Holmes Is Missing

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11

•••

CHAPTER 1

IT WAS 2 a.m. The posted speed limit on the Williamsburg Bridge into Manhattan was 35 miles per hour. But Auguste Poe was abiding by his personal driving code: Go as fast as possible, whenever possible. For short stretches, the needle on his vintage Shelby Charger was touching 60. The hum of the tires bounced off the concrete side barriers. Margaret Marple sat beside him in the front passenger seat, gritting her teeth — and biting her tongue.

“I know what you’re thinking, so keep it to yourself,” said Poe. “Helene said to get there in a hurry.”

“And hopefully, still among the living,” Marple replied, watching the bridge struts whiz by in a blur.

The call had come in on Poe’s personal cell phone barely half an hour ago — not on the main line at their private detective agency, Holmes, Marple & Poe Investigations. Marple was usually the one with connections, so it irked her just a little that in this case Poe was the one with the inside line to an NYPD homicide detective, but she knew why. And a case was a case.

“Helene said this was a big one. That’s about all she had time to say,” Poe had told Marple after he’d knocked on her apartment door, down the hallway from his own.

Now fully awake, Marple took in the glittering lights of Manhattan, its towers and spires glowing like party ornaments. They crossed the bridge and sped west across the city. Even at two in the morning, there was traffic along Delancey. Poe downshifted through a yellow light and made an illegal screeching left turn onto Ludlow, heading south.

Marple rocked hard to the right. “Bus!” she shouted.

Poe swerved just in time to avoid clipping the thirty-ton brute. “I wish Holmes was here,” she said.

Poe shot her a quizzical look. “Why would you miss him right now?” he asked. “Brendan is a terrible driver.”

“That makes two of you,” said Marple.

Their destination was St. Michael’s Hospital, but the police barricade stopped them a block short. Poe pulled the Charger to the right and double-parked, effectively blocking two NYPD patrol cars. He turned off the ignition and opened the driver-side door, ignoring the “Hey, asshole!” shouts from cops nearby. Marple could barely squeeze out between the passenger door and the police vehicle to her right. Poe met her on the sidewalk. He put both hands on her shoulders.

“Look, Margaret. It goes without saying that I miss Brendan too,” he said. “Don’t worry. He’ll send us a sign when he’s ready.” They both turned and hurried to the end of the street, where St. Michael’s loomed — a ten-story hunk of granite with small, narrow windows. It had been a fixture in the neighborhood since the late 1800s, when the Sisters of Charity convinced a group of rich Upper East Siders that the Lower East Side needed help. The nuns were long gone, but the hospital had evolved into one of the city’s most prestigious private medical centers.

As Marple and Poe got closer to the hospital entrance, they saw cops running in the same direction, flowing from a nearby precinct house, shoulder radios squawking. The street was lined with small businesses, most closed and shuttered for the night. One glowing exception was Cops & Docs, a worn-looking bar sitting kitty-corner from the hospital.

“There’s Helene!” Poe called out. Marple spotted her at the same time.

Detective Lieutenant Helene Grey was waiting near a stone pillar in front of the hospital. She wore dark trousers and a matching jacket, with a telltale bulge from the gun belt at her hip. Her badge was suspended around her neck, dangling over her crisp white blouse.

As they got closer, Marple noted there was no overt acknowledgment between Grey and Poe that they’d been lovers for months. There were no pleasantries at all, just cursory nods all around. Helene’s face looked drawn — as grim as Marple had ever seen her. And they had been together in some very tough situations.

“What is it?” asked Poe. “What’s going on?”

“It’s a kidnapping,” said Grey. “But not just that. Honestly, I’ve never seen anything like it. Nobody at NYPD has.” She turned to lead the way past a hospital security booth and into the main lobby. Grey walked quickly, blowing past other detectives and plainclothes teams. Uniformed cops gave her room as she powered toward the first-floor elevator bank.

“Where are we headed?” asked Marple.

Grey jabbed the Up button with her thumb. Her expression turned even darker.

“Maternity,” she said.

•••

CHAPTER 2

POE ALWAYS FELT a tingle in Helene’s presence — an enlivened state of being. Even when she was all business. Even when the circumstances were bleak. Like now. Standing a few inches behind her in the elevator, Poe fixated on the clip that held her blond hair in a tight bun above her jacket collar. It was a small circular disk the color of a blood moon. As omens go, it was far from good.

Marple squeezed his arm. “Please behave yourself when we get there,” she whispered.

“When have I not?” asked Poe.

A second later, the elevator door opened onto total chaos.

Poe could hear women crying even before he saw them. He followed Grey and Marple toward the nurses’ station in the center of the unit. Cops and nurses and detectives were milling around the hallways. Hospital security honchos paced the floor in dark suits while floor guards in short-sleeved shirts gripped their walkies and tried to appear useful.

Poe looked toward a small glass-fronted room off the main unit. The crying was coming from there, from where half a dozen women in shapeless hospital gowns were sobbing and wailing and clinging to one another like condemned prisoners. Suddenly, Poe felt a hard shoulder against his chest. An athletic man in a bulky grey suit was blocking the way. Like Helene, he wore a detective badge around his neck.

