Page 7 of Alex Cross Must Die

At a security screening station, the three PIs surrendered their handguns. Grey waved her badge and got a pass for hers.

The Upper East Side mansion was humming, and Holmes noticed that the corridors and cubicles were mostly filled with attractive young women—including the statuesque assistant who walked them to the first-floor parlor.

“The mayor will be with you shortly,” she said, showing them into the room.

As he crossed the threshold, Holmes felt as if he’d stepped back into the eighteenth century. Colonial-era furniture. Thick draperies. Crystal chandeliers. Ornate vases filled with white flowers. A mildly fruity aroma filled his nostrils.

“Panicle hydrangea,” said Marple, brushing one of the petals. “Lovely.” Poe ran his hands admiringly over an antique bowfront sideboard.

“Remember,” Grey said firmly, “we’re here to update the mayor on the investigation. Nothing more. You’re here as a courtesy.”

“And because we located the body,” said Holmes.

“We still have to solve the crime,” said Grey.

“Crime is common. Logic is rare,” Holmes muttered. “Therefore it is upon the logic rather than the crime that you should dwell.”

“What the hell does that mean?” asked Grey.

“It means you should read more Arthur Conan Doyle,” said Holmes. “In fact, his work should be taught at the academy.”

At that moment, the mayor appeared in the doorway. Holmes was not surprised to see him flanked by his assistant, Kristin Rove. From what he’d learned, Rollins rarely went anywhere without her.

Holmes took a quick inventory of the mayor. It was the first time he’d seen him in person. Large head. Dark eyes. Slight, almost delicate physique, interrupted by a pronounced belly.

“Why are we here?” asked Rollins. Brusque and arrogant. “You said you’ve got something new on Stone?”

Grey stepped forward, but Holmes stepped right in front of her.

“That’s true, we do,” said Holmes.

“Who the hell are you?” Rollins asked.

“He’s a PI,” replied Kristin. She’d said “PI” as if it were a venereal disease.

“My name is Holmes.” Rollins gave him a weak, noncommittal shake. Holmes noted his small, soft hands. “And these are my associates, Ms. Marple and Mr. Poe.”

Grey stepped up again, nudging Holmes aside. “Sorry, Mr. Mayor.”

Rollins glared at her. “Let’s hear it, Grey. Have you got something new on Stone or not?”

“As of yesterday, Mr. Mayor,” she said, “it’s a murder investigation.”

“You have a body?” asked Kristin.

Grey nodded. “Sadly, we do.”

“At least that’s progress,” Rollins replied evenly. “What about suspects?”

Holmes inched closer to the mayor, deliberately violating his personal space. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “we’re looking at somebody right now.” He was being obnoxious and invasive—and he knew it.

It was one of his favorite techniques for rattling his prey.

CHAPTER 9

“HOLMES!WHAT AREyou doing?” Grey grabbed him by the shoulders.

Rollins took a step back. “Hold on. Are you saying I’m …?”

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