Page 18 of Alex Cross Must Die

“You shouldn’t be confused,” said Bain. “You should be convinced. Most people would be.”

Holmes stepped up to the case. He pulled out his magnifying glass again and leaned in close to the top of the case, examining thepages beneath. “Decoy copies,” he said. “About as valuable as fake fruit.”

“How can you tell?” asked Marple.

“Absence of watermarks in the Shakespeare,” said Holmes. “Facsimile illumination in the Gutenberg, not original. Not the most impressive copies I’ve seen but solid work.”

“Good enough to fool most crooks,” said Bain.

“Most people see,” said Holmes, “but they do not observe.”

“Well, this guy must’ve beenveryobservant,” said Bain. “He wasn’t fooled for a goddamn second. He went right for the good stuff.”

He waved the investigators toward an adjacent room, the size of a walk-in closet. Marple stood in the entryway as the others walked in. She was suddenly claustrophobic; or maybe it was just an aversion to being in a tight space with Bain. The air inside the room felt totally dead.

“Lead-lined walls,” said Bain, pounding them with his fist to make the point. “Steel-reinforced floor and ceiling. Motion detectors. Safe carved from a single block of steel. Unbreakable lock.”

“And yet …” said Marple.

The door to the vault in the wall hung open. She could see two felt-lined shelves inside, both empty.

“There’s your crime,” said Bain, turning toward her. “Now, what’s your plan?”

Marple cleared her throat. “Before we start,” she said, “you should know that our fee is two hundred thousand dollars.”

Bain cocked his head in disbelief. “Are youshittingme?” he said. “You’re three gumshoes from Brooklyn who got lucky on a murder case. Find my books and we’ll talk about an appropriate fee. If you need an advance for expenses, we can—”

“Two hundred thousand,” Marple repeated evenly. “Up front, and no refunds.”

Bain’s voice turned menacing. “Look,” he said. “Just between uschickens, do I really care about some moldy plays or a Bible with type I can’t read? No. I just like having them, because it means somebody else can’t. And it’s embarrassing to have them stolen without a goddamn trace. But two hundred grand? Kiss my ass.”

“And another two hundred when we return the pieces,” said Marple.

“Get the fuck out of here,” said Bain.

Holmes pulled out his cell phone. “Auguste, do you have the number …?”

“Of that reporter at Channel 4?” Poe replied. “Shelbi Scott. Hold on … I have it right here …”

“Hey!” said Bain. “No! No press.”

“The media will gobble this story up, Mr. Bain,” said Marple. “Pig-headed billionaire who doesn’t even appreciate art has two iconic volumes stolen from right under his nose.”

“She’s paraphrasing,” said Holmes, starting to tap numbers on his phone.

“They probably won’t use those exact words,” added Poe.

Bain grabbed the phone. “Okay!” he said. “You fucking bastards. Two hundred g’s. I’ll cut you a personal check. But I want your full focus on this thing. No noise. No bullshit. Total attention—from all three of you.”

“When you hire one of us, you hire the whole firm,” Marple said. “All of us are totally involved. You have my promise.”

Marple turned and headed back toward the door. She felt the need to get out of the billionaire’s presence before something truly embarrassing happened. There was something about Huntley Bain that made her feel like throwing up.

CHAPTER 19

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, the partners were back in Bushwick.

As Poe pulled the Pontiac into the former bakery’s loading bay, he spotted Helene Grey leaning against the brick wall near the entrance, talking on her cell phone. She was wearing aviator shades and her head was tipped back in the midday sun.

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