“What are these assholes doing here?” he asked. The question was directed at Grey, as was the follow-up: “Who the hell invited PIs to an active crime scene?”

“Back off, Vail,” said Helene. “I brought them in. My call.”

Poe was fully aware of the friction between his firm and the NYPD in general. The reason for it was simple. Holmes, Marple & Poe Investigations had recently solved some very big cases — right under the noses of the police department. Those noses were still out of joint. But Poe didn’t care. He poked Detective Vail in the chest. “Haven’t you heard? There’s been a kidnapping.”

“That’s not possible,” said Vail. “This place has security up the ass. You couldn’t steal a goddamn Band-Aid from this floor.”

Before Poe could respond, Marple yanked him aside. “Stop it, Auguste! You won’t make any friends with that attitude.”

“I’m not here to make friends,” Poe replied. “I’m here to get answers.”

A nurse in burgundy scrubs walked up and handed Grey a sheet of paper.

“Is this the list?” Grey asked.

The nurse nodded grimly. She had the look of a woman at the end of a very long shift — maybe two.

Grey tapped the page. “Six,” she said. “Six missing newborn babies.”

Poe looked at Marple. Helene had not exaggerated. This was a huge case. Too bad their firm was not at full strength. He leaned over and whispered in Marple’s ear. “Of all the times to be one brain short!”

•••

CHAPTER 3

MARPLE TURNED TOWARD the roomful of sobbing women in hospital gowns. She realized that she was looking at the frantic mothers — the ones whose babies had been stolen from the nursery in the middle of the night. Had they been gathered together in the same room by the cops or had they found one another in their fear?

As she watched through the glass, Marple saw a detective slip into the room with them, her pen and notepad ready. The women lurched forward, almost engulfing her. Their faces were streaked with tears, their expressions haunted.

Marple felt Poe at her elbow. “Best day of their lives,” he said. “Now the worst.”

Suddenly, an elevator door opened and a whole new group burst into the unit.

“Brace yourself,” said Marple. “I think the dads just arrived.” The partners emerged as a single mass, wild-eyed and panicky. Marple counted five men and one woman. A big guy in expensive slacks and a blue dress shirt was in the lead.

A Master of the Universe type, thought Marple, looking to take control.

“Where’s my wife?” he shouted. “Christine!” He moved like a rugby player, bumping cops and nurses aside. When he spot- ted the room full of distraught women, he waved frantically. One of the women waved back. A young cop stepped up to ask for ID. The big guy pushed past him like he wasn’t even there.

Marple watched as the other five followed him into the glass-fronted room, finding their partners and embracing them tightly.

The keening inside the room intensified, now accompanied by curses and angry mutters. The man in the dress shirt turned on the young detective. “What happened here? What are you doing about this? Where are our babies?”

Marple saw the detective try to assert her command, but it was no use. The furious father towered over her. A couple of hospital security guards hustled over, but the angry dads shoved them out of the room. The detective backed out too, clearly flustered.

Helene Grey walked over to Marple and Poe. “What a shit show,” she muttered.

“What else do we know?” asked Poe.

“It was clean. It was quick. It was professional.”

“How many babies were in the nursery at the time?”

“Eight. We’re keeping the remaining two babies there for the moment — under close watch — but we’ve isolated the mothers and moved all other patients off this floor.”

“Inside job?” asked Marple.

“No doubt,” said Helene.

“Everybody listen up, please!” The voice had come from the nurses’ station in the center of the floor. Marple turned to see a tall woman in a knee-length lab coat standing in front of the curved countertop. Her posture was perfect and her greying chestnut hair was pulled into a severe ponytail. Through piercing eyes, she looked out over the turmoil and commanded silence.

“I’m Dr. Revell Schulte,” she said, her voice clear and firm. “I’m head of the maternity unit. I know what’s happened here is terrible. But we need order. And we need calm. This is a birthing center, not a police station. The women down this hallway have just given birth. They’ve all undergone massive physical trauma and are in need of medical care. So if you don’t absolutely need to be here, please leave.”

“You heard the doctor,” a tall, bookish-looking man in a dark suit said to Grey. He’d walked up during Dr. Schulte’s speech. “I don’t understand what a homicide detective is doing at a kidnapping scene in the first place.”

“Good to see you, Captain,” said Grey.

Marple decided this must be Captain Graham Duff, the newly arrived head of the Major Case Squad. She had heard about Duff but hadn’t yet met him in person. Her first impression: he was every inch the prick she’d expected.

Marple could tell Grey wasn’t a fan of her new boss either. It was clear now that she was unsettled by his intrusion, but she quickly regained her composure. “I figured it was all hands on deck on a call like this, Captain. I know it’s not my case to catch. I’m just here to help.”

“So what’s with the spectators?” he asked, jerking his head toward Marple and Poe.

Marple cleared her throat. “Captain Duff, I’m Margaret Marple, and this is my partner Auguste Poe. We’re private investigators from Brooklyn. You may have heard about —”

“I know who you are,” said Duff, cutting her off. “And like the good doctor said, you don’t need to be here.”

