Page 15 of Alex Cross Must Die

Marple walked down the hall from her apartment and pressed the code on the door to the firm’s private library. It was her favorite room in the entire building. Maybe in the entire world. The door opened with a gentle burp of released air. Marple stepped inside the sanctum.

The room was climate-controlled to within one degree of optimal temperature and one percentage point of optimal humidity, but the air still held the essence of leather bindings and aged paper.

Marple knew the scents sometimes bothered Holmes, but to her, the room was paradise.

The sensors turned on recessed lights, illuminating walls lined with bookshelves, from floor to ceiling. A pair of wooden ladders stretched to the top rows, eighteen feet off the floor. Three matching reading chairs with ottomans were arranged at one end of the room,but the partners were almost never in the library at the same time. By tacit agreement, this was a place for solitary reflection.

Green-shaded lamps on metal stands provided a cozy halo around the easy chairs. Many of the items here were irreplaceable. A vault in the center of one wall held the most valuable volumes. A secure case on the other wall contained an assortment of rare violins, crafted by the Amati, Bergonzi, and Stradivari families. Both Holmes and Poe were avid collectors. Holmes claimed to be a virtuoso on the instrument, but Marple couldn’t recall ever hearing him play.

The bookshelves contained the consolidated collections of all three partners, organized into categories devised by Poe. He found the Dewey Decimal Classification inherently biased against esoterica.

One section held Auguste’s books on magic and the occult. Another was filled with Brendan’s chemistry texts. There was an entire shelf devoted to weaponry, another to magic and illusions. An array of current medical journals sat next to a bound collection of Da Vinci’s anatomical drawings.

Marple headed straight to the back of the room, where the heart of the collection resided. It was the reason the room existed in the first place. One section contained a copy of everything ever published by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Over twenty novels, plus dozens upon dozens of collected short stories, plays, volumes of poetry, pamphlets on the spiritual and paranormal, and near-mint copies of nineteenth-century magazines containing his contributions—The Strand, The Cornhill,theBritish Medical Journal,and others.

Edgar Allan Poe had his own section, lined with volumes of poetry, magazines featuring his macabre tales, and collections of his essays on science and writing, along with a variety of pamphlets and textbooks, including his thoughts on hypnotism. At one end was an esoteric collection of plays performed by the writer’s estranged father, who’d been a touring actor.

Marple moved to the middle shelves. Her belly fluttered as she ran her fingers along row after row of Agatha Christie first editions. Almost a hundred novels and volumes of short stories—all in mint condition, many signed by the author herself. It had taken Marple decades to assemble the collection, and in her mind, it was never complete. There was always one more obscure text or letter to locate.

Perched on a shelf next to a bookend was a framed photograph of Christie herself as a young girl. Her blond hair tumbled in frizzy waves down to her shoulders. Her dark-eyed gaze seemed both sad and knowing. A young lady with secrets.

Marple often came to the library in the early hours before her partners woke up or in the late hours before they came home. It was her haven and a source of inspiration. She settled into a chair, closed her eyes, and took a deep, centering breath, preparing for whatever the day would bring. In this quiet room, surrounded by tales of mystery and deception, she felt most like herself.

CHAPTER 16

DOWNSTAIRS, SITTING ALONEat the office kitchen island, Poe was filling in the final squares of theFinancial Timescrossword. No online puzzles for him. Strictly paper and pen. He looked up to see Holmes descending the staircase. A few seconds later, Marple emerged from the second-floor library and followed him down.

Dana was gone. Maybe for good, Poe thought. Or maybe she just needed time to adjust to his idiosyncrasies. On the other hand, maybehewas the one with the problem. Maybe he wasn’t ready to be loved again—reallyloved—by anybody.

Poe rubbed his temples. He’d had too much to drink last night. Like most nights.

“What a bloody mess!” Marple said as she settled on a stool on the opposite side of the island.

Poe looked around and took in the post-party carnage. The entire first level was littered with empty wineglasses and beer bottles. The sink and counter were filled with plates. Every surface was coated with clumps of damp party sparkles.

“It looks like we were attacked by Huns,” said Holmes, shuddering slightly.

Poe could sense his partner’s visceral discomfort with the disorder. This was a man who regularly took two showers every day.

“Did we not schedule the cleaning service?” asked Poe. He felt Marple staring at him.

“I believe that was onyourto-do list, Auguste,” she said.

Poe winced. Marple was right. His usual attention to detail had lapsed. Embarrassing. “Maybe we need an assistant,” he mumbled. Not the first time he’d thought it.

“Your young attorney must have distracted you,” said Holmes. He looked up toward Poe’s apartment. “What have you done with her, by the way?”

“Gone at first light,” said Poe. “I think our live-work situation may have unsettled her.”

“Too bad,” said Holmes, brushing some sparkles off the table. “Brilliant legal mind.”

The front door buzzed.

“Expecting anyone?” asked Poe. He shuffled slowly toward the entryway. When he opened the door to the visitor, he felt an odd tingle.

“Good morning, Mr. Poe.” It was Helene Grey.

Poe blinked. “Forget something, Detective?” he asked. “A glass slipper?”

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