Page 3 of Alex Cross Must Die

Marple winced. “That poor child.”

Gretchen pictured her commission evaporating before her eyes. She did a quick mental calculation, ready to cut the price on the spot. Who the hell would pay almost six hundred dollars per square foot for a murder site?

Before she could float a new number, all three of her prospects turned and spoke at once.

“We’ll take it!”

CHAPTER 3

Present day

AUGUSTE POE WASanxious to get moving. A teacher had once described him as having an excitable temperament, and it was showing this morning.

As he exited the newly renovated bakery building in a crisp linen suit, Poe glanced at the fresh lettering on the front door. Gold leaf in a classic font. It looked expensive and exclusive. Holmes, Marple & Poe Investigations finally felt legit, and today was the day that would put them on the map. Poe was sure of it. They had the right case. They had the right skills. They just needed to execute flawlessly—as a team.

As he waited impatiently for his two partners, Poe walked to the bakery’s former loading bay and wiped a speck of dust off the hood of his newly acquired 1966 Pontiac GTO. Montero Red. Tri-Power upgrade. XS Ram Air package. He’d paid fifty thousand to a Newark collector and considered it a steal. Poe was obsessive about anything mechanical, and muscle cars were a particular weakness. Despite outrageous Brooklyn garage fees, he owned an impressive collection, rotating his rides according to his mood.

“Good God, Auguste, what is thatmonstrosity?”

Margaret Marple was standing outside the office door in a neat business jacket and skirt, staring at the Pontiac.

“It rides as smooth as a town car,” Poe said, knowing she preferred more discreet transportation. “I promise you.”

Marple frowned. “I’ll wrinkle my outfit, folding myself into that thing.”

“Margaret, you need to be more flexible,” said Brendan Holmes, exiting the door right behind her. He plucked a speck of lint from his suit jacket as he walked toward the car.

“Let’s go!” Poe said as he slid in behind the steering wheel.

The powerful Pontiac was no advantage on the trip to One Police Plaza. The crosstown drive through Brooklyn was torturous, with a lot of stop-and-go on the way. Poe could feel his partners’ nerves too. Their plan hinged on getting in front of Police Commissioner Jock Boolin. And Boolin was a notoriously hard man to corner.

The commissioner was new to his post, recently appointed by New York City mayor Felix Rollins after a long career in Chicago. This would be their first in-person encounter. By all accounts, Boolin was a hard-nosed cop and a savvy political operator. Poe and his partners had done their due diligence. Now it was time for a critical face-to-face.

The topic they wanted to discuss was a case that was consuming the city: the mysterious disappearance of a young Black attorney named Sloane Stone.

Sloane’s impressive résumé ticked through Poe’s mind as he drove. Brooklyn girl made good. Harvard undergraduate. Yale Law. Junior associate at a top New York law firm. Brilliant and beautiful. The profile picture on her law-firm website showed Sloane Stone to be a young woman with bright eyes, a huge smile, and dark hair worn full and natural, with a few tight curls falling across herforehead. Missing for two weeks now without a trace. The pressure on NYPD—and the new commissioner in particular—was growing more intense by the day.

The new firm had gotten an anonymous tip, and what they’d learned was about to shake up the whole city. Poe glanced in the rearview mirror as Marple pulled up the latest reports on her iPhone.

“Any breakthroughs?” asked Poe.

“The authorities are still baffled,” said Marple.

“Good,” said Holmes. “We’re not.”

As Poe headed for the Brooklyn Bridge crossing into Manhattan, he got a fresh tingle of anticipation. This was it—their first high-profile case—and he and his partners were determined to break it wide open.

Even if nobody had actually hired them.

CHAPTER 4

WHEN THE THREEinvestigators arrived on the top floor of One Police Plaza, Poe led the way to the commissioner’s suite, where a late-twentysomething receptionist sat behind a huge oak desk. He glanced at the assistant’s nameplate as he stepped forward, then cleared his throat and adjusted his voice to a tone of warm familiarity, as if he had known her forever.

“Samantha,” he said. “Good morning. How are you? We need to see the commissioner—immediately.”

“Whodoes?” the receptionist shot back. In just two words, Poe detected the distinctive inflection of a Queens native. He looked closer. Samantha’s wardrobe and jewelry conveyed a tone of edgy self-assurance, and her manicured nails looked as sharp as daggers. Poe immediately realized that she was no pushover.

“Holmes, Marple, and Poe Investigations,” he said. He flicked a business card from his wallet with the flair of an illusionist.

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