“Look! It’s them!” The shout had come from the roomful of parents. Marple glanced over to see the frantic mothers and fathers looking their way. “It’s Poe! And Marple!” one of the women shouted. “Thank God!” another mom sobbed. The parents spilled out of the tiny room and headed across the floor.

Marple smiled at Duff, her British accent adding an extra dab of sweetness. “See that, Captain? I believe we might be wanted after all.”

•••

CHAPTER 4

POE AND MARPLE held their ground as the parents swarmed around them. Grey and Duff took a step back to avoid being run over. It was almost an assault — the desperate parents clamoring for answers, all talking at once. “What’s going on?” “Can’t you do something?” “Why is everybody just standing around?”

Poe held out his hands and pressed them gently downward, as if calming the waters. “One at a time, please. We’re here to help.” He glanced at Helene. “We’re all here to help.”

One of the mothers spoke up, her voice shaking. “You were the ones who found those killers this summer.”

“Yes,” said Poe. “We are.”

“Is this a murder case?” wailed another mom. “Is my baby dead?”

Her husband wrapped his arm tightly around her shoulders. “Nobody’s dead!” he said firmly.

“Nobody knows anything yet,” said Duff, stepping in front of the throng, “but it’s important we move quickly.”

The parents totally ignored him. The man in the dress shirt reached past Duff to grasp Poe’s hand. “I’m Sterling Cade,” he said. “I’d like to hire your firm.” He looked around at the other parents. “I think we’d all like to hire you.” The others mumbled and nodded their assent. “I promise you,” Cade went on, “money is not an issue. Whatever you need from us, you’ve got it.”

“We’d be honored to take the case,” said Poe.

“Hold on a goddamn minute!” Duff called out, a sharp edge to his voice. “This is a New York Police Department investigation. And if it turns out to be an abduction, as it appears to be, we’ll be calling in resources from around the country.” Looking at the desperate faces in front of him, he softened his tone slightly. “Please, folks. I know this is a bad time. I know you’re scared. But we have this investigation under control.”

“We hear you,” said a woman in a maternity gown, standing with her wife. She pointed firmly toward Marple and Poe. “But we want them.”

“You’re making a mistake, ma’am,” said Duff, suddenly icy again. He held up his bony index finger and jabbed it in the air three times for emphasis. “We need one investigation, one central task force, one coordinated effort. That’s how crimes like this get solved. By professionals doing their jobs. Not by amateurs playing cops and robbers for a fee.”

Poe had a sharp retort ready, but he had a feeling he wouldn’t need it. And he was right. Another mother piped up from the back of the crowd. She stared directly at Duff.

“So why didn’t you catch those murderers this summer on your own? Why did you need help from Holmes, Marple, and Poe? It was all over the news.”

Duff’s mouth tightened. Poe glanced at Helene, reading her expression. Her look said, Don’t push it. Then he heard the question he knew was coming.

“Hey,” one of the dads said, “where’s the other guy? Where the hell is Holmes?”

Poe looked over at Marple. He knew she’d been expecting the question too. She had an answer ready.

“Mr. Holmes is working on a private case of his own at the moment,” said Marple. “But he’s not far, I promise.”

Poe nodded with a tight smile. Nothing Marple had said was strictly untrue. Their partner, Brendan Holmes, was indeed hard at work. At a private facility in upstate New York. Kicking his decades-long addiction to heroin.

Grey was aware of the situation. Duff, thank God, was not. “If I know Holmes,” said Poe, “he’ll be helping out any way he can.”

Duff’s cell phone rang. He turned away to answer it. Grey stepped up and faced the group of distraught parents. She lifted her badge on its lanyard. “I’m Detective Lieutenant Helene Grey, NYPD.” She nodded toward Poe and Marple. “I’ve worked with these investigators before. I trust them. And if you want their help, that’s your decision. We’re all on the same team here. What all of us want is to find your children. Your babies. So right now what we need is to get your statements. One at a time. In your own words. Everything you can remember about the last twenty-four hours. Can we please start there?”

Poe watched as the crowd melted into acceptance. Even the wannabe-alpha Sterling Cade was nodding. Grey had gotten to them. Poe had seen her play tough cop plenty of times. But what this crowd needed was empathy. Grey clearly sensed it, and she’d delivered. She’d also given his firm a solid endorsement. Poe felt like reaching out to hug her, which he knew would be wildly inappropriate. He looked to his right.

Marple was gone.

For a second, Poe was nervous. Then he realized that his partner was probably off doing what she did best.

She was snooping.

•••

CHAPTER 5

IN CHARGED SITUATIONS like this, Margaret Marple found that flashing her private investigator’s official license card opened as many doors as a bona fide police shield. The trick was to wave it quickly for effect and then tuck it away. Her British charm and no-nonsense attitude usually did the rest.

That’s how she got nurse Ellie Tellman to lead her to the actual crime scene — the hospital nursery — after they first slipped into a small staff anteroom to don pale yellow PPE outfits. Tellman was in her early twenties, with neat, beaded cornrows that spilled across her shoulders. Marple had detected a musical lilt to her accent, now slightly muted by the N95 mask.

“You’re Jamaican,” said Marple. The nurse nodded. “Montego Bay.” “How do you like working here?”

