Page 56 of Alex Cross Must Die

Poe had his bearings now, even if his perception was a bit wobbly. He turned around and headed in the opposite direction. The street was lined with brownstones fronted by wrought-iron gates. Some stoops were decorated with flower boxes, the blooms illuminated by streetlamps. He looked across the street and stopped.

He was looking at a large detached house in an elevated yard. Anineteenth-century mini mansion. It was redbrick, covered in vines, with a three-story turret facing the street. A distinctive house. And strangely familiar. Where had he seen it before?

Then something clicked. He’d seen it in his own photo gallery. Somebody had disappeared near this house. He remembered sticking a digital pin on this very spot. But who? Which one of those invisible victims was it? Poe flicked through his mental files. Right. It was one of the more recent disappearances. A hotel maid on her way home. About a year ago.

Poe heard the rumble of a car engine behind him. He recognized the sound before he even turned around. A Lamborghini. The sound of the naturally aspirated engine was unmistakable. As the car passed, he saw two men inside: one behind the wheel and another in the passenger seat.

The low-slung car turned the corner and pulled into the driveway of the mini mansion, then reappeared in front of the detached garage in the rear. Poe walked up the slope beside the house. He was a little unsteady on his feet, but he wanted a closer look at that magnificent machine.

The automatic garage door opened. Poe watched. The two men emerged and headed for the back of the house as the garage door slid shut. They both were mid-thirties, stylishly dressed. Poe watched them go inside.

As he walked back toward the street, he heard a loud metallic click and then the sound of a compressor turning on. Poe’s mechanical mind started to whir.How much does AC cost for a house that old?he wondered. Bad insulation. Single-pane windows. The ConEd bill would be obscene.

He stopped in the middle of the lawn and looked toward the back of the house. Sure enough, there was the circular AC unit sitting on a concrete base. But that wasn’t where the loud hum was coming from. That noise was coming from behind a row of hedges. Peekingabove the foliage were two huge aluminum rectangles. Exhaust fans? Heat pumps?

Something about the house felt strange. Poe couldn’t explain it. Or maybe he was just being paranoid. Maybe because he’d had too much to drink. Maybe because the place reminded him of the House of Usher. He needed a calmer head. He pulled out his phone and scrolled to a number, steadied his hand, and texted four characters:

U up?

He hoped Grey wouldn’t take the message the wrong way.

CHAPTER 59

JUST SEVEN HOURSlater, Marple settled into a booth with Poe and Holmes at a neighborhood diner, a few blocks from the office. It was a chance to debrief away from the clutter and the occupying task force. Marple was especially eager to hear more about Poe’s overnight adventure. She buttered her English muffin, and leaned across the table. “So? The mystery house. What did you find out?”

Poe lifted his coffee cup with shaky hands. “Helene ran the property records for me,” said Poe. “The house is in the name of two brothers. Richard and Nelson Siglik.” He pushed his iPhone to the middle of the table and swiped through a few images. “Virginia just scraped these from their social accounts. No question. They’re the two guys I saw last night.”

“You mean early this morning,” said Holmes. “While you were totally inebriated.”

Poe scowled. “I saw what I saw.”

The shots were nothing unusual, Marple thought. Two good-looking thirtysomething guys, almost twins. Richard had a trendy stubble. Nelson was clean-shaven, with longer hair. In the Instagram shots, they were sometimes together, sometimes in separate pairs orgroups. Always with attractive companions, male and female. Both brothers were fit and smartly dressed, the type who’d look at home in any Manhattan investment firm or high-end nightclub.

“Does either of them have a record?” asked Marple.

“Squeaky clean,” said Poe. “They pay their taxes, donate to the neighborhood association, rent a bouncy castle for block parties. But look at this …”

Poe scrolled to a photo of a young woman in a dancer’s leotard. It was a studio portrait, carefully posed and beautifully lit. The subject looked like a young Nicole Kidman, with pale skin and auburn curls.

“Who’s this?” asked Marple.

“Anna Sofia. The brothers’ mother. Professional dancer. Disappeared without a trace almost thirty years ago. The dad was investigated, but nothing came of it. He claimed she was unbalanced and just ran off. Nobody could prove otherwise.”

Marple got a sick feeling in her gut. “Did they question the boys?”

“Sure,” said Poe. “But they were only about six or seven when it happened. They couldn’t offer anything useful.”

He turned back to a photo of the mansion. “The house has been in the family since the 1930s,” said Poe. “The grandfather owned a funeral home a few blocks from where we’re sitting. He specialized in deceased immigrants. His son moved the business to Park Slope and started burying rich people.”

“The brothers areundertakers?” asked Holmes.

“Nope,” said Poe. “They sold the business to a funeral home consortium when their dad died. Cashed out for millions.”

“Do they work?” asked Marple.

“Don’t need to,” said Poe. “Trust fund. Plus the profit from the sale of the funeral business.”

Marple took a sip of her tea. “What about all the fancy equipment you saw outside?”

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