Page 86 of Alex Cross Must Die

He had a white bandage around his head, extra thick on the right side, just above his ear. He looked good, Virginia thought. A little tired. But better than she’d expected for a man who’d been shot in the head just seventy-two hours ago.

Virginia hurried down the steps, nervous and excited. “Welcome back, Mr. Holmes!”

“Everything ready?” asked Poe, his hand on his partner’s elbow.

“Just like you asked,” said Virginia. “Oh. And I made matzo-ball soup.”

Holmes gave her a little smile. “My electrolyte balance feels better already,” he said.

As Poe escorted his partner up the steps, Virginia saw Marple folding the passenger seat forward from inside the car. She was shouting from the back seat. “Hold on, hold on!”

Suddenly a huge dog with pale fur jumped out of the back seat and onto the sidewalk. Marple maneuvered out too. “Be careful, Virginia! He’s abeast!”

Virginia bent forward gently as the strange dog approached her, trailing a long leather leash. She kept her eyes lowered and her movements slow. The dog was a pale mastiff, the size of a miniature horse.

“He’s beautiful!” said Virginia. “Who does he belong to?”

“Nobody,” said Marple, closing the car door. “His previous owner has no more use for him.”

The dog’s giant head nudged against Virginia’s chest as he explored her with urgent sniffs. She reached out and ran her hand gently along his back and sides, feeling the rise and fall of his massive chest under her fingers. The dog reared up and put both enormous paws onto Virginia’s shoulders, then placed his muzzle in the crook of her neck and gave her a sloppy lick.

“What’s his name?” she asked.

“Not a clue,” said Marple. “Holmes calls him the Hound of the Baskervilles.”

“Baskerville,” said Virginia, giving the dog a kiss on the snout. “That suits him.”

“Okay, then,” said Marple. “I guess now he belongs to you.”

CHAPTER 97

Two weeks later

MARPLE WAS EVENmore impressed by El Viaje than she had expected to be. The restaurant’s spacious dining room extended out in the shape of a fan over the lower Hudson River, as if suspended in midair. The place was so new that musicians and movie people were still tripping over one another in the lounge every night. But the young chef did not seem the least bit awed. Dario Aquilar was a star in his own right, and he acted the part.

Marple had been a fan of the young Peruvian’s first establishment—a tiny Brooklyn gastropub. Now he finally had the space to indulge his whims. He was vain, but his food justified it. Besides, Marple was used to ingenious people who were totally full of themselves. She lived with two of them.

Holmes, happily free of his bandages, was just finishing his appetizer—a colorful mix of persimmon tomatoes and martini cucumbers. “Insanely good,” he mumbled between bites.

Marple smiled. Aside from a permanent crease in his scalp, her partner seemed back to normal. Whatever normal meant forBrendan Holmes. At least his urine was clean. Marple was sure of that. She’d tested it herself that morning.

Poe and Grey sat next to each other on Marple’s left. They were sharing a bowl of acorn squash puree with hickory nuts.

“Do they ever serve this in your break room?” asked Poe.

“Only when we run out of instant oatmeal,” said Grey. She closed her eyes as she took another silky spoonful.

The dinner had been Marple’s idea. Part celebration. Part peace offering. She knew that Helene hadn’t totally forgiven the firm for catching the kidnapping case on the sly—or for solving it without her. Grey had taken a huge dose of shit from Police Commissioner Boolin, and she was now on Agent Brita Stans’s permanent blacklist. This was a way to patch things up between Grey and the firm. Maybe. At least a start. Marple liked Helene. And she liked that Helene liked Poe. He hadn’t looked this happy in a very long time.

Dinner and drinks were on the house tonight, thanks to a favor Marple had called in a few months back. Aquilar’s sous chef had been stuck in immigration limbo until the proper documents mysteriously appeared in his attorney’s mailbox. God bless America.

Marple sipped her sinfully expensive sherry, the one Luka Franke had recommended. The other three were drinking wine. The alcohol loosened the mood and heightened the anticipation. When the sampler of main courses arrived, there were actual gasps around the table.

“Outrageous,” pronounced Holmes. And it was. Also decadent, sensuous, and mind-bending. When the squad of waiters departed, the table was filled with plates that looked like modern art. Cheese ravioli in pasta as clear as glass, foamy castles of strawberry and caviar, translucent bubbles of taro root, tinted cubes of beef gelatin topped with dark buttons of olive puree, and a delicately deconstructed lobster Bolognese. Forks were raised. Everybody took their first bites.

For several minutes, the table was silent, except for the clink of flatware and moans of pleasure. As the food disappeared, Marple tapped her glass.

“I’d like to propose a toast,” she said. The others picked up their wineglasses. “To Brendan Holmes, a man who abhors the dull routine of existence. Welcome home.”

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