“I love working with babies,” said the nurse, her eyes wide and expressive. “Until tonight.”

Tellman led the way from the anteroom down a short corridor to an imposing metal door. A sign below a small window in the center read, staff only beyond this point. Tellman pushed through. Marple followed.

Inside, everything felt jarringly wrong.

The nursery, designed as an oasis of comfort and quiet, was now occupied by sturdy cops in gowns and masks. Marple’s stomach dropped at the sight of crime-scene tape on six empty bassinets in the center of the room. On one side of the brightly lit space, two new arrivals to the world lay in clear plastic bassinets, wrapped like burritos in hospital blankets. Marple scanned the room from one side to the other. It looked sound and secure. Other than the door they had entered, the only exit was at the back, leading to a side corridor.

This nursery was nothing like the old viewing galleries from the last century, where new parents stood tapping at a picture window, trying to pick their baby out from a roomful of newborns. This was more like a bank vault, designed to protect precious gems.

“Hey! Who let you in here?” It was a man’s voice. Stern and irritated. Marple looked over to see a hospital security guard looming in the doorway, his PPE gown stretched tightly across his broad chest.

“It’s okay, Santo,” said Tellman in her charming lilt. “This is Miss Marple. She’s investigating.”

Marple was ready to whip out her ID card again, but Santo seemed willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. He let the door close behind him and walked over. He peeked at one of the new babies, whose tiny foot had slipped free of the blanket. Marple looked over. The little ankle was encircled by a bright green band, the same hue as the leaves of a neon pothos plant.

“I don’t know how they beat it,” said Santo, shaking his head. “Beat what?” asked Marple.

Santo pointed at the tiny band. “Every baby has this band. Matched to a band on the mother. The band has a chip inside. A sensor. You know what I mean?”

Marple nodded. “I do.”

“If that band comes anywhere near an exit,” said the guard, “alarms go off.” He pointed at a small monitor on the wall. “Here. At the nurses’ desk. At the security station. Everybody knows.” He made a scissors motion with two fingers. “You clip the band, same thing. Alarm.”

Marple walked over and looked above the exit door. Sure enough, there was the sensor plate, right alongside a security camera. She walked slowly back across the room until she was standing with Santo and the young nurse next to one of the occupied bassinets. Suddenly, she placed her hands on the top and started wheeling the baby across the room.

“Hey!” said the guard, starting after her. “Miss!” yelled Tellman. “What are you doing?”

“Making a point,” said Marple, moving in smooth, gliding steps. She pushed the bassinet quickly toward the exit door and stopped one inch short as Santo caught up to her, scowling and furious.

“Just wait,” said Marple, holding up one hand.

She stared at the door sensor. Listened for a couple seconds.

Looked over at Santo.

No alarm.

“Your little green loops are counterfeit,” said Marple, looking down at the sleeping baby. “They might as well be wristbands at Coachella.”

•••

CHAPTER 6

DOWN THE HALL, Poe was battling a touch of claustrophobia. The maternity unit’s security annex was way too small for the dozens of law enforcement personnel inside — cops, detectives, and a couple of newly arrived agents from the local FBI office. Squeezed up against a wall between two overweight uniforms, Poe couldn’t shake the image of a clown car.

“Quiet, dammit! I can’t think!” The assistant head of security held up one hand for silence. He was sweating like a weight lifter as he ran through footage from the surveillance cameras. The audience was riveted. But there wasn’t much to see.

Poe was not at all shocked to learn that the nursery cams had been disabled for two minutes — exactly the amount of time it apparently took to walk from the nursery to the supply elevator, then go down five floors to street level. He and Helene had timed the route themselves.

“How many cameras in the system?” Poe called out, still pressed against the wall.

“Hundreds,” said the security guy. “Interior. Exterior. Everywhere.”

“They disabled as few as possible,” said Poe. “Surgical.”

“What the hell are you doing in here?” It was Detective Vail.

The room was so packed that Poe hadn’t noticed him. “I’m trying to solve the case,” said Poe. “You?”

“Shit! Look!” said the security guy. Like the nursery cams, the loading dock views were all distorted with static. Except one. The view from this camera linked to an older CCTV setup. The image was grainy and the angle was not all that helpful. It showed a partial side view of a box truck, parked so that no driver or tags were visible. At 01:00:01 on the time code, the truck was there. By 01:00:15, it was gone.

“It’s a Ford E-Series,” said Poe, “2014 or ’15.”

Helene immediately pulled out her phone and put out an APB on the vehicle, but Poe knew there were probably thousands like it in the tristate area. And he also knew that operatives this slick wouldn’t be using the truck for long. If the babies were still alive, they were probably tucked away in a soundproof room by now.

A perimeter had already been set up around Manhattan. Highways. Bridges. Tunnels. A diligent step but probably worthless. Poe realized that even without breaking any speed limits, the kidnappers could already be in Connecticut, Massachusetts, or downstate New Jersey. Not to mention at any of the area’s airports.

He needed air. He exited the windowless room the only way he could, by backing out, squeezing past police and security personnel as he went. Loosening his collar in the bright, antiseptic-scented hallway, he felt Helene’s shoulder against his. She let out a long breath.

