Page 97 of Alex Cross Must Die

“Yes,” said Grey. “We did.” She pulled her walkie-talkie from her pocket. “Ten twenty-six. Room five Charlie.”

“Copy that,”came the staticky reply. Grey tugged the young man toward the bed and turned to Marple. “Cover him.”

Marple pointed Grey’s gun at the kid’s heaving chest as Grey holstered her backup gun and pulled out her cuffs. She took the kid by the shoulders and turned him around.

“Give me your hands,” she said.

“She was so beautiful,” said Carson.

“Yes, she was,” said Grey.

“I couldn’t just let her go. Ilovedher. All I wanted to do was bring her home. That’s all I wanted. To bring her home to Texas. That’s where she belonged.”

Grey cuffed him and sat him down on the saggy mattress. He was shaking his head as tears spilled down his angular face. “But she wouldn’t leave. She wouldn’t come back with me. I didn’t mean to …”

Leon started to push himself up from the corner. “No, Leon,” Grey said firmly. “I’ll tell you when.” He slumped back down again.

Marple took a step closer to the crumpled suspect on the bed. He didn’t look like a desperado, just a very sad kid. In a way, she actually felt sorry for him. She heard the clatter of the two cops racing up the staircase.

Grey grabbed the cowboy under the arm and pulled him up. He looked up at Marple and squinted slightly, as if he were trying to place the face.

“Don’t worry, Carson,” she said quietly. “I’ll make sure Lucy gets home.”

CHAPTER 112

IT WAS ALMOSTeleven in the evening when Grey pulled up in front of Holmes, Marple & Poe Investigations. Marple was slumped back in the passenger seat. She let out a breathy sigh as the car rolled to a stop. It had been a long, depressing night.

For a solid hour, she and Grey had sat across from Carson Parker as he wrote out his confession on a legal pad. Every single detail. The longest essay he’d ever written.

He had been slow and meticulous, describing the awkward reunion with Lucy in Manhattan, the drive out of the city in his truck, the argument in the park, the struggle, the fatal blow. He only broke down once—when he got to the part about sinking Lucy’s body in the river.

Since it happened, he’d gone to every cemetery in the city, watching for burials, wondering if somebody had found her. Grey had asked Parker if there was anybody he wanted to call. There wasn’t. Not even a lawyer.

“Thanks for the ride,” said Marple, reaching for the car door handle. She stopped and turned toward Grey. “Can I interest you in a nightcap?” She knew she still had some fence-mending to do.

“What the hell, Margaret,” said Grey. “You know I’m on duty.” She looked at her watch, then smiled. “I’m off in exactly fifteen seconds.”

They walked together up to the building’s main entrance. Marple leaned in toward the new iris-recognition scanner. She heard the lock release and pushed the door open. Then she stopped. The entire downstairs office was dark. Not even a security light.

“Wait,” said Marple. “Something’s wrong.”

Grey pulled out her pistol.

There was a squeaking sound coming from the center of the room. A slow, regular rhythm. Marple and Grey advanced slowly toward the noise. The light from the street outlined a figure in dark clothing rocking in a high-backed office chair.

Suddenly, a floor lamp clicked on.

Marple blinked. It was Luka Franke. There was a bottle on the small table beside him. He was swirling a snifter.

“Hands up!” shouted Grey.

“Don’t worry, Detective,” said Franke. “I’m unarmed. Margaret can tell you that I never go in heavy. Why would I risk the weapons charge?”

Grey lowered her pistol but held it ready.

Franke lifted the snifter toward Marple. “I brought you a fresh bottle of the Matusalem,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind that I started without you.”

“Is that to convince me it’s not poisoned?”

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