. She passed through a metal gate and onto a grassy expanse that had been accepting the city’s unclaimed dead for more than a century.

In a field across the island was a plot of small markers. Not headstones, just rectangles of white concrete sticking out of the ground. Dozens of them, widely scattered. Below each marker lay the bodies of a thousand unnamed infants. Marple quickened her pace as she walked past.

Toward the south end of the island, Marple spotted a man in the distance. He was busy with a shovel. Marple waved. The man waved back. As Marple came closer, he stopped digging and rested his arms on his shovel handle. He was tall, Black, and made of muscle. There was a silvery glint in the close-cropped hair over his temples.

“Morning, Stephen,” said Marple.

“Morning, Margaret.” There was still a hint of the bayou in his voice. Behind him was a backhoe and a fresh hole deep enough for three coffins. Two were already stacked in the ground. A third coffin rested on the lip of the hole. It was simple white pine with straight sides, as unadorned as a shipping box.

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