“We need to talk,” she said. “You and me.”

“Something you couldn’t say in there?” asked Poe, nodding back toward the security room.

“Correct,” said Helene. “It’s private. Your ears only.”

•••

CHAPTER 7

THE ELEVATOR DOOR opened onto the hospital lobby. At ground level, the police presence was still thick, mixed with doctors and nurses moving around on their wee-hours shifts. Poe walked with Helene across the polished floor and through the revolving door to the sidewalk.

When they stepped outside, Helene nodded across the street to the Cops & Docs bar. “Over there,” she said. They wound their way past idling police cars and entered through the weathered wooden front door.

The place was new to Poe, off the beaten path from his typical drinking establishments in the city. The décor was exactly as the name suggested: walls festooned with vintage photographs of New York police officers and white-coated physicians, and an eclectic collection of memorabilia: nightsticks, badges, wooden crutches, rusted handcuffs, and antique stethoscopes. A large plaque read, serving those who serve since 1885. Poe looked around. Even at this hour the place was doing a solid business. Clearly, building a neighborhood bar around two 24/7 professions was a pretty smart business model, especially when both jobs required a lot of decompression and commiseration.

Poe spotted a booth occupied by a team of uniformed cops and a couple of detectives. Helene steered him toward the bar instead. A plastic candleholder with a fake flame sat in the middle of the bar’s worn wooden surface, marred by tiny scratches and stained with water rings from thousands of glasses.

“Eighteen eighty-five,” said Poe, nodding toward the wall plaque. “Looks like some of this stuff has been here since they opened.”

He was just trying to make conversation. Inside, he was anxious. What is this about? He was worried that he’d offended Helene with one or more of his odd habits. Or maybe she’d found out something about his past. As close as they’d become over the past few months, there were still a lot of things Poe didn’t want her to know. Not yet.

Maybe never.

“Hi. What can I get you?” The black-clad bartender spoke in a monotone that seemed perfectly suited to the hour. It matched her jet-black hair and hollow-eyed expression.

“Bourbon. Neat,” said Poe.

“Ginger ale for me,” said Helene.

The bartender nodded and shuffled off. “You’re still on duty?” Poe asked Helene.

She nodded, then lowered her eyes. “Funny, right? Just when you need a drink the most, you can’t have one.”

“You can have a sip of mine,” said Poe. “I won’t tell.”

Helene drew a deep breath then and exhaled slowly. She rested a hand on the bar and leaned toward Poe, looking him directly in the eye. “Auguste, I’m pregnant.”

Poe sat up straight on his stool, his heart racing. He blinked.

It took a few seconds for the words to register completely. He reached over and grabbed Helene’s hand.

She flicked her eyes around the room and pulled away. “I know this isn’t what you were expecting,” she said softly. “Believe me, neither was I.”

“You’re sure?” asked Poe. Stupid question. Stalling for time. “I’m a pretty sharp detective,” said Helene. “I think I can tell two lines from one.”

“What are you . . . ? What can I . . . ?” Poe was fumbling for words.

Fumbling for thoughts. “I mean, are you . . . happy . . . or . . . ?”

“Detective Grey!” A uniformed cop was shouting from the doorway.

Helene looked back. The cop took two steps into the room and jerked his thumb toward the hospital. “Duff wants you to get back up there. Now!”

Helene stared at Poe for a second, then abruptly stood up. She gave him a quick pat on the shoulder. “Stay,” she said.

Poe turned to watch Helene leave, the uniform right behind her. A moment later, the bartender reappeared and set down the drinks, placing the ginger ale in front of Helene’s now-empty seat. She turned and started shuffling back toward the other end of the bar. Poe glanced at his watch and then called after her. “Excuse me!”

“Something wrong with your drink?”

Poe shook his head. “I’m sure it’s fine. I haven’t even started on it. But seeing as you’re busy and it’s getting close to last call, I wanted to let you know that I’ll definitely need another.”

•••

CHAPTER 8

FOUR HOURS LATER, Poe was still reeling over Helene’s news and nursing a significant hangover besides. He’d tried texting Grey several times before dawn but had gotten no response. Either she was tied up with the case or she was avoiding him. When he came downstairs at 8 a.m. after barely two hours of sleep, he kept the pregnancy news to himself, as if telling somebody else would make it too real.

He sat down next to Marple at the island in the chef’s kitchen that adjoined their office space on the first floor of their shared building, a two-story brick structure originally built as a bakery in the 1800s. Poe and his partners had had the space gut-renovated shortly after joining forces to establish Holmes, Marple & Poe Investigations, installing three private apartments and a personal library for themselves on the second floor, with interior balconies overlooking the lower level’s open-plan workspace and an elegant staircase linking the two levels.

It was a perfect live-work situation, if a bit unconventional. What it lacked in privacy, it made up for in convenience. On mornings like this, Poe truly appreciated the one-story commute.

“Where did you disappear to last night?” asked Marple, sipping from a mug of tea.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“I was in the St. Michael’s nursery investigating the security, which was supposed to be foolproof. Where were you?”

“Thinking,” said Poe.

“And drinking?” asked Marple.

“I don’t need a babysitter, Margaret.”

