Page 43 of Alex Cross Must Die

“I’m good,” said Lucy. She turned, grabbed the horse’s mane, flexed her knees, and jumped, swinging her right leg up and over the horse’s bare back. Suddenly, the horse reared, pawing the air with his front hooves, his massive head almost ten feet off the ground. Lucy leaned forward and brought the horse down, settling him with a gentle pat to his neck. She sat up straight, hips square and facing front.

“Holy shit,” said Nina. The kid with the reflector card just stared. McCartney’s rep almost dropped his iPad.

“All right, then,” said the photographer softly.

For the next five minutes, Lucy turned and stretched on horseback as Nina and Kayla vogued alongside. When the photographer called a wrap, an assistant grabbed Lucy’s waist to help her dismount and checked to make sure her pants hadn’t split. Lucy walked around to give the horse’s muzzle a quick kiss. “That was fun,” she whispered.

Back in the tent, Lucy stood in front of the mirror as a stylist carefully removed the pricey earrings. As she slipped out of her black outfit, she heard a softbingfrom inside her backpack. She dug past her wadded-up street clothes and pulled out her phone.

There was a text message on the screen, and it sent a cold chill right through her.

FOUND YOU,it said.

CHAPTER 44

SITTING IN HISUpper West Side apartment, Luka Franke was both baffled and impressed. He’d been in the art world for a long time, and he’d never seen anything quite like this.

It was 8:15 p.m. and the sun was setting. Franke had a spectacular view from his high-rise. But right now his eyes were locked on his laptop screen. He held a lit cigarette in his left hand as he moved the middle finger of his right hand over the track pad, back and forth.

The images were authentic all right. And out there for the whole world to see. A complete Shakespeare First Folio and a 1455 Gutenberg Bible. The same pieces his contacts had told him were missing from an impregnable residential vault, right here in the city.

What kind of savant could get through a setup that tight? And what kind of thief would post his priceless loot on the internet? Franke had spent hours trying to decode the source of the images, but the IP address had been masked by the most sophisticated VPN he’d ever seen. Impossible to crack. There was simply no way to tellwhere the images originated, or who had curated them. All Franke knew was that the quality was way beyond what any museum or collector had ever displayed.

Whoever had done this didn’t just steal art; he wanted the world to appreciate it—even at the risk of exposing his crime. Bold move.

Franke sat back and took a slow drag on his cigarette. He had to admit he was a bit jealous. If anyone had been able to crack that safe across town, it should have been him. But he certainly wouldn’t have posted pictures of his swag after he took it. Not his style. He hadn’t lasted this long by showing off. No. He would have moved the items quickly over the Canadian border, then loaded them onto one of his trusted cargo ships to Iceland, where they would rest in his vault until the heat died down.

Franke closed his laptop just in time to see the final rays of the sun fade in the distance. He checked his Rolex and felt a fresh tingle of anticipation. His appointment that evening concerned art far less impressive than the works he’d been admiring. Just a few minor Rembrandt sketches and an early El Greco. He had held them for over a decade, letting the steam run out of the investigations. Now it was time to cash in. This was the part of the game that he loved most.

Franke was as picky about his buyers as he was about his targets. It was easy to turn a quick buck from some nouveau riche sheik or a crime lord with dirty money to launder. He knew that his father had sometimes used masterpieces as leverage to get Mafia sentences reduced. But Franke preferred to deal at a higher level. He scoffed at collectors like Huntley Bain, who only used art as an expensive form of Viagra.

His contact for that evening sounded like the real deal. Franke prided himself on being an impossible man to locate, andsomehow she had pinpointed him. That alone showed admirable initiative. He hoped this mystery woman would have the funds to match her gumption. Or at least be attractive enough to be worth bedding.

He loved that part of the game too.

CHAPTER 45

WHEN SITTING ATa bar by herself, Margaret Marple usually brought a book, one of her favorite mysteries—often one with the original Miss Marple in the lead. But that would have been totally out of character tonight.

The woman she was pretending to be didn’t read much at all, and definitely not in bars where she wanted to attract attention, not deflect it. This woman had learned how to collect two things in her life: art—and men. And she was an expert at both. The name Marple had assumed for the night was Lucinda Sadler. Poe had picked it for her off a gravestone.

Marple stroked her fingers through the blond waves that cascaded over her shoulders. She shimmied to adjust her silk dress, tight across her breasts and hips. She did a quick makeup check in the mirror behind the bar. Lipstick, mascara, blush. All perfect. Her pretty little mask.

“Excuse me. Is this seat taken?” A young man with a neat beard was standing behind the empty chair next to her. Marple had claimed it when she arrived by placing her small purse on the cushion. Sincethen, the cocktail lounge had filled up, and the empty place was valuable real estate. Marple checked her watch—a Cartier for the occasion: 10 p.m.

“Sorry,” Marple said. “I’m afraid it is. I’m waiting for someone.” At least it was a chance to practice her accent. She had worked on making it virtually unplaceable, a modified Southern-Western twang, appropriate for an Air Force brat raised on bases from Fort Rucker to San Antonio—one of her most detailed backstories, which she considered airtight.

“Can I buy you a drink in the meantime?” the man asked. He had a charming smile. There was brandy on his breath, and expensive cologne on his neck. Marple felt a little flush in her cheeks, and a prickle of heat under her wig. It had been a long time.

She took a sip of her sherry and lowered her eyes before glancing up at him again. “Still working on this one, thanks,” she said.

“What if I just keep the seat warm?” he said.

“I’ll warm it myself, thanks.” A new voice. Deep and silky.

Marple turned. “Luka?”

“Lucinda?”

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