Page 63 of Alex Cross Must Die

Marple smiled. Over the years, the judge had done so much for her. She put down her teacup and leaned forward.

“Well, Your Honor, since you asked …”

CHAPTER 67

HOLMES LOOKED UPas Marple walked back into the office. It was almost 1 a.m.

He was sitting with Poe in the common area. Helene Grey was at her makeshift desk, and the rest of the squad was scattered around the first floor, back from their earlier drug bust—which had apparently turned out to be a waste of time. Virginia was long gone.

Grey looked worn and frustrated. Holmes understood why. She’d been outranked by the FBI on the Charles kidnapping. A dirty backroom deal had let Luka Franke walk. And the subway murder case—the one she was supposed to be solving—was going nowhere.

Holmes watched as Marple handed Grey a neatly folded document.

“What’s this?” Grey asked.

“Just read it,” said Marple.

Grey unfolded the paper. She absorbed the contents at a glance, then shook the page at Marple. “How did you get this?”

“Never mind,” said Marple. “All you need to know is that it will hold up in court.”

Grey stared at Marple for a second. Then she grabbed her walkie-talkie out of its belt holster. Her voice blasted out from every other police walkie-talkie on the floor.

“Saddle up, everybody. We’ve got a search warrant.”

The sleep-deprived task force roused itself for another mission. Detectives pulled blue NYPD windbreakers from bags and started checking their handguns. Police walkie-talkies squawked more. Within seconds, the whole squad was on the move.

Holmes felt a rush of excitement and then—out of nowhere—an inexplicable flood of dread. He looked across the room as Poe moved in to huddle with Marple and Grey. He started toward them, then stopped halfway.

His chest started to tighten. His hands started to tremble. His mouth went dry, and he felt a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He was suddenly terrified, unable to take another step. He knew what was happening, and he couldn’t stop it.

He was in stage one of a full-blown panic attack.

As his vision began to blur, he steadied himself against a wall. Cops and detectives milled around him. Sounds went in and out. His breaths came in short gasps. He made his way through the maze of temporary desks toward the staircase that led to the apartment level. He couldn’t let anybody see him like this.

He climbed the stairs slowly, clinging to the rail, then kept one hand on the wall as he moved along the upstairs hallway toward his apartment. The attack was getting worse. He felt like his heart and lungs were about to seize up and quit.

Just a few feet more …

He staggered into his bedroom and jerked his closet door open. He reached behind the row of suits and shirts and tapped the combination to his wall safe. The thick metal door popped open. He reached in and pulled out a small bag.

His emergency supply.

Not the best quality, but it would have to do.

He opened the bag and carefully poured a pinch of heroin onto the soft mound between his bent thumb and forefinger. He put one nostril to the powder and inhaled, hard and deep. He blinked and sat back on the floor of the closet. He felt his heart rate settling. He took a few deep breaths and let his senses stabilize.

Relief.

Holmes tucked the bag back into the safe and closed the door. He grabbed a handkerchief and dabbed the sweat off his forehead, then angled his face toward a mirror to check for residue on his nostrils.

Good to go.

He also grabbed his pistol for good measure.

When he walked back downstairs, the place was in the full throes of paramilitary prep. Two huge black SWAT trucks had pulled up to the building entrance. Sturdy men in tac gear were strutting through the office, passing out equipment, barking orders. The macho energy was palpable.

Poe looked up as Holmes approached. “Where haveyoubeen?” he asked.

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