Virginia, the investigation firm’s young assistant-slash-housekeeper, was busy at the stove, the griddle sizzling. The twenty-four-year-old had been Poe’s first hire, and one of his best management decisions. Everybody agreed on that. Virginia had immediately brought order to the firm’s files, accounting practices, and contact lists. She’d even updated their security system. She had an uncanny knack for knowing what was needed at any particular moment. An absolute gem, Marple called her.

Virginia’s dark hair was newly tinted — orange today. The light glinted off the hoop in her nostril. Baskerville, her huge white mastiff, was hunkered down at her side, waiting expectantly for scraps. Marple’s black cat, Annabel, sat poised across the room, clocking each of Virginia’s movements.

“Who wants pancakes?” Virginia asked, spooning golden batter into the sizzling skillet.

Poe raised his hand. “Yes, please.” Virginia’s sweet potato pancakes were amazing.

“Me too,” said Marple, nibbling on a slice of leftover cider cake, another of Virginia’s specialties. Recently, Virginia had begun to honor the building’s history as a bakery by turning out an irresistible array of muffins, breads, and desserts. The aroma of the pancakes mixed with the aroma of the thick-cut bacon from the oven.

Poe rubbed his head, trying to clear the ache and fog from his brain. A massive injection of protein and carbs was exactly what his weakened system needed. And, as usual, Virginia seemed to anticipate it.

“Virginia, you’re spoiling us,” said Marple.

“It’s the farmer in me,” said Virginia. “I like feeding people.” As Poe had learned, Virginia was raised in rural Pennsylvania, the only daughter of a Quaker dairy farmer. When she realized she was not cut out for country life, she moved to New York, bringing her farm recipes, her Quaker discipline, and her love of animals with her.

Virginia dropped a half slice of cooked bacon into Baskerville’s huge maw and tossed a much smaller piece to Annabel, then slid a fresh platter of pancakes onto the table and lifted the lid off a small ceramic dish. “Honey butter,” she said. “Made it yesterday.”

Poe looked up from his plate. “Virginia, sit,” he said. “Stop cooking and eat.”

“Already did,” said Virginia, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She was always the first one in the office, even though her apartment was several blocks away. “I’ll just have coffee.”

She sat down on a stool across from Poe and Marple and looked out over the first-floor office space. Then she let out a long sigh. “It’s not the same without Mr. Holmes, is it?”

Poe’s nerves were already frayed. By the kidnapping. By the momentous secret Helene had shared with him. But for some reason, this was the breaking point. He slapped his hand on the countertop and muttered through gritted teeth, “Will everybody please stop stating the obvious?!”

Virginia sat up straight, her eyes wide. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice quaking, “I just . . .”

Marple put her hand on Virginia’s forearm. “Don’t worry about it. Mr. Poe is simply frazzled by the case.” Virginia already knew all about the hospital kidnapping. It had led the local news that morning.

“Six babies,” said Virginia. “So horrible.”

Poe put down his fork and looked over at Marple. “Everybody misses Holmes,” he said. “You. Me. Virginia. The dog too, no doubt. I think it’s time.”

Marple cocked her head. “You mean . . . ?” “You know exactly what I mean.”

Marple slid off her chair and looked across the table. She wiped the last bit of honey butter off her lips with a napkin. “Hold down the fort, Virginia,” she said. “Mr. Poe and I are going on a road trip.”

•••

CHAPTER 9

“ARE WE ABSOLUTELY sure this is a good idea?” asked Marple. She was now having second thoughts about the mission, not least the toll a ten-hour return trip might take on her sleep-deprived driver.

“What? Surprising him?” asked Poe. “It’s the best possible idea.”

“What if we trigger him? Throw him back into his old patterns?”

“Are you saying we might be a bad influence on Brendan Holmes?”

“No,” said Marple after a moment’s thought. “Probably the other way around.” Whether the trip was prudent or not, the truth was she couldn’t wait to see him.

They were heading up Route 79 toward Ithaca, New York, in Poe’s ’66 Pontiac GTO — a better cruising machine than the Charger, he claimed. Marple couldn’t really tell the difference. To her, all of Poe’s flashy muscle cars were loud and uncomfortable. Fun to drive, maybe, but not great for the passenger. All jerky shifts and engine whines. Marple much preferred sedate high-end sedans from Uber Black, but Poe loved to drive, and she wasn’t about to deny him that small pleasure. Not in the mood he was in.

They were west of the Catskills now, about halfway to Ithaca, two and a half hours northwest of the city. Along the way, they passed bare fields with isolated farmhouses and small towns that had seen better days — the kind of places where Marple loved to indulge two of her favorite hobbies: antiquing and bird-watching.

“How long has it been?” asked Poe. “Since he left.”

“Two months, eleven days, six hours,” said Marple. She’d been keeping count. She could have added the minutes.

Marple absolutely agreed with Virginia. The office was not the same without Holmes. Without him, the place lacked a certain drive and energy. Fortunately, the workload had been light since he’d been away — minor cases, easily disposed of, or ongoing investigations that could afford to simmer for a while. At least until last night.

