Page 42 of Alex Cross Must Die

The bloody evidence was already on its way to the lab. Marple had only gotten a glimpse of it—a white undershirt with a reddish-brown stain running down from the neckline. Addilyn had confirmed that it was her husband’s brand and size. She broke down when she sniffed it. It smelled of his cologne.

Marple saw the agent hand Addilyn a box of tissues before heading in their direction. The agent’s name was Brita Stans. She was the first person they’d met when they arrived, and it had not been a cordial greeting. Stans was petite but sturdy, with a no-bullshit manner. She planted herself and looked from Marple to Poe to Holmes.

“Okay, you three—listen to me. From now on, everything on this case runs through my office. No contact with Addilyn Charles. Any information you have, any leads you get, you give directly to me. Got it? You messed up big by not calling us in at the start. You might have caused a kidnapping to turn into a homicide—or two.”

Marple took a deep breath and hoped that Holmes and Poe would keep their mouths shut for once. Stans looked over at Grey.

“Keep these loose dicks on a leash, Detective. Can you do that for me?”

“No problem,” said Grey, her voice tight.

“But it’s our case!” Holmes protested. “Addilyn called us first.”

“That was her mistake,” said Stans. “Don’t make it worse.”

“So we’re supposed to donothing?” asked Poe. “What if we uncover new information?”

“Detective Grey has my number,” said Stans. “She’ll pass along anything you find. Otherwise, don’t call us—we’ll call you.”

CHAPTER 43

THE SPIRITED WHITEstallion stood a solid seventeen hands. Nobody on the fashion shoot except Lucy Lynn Ferry knew that metric. Everybody else just called it “a fucking big horse.”

Lucy was so excited. Betsy Bronte had really come through for her. Just three days after the interview, she had her first legit modeling job! For Stella McCartney, no less. She hadn’t even had time to get her tooth fixed. But no matter. All the photographer wanted were serious faces and somber pouts. No smiling required. After an hour in the hair-and-makeup tent, Lucy barely recognized herself. Now she was standing barefoot in the warm grass of Central Park, dressed in an elegant one-shouldered, wide-leg jumpsuit they told her retailed for sixteen hundred dollars. The diamonds dangling from her earlobes were worth even more. She was a long way from the Texas Panhandle. Even if she was living in a lonely basement apartment.

Lucy hadn’t met the other two models before, and they seemed kind of stuck-up. Or maybe they were just skittish. They were both city girls, and they’d probably never been this close to a half ton animal.

The photographer was wiry and intense, with a shaved head and a Scandinavian accent. As he crouched and scurried around, setting up his shots, all three models stood silently with their backs to the massive horse, his pale hide and blond mane contrasting dramatically with their all-black outfits.

A crew member held a large reflective card to bounce the midday light into the girls’ elaborately styled faces. McCartney’s rep hovered anxiously nearby with his iPad, watching every move.

The photographer knelt on the grass about ten feet away and stared into his viewfinder. He waved his hand without looking up. “Nina! Kayla! Rest your hands on the horse.”

Lucy could tell that the other models were nervous.

“What if he kicks me?” Nina whispered.

“He won’t,” said Lucy. “Just stay clear of his hindquarters.”

“His what?” asked Nina.

“His ass,” Lucy replied.

Nina and Kayla turned in profile and placed their palms tentatively on the horse’s side. The photographer lay flat on the ground, lens angled up. “Lucy! Half step right. Good. Left leg out, please.”

Lucy put her hands on her hips and thrust her long leg forward. Her black satin pants billowed slightly in the breeze. “And …look!” Lucy knew what that meant now. She’d had lessons. She pressed her chin forward. She turned her head and closed her eyes for a split second, then whipped her head forward and looked straight into the lens. Like she wanted to eat it for lunch.

“Fantastic! Great!” the photographer called out. He reached out to the side. His assistant placed another camera in his hand. “Now—I need one of you girlsonthe horse.”

“No way,” Nina mumbled under her breath. Kayla looked away and shuffled her feet.

“Quickly, please! Before the sun moves.”

“I’ll do it!” Lucy called out.

“Great,” said the photographer. “Somebody give Lucy a lift, please!”

A horse handler hurried forward with a step stool.

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