Page 38 of Holmes Is Missing
The Uber driver made great time uptown, beating almost every light. It wasn’t long before they were pulling up alongside the black wrought-iron fencing that bordered Marcus Garvey Park. Holmes climbed out and paused to get his bearings. Then he walked slowly along the street, checking numbers, until he reached the address named in thePostarticle.
The building was a classic four-story brownstone with granite steps leading up to a set of polished wood doors. For a locationthis close to the park, Holmes estimated the building’s value would be at three million plus. Gentrification in action.
He walked up the steps and rang the bell. A woman’s voice crackled through the speaker near the door. “Yes?”
“Hello. My name is Holmes. Brendan Holmes. I’m a private investigator working on a cold case in the neighborhood. I’m wondering if I could take a quick look at your apartment.”
There were a few moments of silence. Then, without another word, the buzzer sounded. Easier than he’d expected. Holmes turned the knob and pushed the door open. As soon as he stepped into the entryway, he heard footsteps on the other side of the interior door. Another set of locks clicked open, this time by hand.
The door opened into a dark interior hallway. At first it was hard to see the figure inside.
“Sherlock! You found me!”
The familiar rasp.
It was Oliver Paul.
CHAPTER44
“WELCOME!” SAID PAULwith a broad grin. “Come in!”
Holmes did his best to hide his surprise. “I thought you lived in Queens,” he said.
Paul turned to lead the way up the elaborate wood staircase to his apartment.
“We did,” he said. “But when this place came back on the market, we couldn’t resist.”
“We?”
As Holmes walked into the apartment, a woman emerged from the kitchen. Young. Attractive. Her brunette pixie cut complemented her delicate features. She was accompanied by two little girls, one in her arms, the other clinging to the leg of her jeans.
Oliver slid behind the woman and rested his hands on her shoulders. She was about an inch taller than he was. “This is my wife, Irene. Irene, this is Mr. Holmes. I call him Sherlock, for short.”
Holmes suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.
“I’ve heard all about you,” said Irene, jostling the little girl in her arms. “Sorry, my hands are full.” Her accent was British. The two girls were silent and shy, turning their heads away as Irene introduced them.
“This is Lily,” she said, nodding toward the girl she was holding. She reached down to tousle the hair of the girl grabbing her leg. “And this little Klingon is Brenda.” Both the girls were dressed in T-shirts and animal-patterned shorts. Their toenails were painted bright pink.
“Lovely children,” said Holmes. “How old?”
“One. And not yet two,” said Paul.
“Irish twins,” added Irene with a little smile. She glanced at Paul. “Well, we’ll leave you to it.” She and the two tiny girls moved as a unit up the narrow staircase to the top floor.
“Come in,” said Paul, waving Holmes into the living room. The décor was a tasteful mix of classic and contemporary. Holmes glanced along the bookshelves. They were lined with tome after tome on watchmaking and repair. He wasn’t surprised to see a gorgeous Georgian-style clock resting on the mantel.
“I see you bring your work home,” said Holmes, rubbing his hands over the polished walnut.
“Restored it with my own two hands,” said Paul. “Wrote an article on it.” He took a step toward a shelf and pulled out a thin magazine. “Would you like to read it?”
“Maybe later,” said Holmes. He was ready to get down to business.
“Please,” said Paul, gesturing toward the sofa. “Sit.”
Holmes eased himself down onto the plush cushions. Paul took a seat in an armchair.
“It doesn’t make you uncomfortable?” asked Holmes.