Page 42 of Holmes Is Missing
Marple gestured toward the living room. “Shall we?”
Holmes was happy to let his partner do most of the talking, especially with a hostile audience. Empathy was MargaretMarple’s superpower, and in situations like this, he had seen it work wonders.
Behind Sterling Cade and his wife, the other parents clustered together. Holmes and Poe held back as Marple spoke with each couple in turn, working the room like a master psychologist. Holmes saw that a catered buffet had been set up at the far end of the room, but the food looked mostly untouched. Nobody was here for canapés.
Marple addressed the group. “You’ve all met me and my partner Auguste Poe the other night at the hospital.” She nodded to her right. “This is our third partner, Brendan Holmes. I’m glad to say that he’s now fully engaged in the investigation. And we are lucky to have him. We’ve spent—”
“It’s been four days!” shouted one of the dads, interrupting her. “What the hell have you found out?”
Holmes recognized the irate father from Marple’s file and the task force video feed. Aston Norris, corporate attorney, Lincoln Center board member, St. Michael’s benefactor. His wife, Penny, held tightly to his arm.
Norris went on, his tone increasingly bitter. “We hired you guys because you’re supposed to be sharper than the police. Smarter. More resourceful.” His upper lip curled into a bitter sneer. “Maybe we were wrong.” Nods and murmurs from the rest of the crowd.
Marple took a small step toward the parents, letting them almost engulf her. She looked patiently from face to face and waited for complete silence before speaking again. Holmes admired her restraint. He probably would have shouted right back.
“We have no suspects yet,” said Marple softly. “But we have a theory about the crime. As Mr. Norris says, it’s been four days—four days without a single contact or demand.” Marplepaused to let this sink in. “The police haven’t told you this, but I will. Ransom is not the motive here. Your children were not taken because they were born to wealthy parents. That’s a distraction. My belief is that they were taken because they have a specific set of genes. A certain pedigree.”
Another dad stepped forward. “Christ, somebody might as well say it.”
This time it was Garrett Dean, a money manager for a group of even wealthier families. “You mean it’s because they’rewhite,right?”
Dean’s comment unsettled the room even more. Several of the parents looked horrified. Others lowered their eyes.
“You’re saying we’re dealing with racist kidnappers?” asked Sterling Cade.
There was a new flurry of shouts and protests. Holmes watched Marple stand firm in the face of the storm, letting it roll over her.
The parents are right to be furious,Holmes thought—especially with him. He felt like a total fraud. He shouldn’t have come in the first place. But he couldn’t afford another screaming fit. Not with this crowd. Not in front of Poe and Marple.
As the parents closed in on Marple, Holmes turned away and slipped past a gleaming grand piano. He opened a sliding door to a narrow patio facing the park. He stepped out onto the porcelain tile. From the room behind him, he could hear Marple’s gentle accent rising against the babel.
Holmes leaned on the metal railing and looked down to the busy street below. His mind buzzed with calculations. Ten stories. Not high enough to achieve terminal velocity but at least seventy or eighty feet per second. With a headfirst orientation, it would be a quick and merciful ending. Two blinks, one stunning shock, then eternal peace.
“Believe me, I’ve thought about it too.” Poe’s voice. Right behind him. “More than once.”
Holmes didn’t turn around. He just continued to stare out over the park. From the corner of his eye, he saw Poe step up to the railing beside him. “So what holds you back?” Holmes asked.
“Simple,” said Poe. “I’ve still got too much to make up for on this side of life. You do too.”
Holmes spun around and glared at his partner. He said nothing. He was in no mood for commiseration—or a sermon. He turned and walked back through the apartment toward the elevator, passing Marple, who was still preoccupied with the anguished crowd.
A couple of the parents looked up as he walked by, but for Holmes, they barely registered.
He was now on a mission of his own.
CHAPTER47
STOMACH ROILING, HOLMESwalked to Columbus Circle and hopped on a subway line heading downtown. He stared out a clouded-over window and tapped his feet impatiently as the subway car rattled under midtown on its way to lower Manhattan.
The fifteen-minute journey felt like hours. Holmes exited at Canal Street and walked as quickly as possible up the filthy staircase to the street, holding his nose against the stench of greasy fast-food wrappers and stale urine.
He moved at a brisk pace, trying not to think about where he was headed. His rational brain knew it was the last place on Earth he should be going. But his rational brain was no longer in charge. His reward circuit was running the show, and it was desperately seeking stimulation.
He was close now, and the pull was strong.
A light rain started to fall, misty and chilly. Tourists pulled out umbrellas or ducked under awnings. Dusk was falling, and colored store lights reflected off the newly slick pavement. Holmes made a turn down Baxter Street and then hooked into an alleybetween a bar and a bail bond shop. At the far end, set deep into the building wall, was an entrance he hadn’t visited in months. Two months and sixteen days, to be precise.
As Holmes reached the shadowy alcove, he bent his head against the rain. His heart was racing. He could almost see his dealer’s twisted lip, feel the small packet of heroin in his hand, the sensation in his nostrils, and the gentle flood of euphoria through his body. He looked up and stopped. His dealer’s door was boarded up. A bright pink notice was taped at eye level.