Page 62 of Alex Cross Must Die

Grey stepped up and grabbed Gow by the arm. “What the hell are you doing?Whattechnicalities? Does your boss know about this?”

Gow made a show of plucking Grey’s hand away. “He does, Detective. So does yours.”

Marple winced. So this was the game. She absolutely despised snakes like Luka Franke. And now he was about to slither free.

CHAPTER 66

AN HOUR LATER, still furious about Franke, Marple was on her way to Westchester. She’d been ready to take a late-night train from Grand Central, but Poe insisted on lending her his precious Oldsmobile.

For Marple, the powerful sedan was a total waste of horsepower. The speedometer had barely touched 55 the whole way up the Hutchinson River Parkway. Now, on the narrow back roads of Bedford, she was barely crawling.

The homes in Westchester’s pricey horse country were set far back behind rustic stone walls. The GPS only got Marple close to her destination. Now she inched forward in first gear, a few yards at a time, shining her headlights at mailboxes until she found the right address.

The long driveway curved through a stand of elms as it approached the massive country house. When Marple pulled to a stop in the gravel circle, the front door opened.

A white-haired man in a wheelchair rolled to the threshold, backlit by the warm glow from inside. Marple climbed out of the car and walked toward him. The man eyed the muscle car.

“Get any speeding citations?”

Marple smiled. “Belongs to a friend. I’m just happy I didn’t strip the transmission.”

Stepping up to the entryway, Marple bent down and gave the man a gentle hug.

“Thank you for seeing me so late.”

“Any time, any reason—you know that,” he said, turning his chair in a slow 180. “Come in, Margaret.” Marple walked alongside as he wheeled himself into a large library off the main foyer.

“Sherry?” he asked.

“You know better, Your Honor. I’m driving.”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to corrupt you. How about some tea, then? Chamomile, was it?”

“Excellent memory,” Marple replied.

Her host pressed a button on a table. Seconds later, a middle-aged woman appeared through an arch at the back of the room. “Yes, Judge?”

“A cup of chamomile tea for Ms. Marple, please, Bea. Brandy for me.”

Marple took a seat on the sofa. As she looked across at the frail man in the metal chair, she flashed to a memory of him standing tall in front of a cluster of press microphones, his deep voice cracking as he begged for the return of his only child.

Everybody in the audience knew that he’d lost his wife to cancer a year earlier. His daughter, just fifteen, was all the family he had left. The girl had disappeared on a school ski trip out west. When the case went cold, the anguished father had turned to a fledgling female private investigator who promised results—and delivered.

Marple glanced over at a framed photo of a dark-haired teenager on the bookshelf, frozen as a high school junior.

“How is she?” Marple asked.

“Medical school,” the judge said proudly. “Thanks to you.”

“Lydia has a 140 IQ,” said Marple. “I’m pretty sure she got into med school on her own.”

“Maybe so,” he said. “But without you, she’d still be a sister wife to that maniac.”

Bea came in carrying a tray with a cup of tea and a snifter of amber liquor. She placed it on a low coffee table. “Thanks, Bea,” said the judge. Bea nodded and made her exit.

Marple lifted the teacup and took a sip. She closed her eyes dreamily, savoring the aroma and flavor. “Perfect,” she said.

The judge swirled his brandy. “What can I do for you, Margaret? Carry permit? Green card? Restraining order?”

---