Page 53 of Alex Cross Must Die

“Such as …” said Poe. He pressed a remote to turn on a large flat-screen monitor. The screen filled with a color map of New York City, from Manhattan to the Bronx and east to Brooklyn and Queens.

“What’s this?” Marple asked.

“Auguste’s latest creation,” said Holmes. “A new view on the subway case.”

The map was covered with tiny icons, thousands of them, overlapping in some places into a single solid mass.

“Take a look,” said Poe. He sat at the edge of the sofa, iPhone in his palm. “On average, thirty-five people go missing in New York every day. Most of them turn up within forty-eight hours.” Poe tapped his phone screen with his thumb. Icons started popping off, leaving a scattering across the map. “These people are still gone.”

“Where did you get this data?” asked Marple.

“I assembled it,” said Poe.

“Don’t be modest,” said Holmes. “He did it by hacking into the NYPD database.”

“Once I got past their deep packet inspection,” said Poe, “it was pure silk. They haven’t updated their software significantly since 9/11. Plenty of gaps if you know where to look.” He zoomed in on Brooklyn, where a pattern of pins dotted several neighborhoods from Clinton Hill to Greenpoint.

“The ME report says the oldest bones from the subway dig may be about sixty years old,” said Poe. “The newest are less than one year old. And the ages of the victims are so far all between twentyand thirty.” He pointed at the screen. “Here are all the local disappearances in that age range since 1950. Cold cases, without resolution, including a few recent disappearances. All with one thing in common.”

“What’s the pattern?” asked Holmes.

“The pattern is, no known relatives,” said Poe. He flicked through page after page of missing person reports, usually filed by friends or employers. “All people on the margins—sex workers, restaurant dishwashers, hotel housekeepers—people without nearby relations. Or none at all. No family to pester the police or the media year after year. Nobody to keep their cases alive.”

“These people weren’t like Sloane Stone,” continued Poe. “The tabloids weren’t clamoring over them.”

“Invisible victims,” said Marple. She thought about Mary McShane, alone in New York, with nobody to claim her after she died.

Along with his diagrams and missing person profiles, Poe had assembled a gallery of Google Maps images.

“These are the locations of last-known sightings,” he said.

Marple looked up at the street views of city parks, apartment complexes, storefronts, nightclubs, restaurants, brownstones, and private houses. Poe scrolled slowly through the pictures, a mundane gallery of urban locations.Nothing in common,thought Marple,except that somebody was last seen alive near each of them.

Suddenly a flash of red and blue lights flickered across the windows. Next came the sound of vehicle doors opening and slamming shut. Then heavy footsteps.

Virginia turned her head toward them. “I think we’re being invaded.”

She and Marple both moved to the front door. On the security screen, Marple could see a cluster of uniformed cops gathered outside, along with a few officers in plainclothes. Helene Grey was in the pack, flanked by a couple of other detectives. The group partedas a bulky man thrust his way to the front and pounded his fist on the door.

“Police! Open up!”

Marple turned to her partners. “It’s Boolin.”

Virginia had her finger on the release button. “Should I open the door?” she asked.

“Might as well,” said Marple, “before they break it down.”

CHAPTER 55

THE LATCH CLICKED. Commissioner Boolin shoved the door open and pushed his way through. The rest of the posse followed him through the vestibule and into the common area.

Feeling violated, Holmes stepped forward to defend the firm’s turf. “I wish you’d called ahead, Commissioner. We would have put out some donuts.”

Boolin planted himself a few inches from Holmes’s face. “Go ahead,” he said. “Dig yourself in deeper.”

Poe looked at Grey. “Helene, what’s this about?”

Boolin held up his hand, claiming the floor. “What this is about, in addition to failure to report a kidnapping, is unauthorized access to the New York City morgue and illegal excursions to Hart Island. Interference in police procedure. Possible obstruction of justice.” He leaned in even closer toward Holmes. “Did they cover that concept in private-investigator school? Or did you three just take the online course?”

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