Page 60 of Alex Cross Must Die

She jumped.

The footsteps were right next to her.

She turned slowly toward the black metal file cabinets. Suddenly, she saw a shape. Or a shadow. Just for a second. It was moving from one side of the cabinet row to the other.

Virginia blinked. The shadow was gone.

Eyestrain,she thought.Definitely eyestrain.She really needed to take more breaks from the computer. She took a deep breath and exhaled.

Wait.

The smell was back. Getting stronger. Filling the room.

Virginia recognized it now.

It was the aroma of baking bread.

CHAPTER 64

HOLMES, MARPLE, ANDPoe were delighted. Especially Marple. This was better thanThe Great British Bake Off.

On the other side of the one-way mirror, Luka Franke sat at a small metal table, his fingers twisting through his thick hair, muttering obscenities into the bare, fluorescent-lit interrogation room.

“Look at him,” said Marple. “Wilted like a weed.”

The door from the hallway opened. Helene Grey walked in with a tall woman in a business suit.

“This is Catherine East from Art Crimes,” said Grey. “Her team made the arrest.”

“We appreciate the tip,” said East. “He’s a big fish.”

“We appreciate the takedown,” said Marple. “He’s a real prick.”

“I have to ask,” said East. “Where did you get the fake Picasso? It sure as hell would have fooled me.”

Silence.

Then Poe spoke up. “Paint by number,” he said. “Took forever.”

Grey scowled at him. “No. Really.”

Holmes just smiled. “Friend of a friend.”

For the moment, Grey didn’t push it. Neither did East. Theyboth seemed more interested in the captive than the bait. At Marple’s request, Grey had remanded Franke to one of the city’s most depressing holding areas—a bleak basement built in the 1960s. Cinder-block walls. Concrete floor. Oppressively low ceiling. The air was thick with half a century of body odor and cigarette smoke.

“I’d say he’s a bit out of his comfort zone,” said Grey.

“He’s miserable,” said Marple. “It’s magnificent.”

CHAPTER 65

SUDDENLY, FRANKE STOODup from the table and walked straight up to the mirror, pressing his face against it from the other side. “I want mylawwwyerrr!” He stretched the last word out as if he were speaking to a toddler. Then he walked back to his seat and drummed his fingers on the tabletop.

Marple smiled. It was a pleasure watching him stew.

Just then, a slim man in a well-tailored suit and wire-framed glasses walked into the viewing room carrying a leather briefcase. He looked through the glass. “Is that him?” he asked bluntly.

Helene looked up. “I’m Detective Lieutenant Helene Grey,” she said. “This is Catherine East, Art Crimes. Have we met?”

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