Page 88 of Alex Cross Must Die

“Squeaky,” said Grey.

“Okay,” said Raymond. “Afghanistan. Eighteen years ago. Three deep-cover operatives went missing in Shorabak province. Two males, one female. No next of kin. Kidnapped, killed, defected—nobody knows. The official report was buried. Like it never happened.”

“So they’d be in their late thirties, early forties now,” said Grey, looking down at the three partners, chatting animatedly as waiters cleared the table.

“Right. Give or take,” said Raymond. “But here’s another nugget. I turned up something from Ukraine. Right after 9/11, threeMoldavian operatives escaped from a military prison near Bila Tserkva. Again, two men, one woman. Next day, intelligence found three bodies in the Dnieper River. They were cremated on the spot. My people think the bodies might have been decoys. Which means the real three could still be out there.”

“With new names and identities,” said Grey. “What about the business in Bushwick?”

“It’s a straightforward limited partnership,” said Raymond. “And they all pay their taxes.”

“So they’ve got Social Security numbers,” said Grey.

“They do,” said Raymond. “The numbers are real. They belong to one Auguste James Poe, one Brendan Mark Holmes, and one Margaret Ann Marple.”

“The names are legit?”

“Apparently. Or they found some way to hack the federal government.”

“I wouldn’t put it past them,” said Grey. “What about genealogy?”

“We did a deep dive on Edgar Allan Poe, Arthur Conan Doyle, and Agatha Christie. Couldn’t find any loose leaves in their family trees, but doesn’t mean there aren’t a few. Holmes and Poe aren’t that unusual as surnames. And you can find a dozen Margaret Marples on Facebook.”

“None with a PI license, I’m guessing.”

“Correct. And by the way, the original Miss Marple was aJane.”

“Good to know,” said Grey.

“Tell you what, Helene,” said Raymond. “These guys are ghosts. Best I’ve ever seen. But if you want, I can keep digging.”

Grey thought for a moment. “Forget it,” she said. “All you’ll find is more smoke.”

“Watch yourself, Helene,” said Raymond. Then he clicked off.

Grey got back to the table just as dessert arrived. Four waiters held out helium-filled balloons made from clear raspberry taffy.A culinary magic trick. Holmes took his balloon by the stem and placed his lips against the clear membrane. When he sucked in, the balloon popped, leaving a ruffled tail of candy on his plate.

“Th-th-th-that’s all folks!” said Holmes, his voice pinched by the helium to sound like a cartoon character. Grey simply poked her balloon with her fork and took a small bite of the exploded taffy, sweet and gooey. It reminded her of a state fair.

“I hope you were suitably enchanted tonight.” A man’s voice, with a rich Spanish accent.

Grey turned around. Chef Dario Aquilar, in crisp kitchen whites, was standing behind her chair.

“Nothing but surprises,” Grey said with a smile.

“Fantastic,” said Holmes.

“Totally original,” said Poe.

“Dario,” said Marple, “it was divine.” Aquilar swept over to her, took her hand, and kissed it gently. “Thank you again, Margaret,” he said. “I will forever owe you.”

As they walked to the waiting limo, also comped by the restaurant, Grey felt Poe’s fingers graze her hand. Almost imperceptibly. Even so, it sent a shiver through her. She leaned in until her lips barely brushed his ear.

“Take me to bed,” she whispered. “Whoever you are.”

CHAPTER 100

THE NEXT MORNING, as usual, Helene Grey was the first one in the office at One Police Plaza. The night with Poe had been terrific, enough to make her nagging questions recede for a while. The coffee in bed had been wonderful too. But now Grey felt the need for a cup from the office pot. Precinct blend. Diesel strength. A couple of sips cleared the remaining cobwebs.

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