Page 57 of Alex Cross Must Die

“Air scrubbers for mold mitigation, according to the permits,” said Poe. “All legal and up to code.”

“Not exactly like finding a wood chipper in the backyard,” said Holmes.

Poe signaled the waitress and pointed to his empty coffee cup. “Helene said she’d have patrol do some drive-bys.”

“Useless,” said Holmes. “We should stake it out ourselves.”

“No stakeouts,” said Marple. “We need to get inside.”

“Helene says we’ll never get a warrant,” said Poe. “No probable cause.”

Marple admired her two partners. But she was happy to have resources of her own—and favors to call in.

“Don’t worry,” said Marple. “Leave that to me.”

CHAPTER 60

BY THAT AFTERNOON, the weather had turned ugly. As Poe sat alone in the back seat of a town car, the clouds through the tinted roof panel swirled ominously. Before long, the car was being pelted by a steady drizzle.

He was riding through a part of New Jersey that looked more like rural Pennsylvania, filled with rolling fields and horse farms, ninety minutes south of the chemical plants that gave the Garden State a bad rap.

The woman he was on his way to see had led him to long-buried secrets before, and he was hoping she would come through today. Besides, it would be good to see her. It had been too long.

Poe asked the driver for a classical station and made it clear he wasn’t in the mood for chat. For most of the ride, he kept his eyes closed, head back, listening toLa traviata. Verdi was a perfect match for the weather.

When Poe looked up, the car was rolling down a narrow country road. The driver slowed at the entrance to a rutted dirt driveway with a battered mailbox at the end.

“This is it,” said Poe.

The car pulled to a stop. “Need me to wait?” asked the driver.

“Not necessary,” said Poe. At least that’s what he hoped.

As the car drove off, Poe put up his umbrella. He started walking up the muddy driveway for thirty yards or so, past a ramshackle farmhouse and toward an even more decrepit barn behind it. The whole structure had a rightward lean to it, as if it were just longing to lie down.

As Poe got closer, the barn door slid open. A woman stepped out wearing a plastic poncho and rubber boots. Her black hair, grey streaked, was pulled back into a ponytail that poked out behind her John Deere cap. She looked her visitor up and down, then laughed. “Amazing,” she said. “Only Auguste Poe would wear a three-piece suit to visit a farm in a torrential downpour.”

“Sorry,” said Poe. “My hip waders are at the cleaners.”

The woman walked up and gave Poe a long, strong hug. She smelled of hay and gasoline. Poe was always amazed at how much she looked like her sister.

“Good to see you, Jacklyn,” said Poe. “Where is she?”

Jacklyn pulled back from the hug and nodded toward the barn.

The rain was coming down harder now. Thunder rolled in the distance. “How long has she been here?” asked Poe.

“Long time,” said Jacklyn.

Poe followed her into the barn and dropped his umbrella on the floor. A pair of swallows fluttered off a beam high overhead.

“Nobody else has been down here?”

“Nope. Nobody but me.”

Jacklyn led him to a walled-off section with its own door, some kind of storage room or stall with its own padlock, already open. Poe’s heart started pounding.

Jacklyn pulled the lock off the latch and wrestled the wooden door fully open. She stepped aside. Poe walked into the stall, lit by a single naked bulb. He rocked back, stunned.

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