Even on small cases, Marple missed her partner’s deductive skills and technical savvy. As a detective, he was one of a kind. She missed their everyday camaraderie too. The banter. The discussions. Even the arguments. Holmes, Marple, and Poe. The magic of three. One on one, she sometimes found Poe’s moodiness exhausting.

Marple looked over at him, his hands tight on the steering wheel. So far on the drive, Poe had been quiet for long stretches, seemingly lost in his own world. Except for the ten times he had tried to speed-dial Helene — without result.

“Is something on your mind, Auguste?” “Nothing I want to talk about right now.”

“All right, then . . .” Time for a distraction. Marple turned on the radio and pressed Scan. Reception was iffy until the receiver locked on to a classic rock station, which came in loud and clear. When Marple recognized the bass line to “Every Breath You Take,” she cranked up the volume and began singing along, adding a sweet high harmony to the lead vocal — the one about

watching somebody’s every step, every word, every move.

“This should be our company theme song,” said Marple, humming along when she ran out of lyrics she knew. Poe stared ahead at the road. Something was eating at him, Marple could tell. She also knew enough not to pry. At least not at the moment. Patience. It was a lesson she had learned from countless inter- views and interrogations over the years. Give the dam time to burst on its own.

Marple kept humming along with Sting as she pulled out her iPad and started zipping through international crime reports. As her fingers flew across the keys, she thought about how much the world had changed since she was a fledgling investigator. It didn’t seem that long ago. Now even Interpol had a presence on social media.

She spent the next couple of hours digging down to a file of current investigations around the world — cybercrimes, government corruption, counterfeiting. A few firewalls and keywords later, she landed on a confidential report from London. Four infants had recently gone missing from a private, upscale hospital in Kensington. The authorities were keeping it quiet. Somehow they’d even managed to keep the parents out of the media.

“Aha!” she said. “Take a look at this!” She held the screen up so Poe could see it.

“Not now,” said Poe. “We’re here.”

Marple looked up and put away her iPad. They were approaching a set of fieldstone pillars with a thick iron gate. No engraved plaque told visitors that this was Lake View, but as the gate immediately swung open upon their arrival, Poe eased through the entrance and onto a winding gravel road. A minute later, the rehab center rose into view. The brick building had an almost Norman design, with wood and natural stone around the entry- way, some of its hues blending in with the surrounding woods. In the distance, Marple could see sunlight reflecting off Cayuga Lake.

As they pulled up to the entrance, she smiled when she spotted Holmes on the front porch, the only Black man in the row of residents sitting in huge Adirondack chairs. His shaved head gleamed, and his bare feet rested on a small stool. He wore a plush white robe over pajamas.

“Do you think he knew we were coming?” asked Poe. “Well, he is Holmes after all.”

Poe pulled the car to a stop in a visitor parking space. Marple opened her door and stepped out. She waved. Holmes waved back. He wiggled his bare feet.

“He looks content,” said Poe. “Maybe he’s planning to stay through the fall.”

“No,” said Marple. “He’s ready to leave. I can feel it.”

•••

CHAPTER 10

AS MARPLE AND Poe ascended the wide porch steps, Holmes jumped up from the chair and held his arms out wide, like an actor owning a stage. Then came a pronouncement at the top of his voice. “ ‘How small we feel with our petty ambitions and strivings in the presence of the great elemental forces of nature!’ ”

“I’m glad to see you’ve been catching up on your reading,” said Marple. She moved in to give him a hug. He felt solid and looked healthy.

“The country atmosphere has changed me for good,” said Holmes. He took a deep breath and let it out with a burst. “ ‘How sweet the morning air is!’ ”

Poe looked irritated and impatient. “Are you just going to keep quoting from mystery novels,” he asked, “or can we have a serious conversation?”

“You’ve come to drag me back to that great cesspool, haven’t you?” said Holmes.

“How are you feeling, Brendan?” asked Marple. “How are things going with the program?”

“I’m clean, Margaret,” said Holmes. “Renewed, restored, and reformed.”

Marple had to admit that his eyes seemed clearer, and he was definitely full of pep.

“Brendan,” she said, “if you’re really better, and I truly hope you are, it’s time to come back to work. We’ve got a huge case on our hands, and we need your —”

“Let’s work here!” Holmes interrupted. “Join me! I’m sure we can find two vacant rooms.” He started pacing across the porch in his bare feet, ignoring the other residents. “The woods are so stimulating!” he said. “Cool nights, wind through the leaves, the occasional scream of madness.” He paused and leaned against a porch rail. “I can see why my mother liked this place.”

Poe walked over and cleared his throat. “Brendan, I have something to tell you.” He looked back at Marple. “I have something to tell both of you.”

Marple stepped up and cocked her head. Was this what had made Poe nervous all day? Was there something he needed to get off his chest? She and Holmes followed him to an empty corner of the porch. Poe stared up at the treetops for a moment. Then it spilled out.

“Helene is pregnant. I’m the father.”

Marple reached over and gave Poe’s sleeve a hard tug. “Auguste! We’ve been driving together for five hours and you kept this to yourself?”

“I wanted to tell you both at the same time,” said Poe. “Get your gut responses at once.”

