Page 8 of Alex Cross Must Die

“No, we’re not!” said Grey.

“Orarewe?” said Holmes.

Grey looked exasperated. “Mr. Mayor, I apologize. We’re only here to—”

Rollins put his hand up. “Shut up. I’d like to hear this.” He stared directly at Holmes. “You have something to say about me?” He glanced at his Rolex and perched himself on the arm of one of the parlor’s antique chairs. “You have two minutes. Before I have you thrown out. Or arrested.”

Holmes glanced at his partners, then walked to the fireplace and rested his arm on the marble mantel, calm and unhurried. Inside, he felt fully alive and totally focused. Helivedfor moments like this. Moments when he was in total control.

“Mr. Mayor, when you prefer not to bother with a security detail, you have a personal car at your disposal. Is that right?”

Rollins shrugged. “You mean do I sometimes go under the radar for some private time? Absolutely. My car, my business.”

“The Audi S8,” said Holmes.

Rollins turned toward Grey. “Is somebody tailing me? Did you put a tracker on my car?”

“Absolutely not, Mr. Mayor,” said Grey. “We’d have no reason to do that.”

Holmes pressed on. “Not NYPD, sir. It was somebody on your staff. For security purposes, ostensibly. But I’m sure you’re aware, there are many additional ways to deduce a vehicle’s travels. Tire prints. Fender well residue. Soil matches. Specifically, silt loam with a pH of 6.5 and traces ofPhaseolus vulgaris.”

Rollins was clearly losing patience. “What are you talking about?”

“Bean leaves,” said Holmes. “Mr. Mayor, do you have any reason to visit Dutchess County?”

“Dutchess County?” said Rollins. “I don’t go upstate unless I’m meeting with the governor. I haven’t been north of Harlem for three months. Kristin can confirm that.”

“Your Audi has,” said Holmes. “Been north. To Amenia, New York.”

“Amenia?” Rollins looked perplexed.

“Rural town,” said Holmes. “Conveniently remote.”

“Mr. Mayor,” said Detective Grey, “Sloane Stone’s body was found on a farm near Amenia yesterday afternoon.”

“The same location your car visited. Approximately two weeks ago,” said Holmes. “Based on tracking. Confirmed by the degree of decay in the vegetation traces in your wheel-well liners.”

“This is bullshit!” said Rollins.

Holmes walked back toward Rollins and recited a Gmail address.

“What’s that?” Rollins said gruffly.

“Sloane Stone’s personal email address.”

“So …?”

Holmes glanced up and to the side, as if pulling data out of the air. “There have been, as I recall … twelve messages from your personal email.”

“Pure crap,” said Rollins. “I never sent any messages to Sloane Stone. I didn’t even—”

“Here’s one right here,” Holmes interrupted, holding his cell phone in front of Rollins’s face.

“Enough!” Rollins pushed the phone away and glared around the room. “Listen to me. All of you. I met Sloane Stone once, a year ago, at some legal event.”

“Correct,” said Holmes. “The Legal Aid Society Benefit. Last May 11th.”

“That’s right,” said Rollins. “I recognized her picture from the news when she went missing. Attractive girl. I talked to her for two minutes at the party. Never saw her again. Never sent her any emails.Never.”

---