Marple’s gut response was shock, but she didn’t let it show. The timing seemed poor. Auguste and Helene had known each other barely four months. It was too early in the relationship. “Well, I think it’s wonderful,” she said after a moment. “You two make a terrific team.” This part she meant. She liked Helene a lot. And maybe having a child would get Poe past his old sorrows and bring a little brightness into his life. God knew he’d had enough gloom.

Holmes turned toward them both, his back to the railing, his expression grim. “Personally, I amconcerned,” he said. “For poor Helene!” He grabbed Poe by the shoulders. “Does she have any notion what it will mean to be linked for eternity to the dark and unfathomable Auguste Poe?”

“Brendan! Stop it!” scolded Marple. Suddenly, Holmes broke into a broad smile.

In a snap, Marple could tell that the old Brendan was back. She glanced at Poe. From his expression, she could tell that he saw it too. Holmes reached out and pulled them both into a tight embrace. “You didn’t take me seriously, did you?” he said. “About staying here?”

“You sounded pretty convincing,” said Marple.

Holmes stepped back. “Wait here,” he said. “I’ll just be a moment.”

He pulled open the front door and bolted into the building. A few seconds later, he emerged with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He headed down the porch stairs toward the car, still in his robe, pajamas, and now slippers. He turned back as his partners stared.

“What’s the problem?” he asked. “I showered this morning.

Four times actually. I may be sober. But I’m still obsessive.”

•••

CHAPTER 11

THE DRIVE BACK to Brooklyn was strangely silent and awkward. After an initial burst of energy, Holmes seemed sullen. Marple tried to brief him on the hospital kidnapping, but he seemed oddly distracted — more focused on the passing scenery than on coming up with his usual theories and paths of investigation. Behind the wheel, Poe had turned brooding and uncommunicative again. He’d apparently given up on trying to reach Helene from the road.

After a few more stabs at conversation, Marple ended up spending most of the time on her iPad. First, she arranged to have Poe’s ’77 Trans Am, the car he’d lent Holmes months earlier for the drive to Ithaca, transported back to Brooklyn. She then set an alert for reports of other missing babies. So far, only New York and London. She’d asked Virginia to dig up a contact in Scotland Yard, London’s Metropolitan Police. Maybe they’d be willing to compare notes. By the time Poe pulled the GTO up in front of the firm’s Brooklyn headquarters a little before 7 p.m., she was a bit nauseated from staring at her screen.

As Marple climbed out of the car, she saw three figures emerge from the front door. Virginia. Baskerville. And Helene Grey.

The huge dog got to Holmes first, jumping on him with enough force to knock him backward. “Desist, you beast!” Holmes shouted in mock alarm before giving the dog an affectionate pat and a vigorous scratch between the ears.

“Baskerville! Down!” Virginia called out. The dog obediently dropped to his haunches and sat panting on the sidewalk. Virginia stepped past him to give Holmes a firm hug. “Welcome back, Mr. Holmes,” she said, her forehead on his shoulder. “It hasn’t been the same without you.”

“I’ll tell you one thing, Virginia,” said Holmes. “The oatmeal cookies in rehab don’t hold a candle to yours.”

Grey stared for a few moments at Holmes’s sleepwear and slippers. She waited patiently on the front step as he approached. “Glad to have you back,” she said. “I’m sure you’ve heard that we really need your help.”

“We’ll see about that,” said Holmes cryptically. He brushed past her and walked inside. Grey gave Marple a questioning look.

Marple shrugged. She watched as Poe pulled the GTO into the loading bay, then pushed a button to close its garage door after retrieving Holmes’s duffel bag from the trunk. Then he walked over to the detective. “I’ve been trying to reach you,” he said.

“I know,” she replied. She turned and walked inside. Virginia stepped back into the doorway and pulled a leather leash from a hook. She looked at Marple. “Sorry to run, Miss Marple,” she said. “I’ve got to take Baskerville for his walk. We’ll be back in half an hour.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Marple. “Go on home for the night.”

“Really?” asked Virginia. “I’m happy to come back and help Mr. Holmes get settled.”

“No,” said Marple. “Leave that to me.”

“Okay, then,” said Virginia, clipping the leash to Baskerville’s collar. “See you in the morning.”

When Marple walked inside, she saw Holmes in the kitchen and Poe halfway up the staircase with Holmes’s duffel bag over his shoulder. Grey was standing awkwardly in the entryway.

Marple felt the urge to say something. Congratulations. When are you due? Boy or girl? But she held back. Not the time. Not her place. Helene might not even know that Marple knew.

As soon as Poe got back down to the first floor, Grey cleared her throat and cocked her head toward the door. “Got time for a walk?” she asked. Poe nodded. They headed out through the front door together and then turned, walking past the row of windows.

Marple was a top-notch lip reader, but all she could pick out was Poe saying, “Let’s go to the park.” Grey’s lips weren’t moving at all.

Marple turned to Holmes as he walked over. “What do you think? Is Poe definitely the father?”

Holmes nodded and headed for the stairs. “As my namesake would say, ‘the probability lies in that direction.’”

“In that case,” said Marple, following right behind him, “‘now is the dramatic moment of fate.’”

She knew her Conan Doyle as well as Holmes did. Maybe better.