Page 43 of Holmes Is Missing
CONDEMNED BY THE CITY OF NEW YORK.
Holmes slumped back against the wall as rain dripped down his face. He was itching for a hit—achingfor a hit. But he didn’t have the energy to track down his old source or ferret out a new one, not when the risk of getting dosed with fentanyl would be dangerously high.
His head was spinning. He’d already taken his buprenorphine for the day. Should he stick another tablet under his tongue? He mentally called up the list of questions from his discharge instructions.Feeling anxious?Affirmative.Sweating?Yes, even in the rain.Eyes watering?Ditto. His mind skipped down to the last question on the list, the one that determined definitively if extra medication was indicated.
Do you feel like using right now?
More than anything!
Holmes pulled out the pill case that held his travel supply—two extra pills of bupe. He turned the case over in his hand. He placed his thumb on the plastic clasp. The morphinan alkaloid molecules were supposedly arranged in a way that would quell his craving for heroin and keep him on an even keel. Instead, he was convinced the pills were messing with his mind.
Holmes needed a fully functioning brain. He’d made a commitment to his partners and he couldn’t let them down,especially Margaret. And to prevent that, he needed his head to be clear. Unclouded. Back to its natural state. Whatever the hell that was.
Holmes flicked the pill case open, then walked to a storm drain and dropped the pills one by one through the grate. He turned up his collar and headed for the train to Brooklyn.
Brendan Holmes, licensed private investigator and chronic substance abuser, was officially off his meds.
CHAPTER48
NINE THE NEXTmorning.
Marple shielded her eyes against the glare as she walked up the curved suburban pathway toward HavenCare headquarters, the conglomerate in the process of acquiring St. Michael’s. The sunlight reflected sharply off the sleek facade of Building A, one of seven on the beautifully groomed campus just north of Bedford, New York.
“Norman Foster,” said Holmes, walking beside her.
“Who?” asked Marple, not even looking at him. She was still annoyed at Holmes for walking out on yesterday’s meeting, but gratified that he’d agreed to come along this morning. After all, it was his fortuitous meeting with Callie Brett that had provided the lead.
“The architect who designed Apple Park’s main building in Cupertino,” said Holmes. “He did all this too.”
“Makes a statement,” said Poe. He was one step behind, looking around at the expanse of tempered glass and steel latticework.
“Thirty billion in profits last year,” said Marple. “That’s an evenbiggerstatement.”
“Can’t blame St. Michael’s for wanting to join the club,” said Holmes. “It’s like linking up with the mothership.”
Holmes seemed antsy this morning—more antsy than usual these days—but Marple could sense him trying to focus. She hoped he would be on his best behavior. Poe too. Between her partners’ various afflictions and addictions, Marple was feeling more like a babysitter than a colleague of late. It was exhausting, always having to be the adult in the room.
Marple had prepped her partners for this meeting on their way up. Dr. Frank Stone, HavenCare’s head of community relations, was the man in charge of avoiding embarrassment for one of the largest healthcare conglomerates in the country. According to published interviews, he had graduated at the top of his med-school class at NYU but had hung up his white coat a decade ago. Now, like Poe, he was said to be partial to Brioni suits. Marple guessed he’d realized that managing hospitals was far more lucrative than actually working in one.
The three of them entered the building through a thick revolving door. They checked in with a receptionist, who handed them plastic clip-on badges, then waved them through security and pointed them toward the executive elevator on the other side of the vaulted lobby.
A short while later, they were escorted into a large conference room overlooking a patch of Westchester woods. An enormous marble conference table hung suspended from the ceiling by two thick cables. Despite a lack of other visible support, the table felt solid and immovable. Marple saw Holmes bending sideways in his chair, running his hand underneath the slab as if he were trying to decode a magic trick. She yanked on his sleeve as the conference room door opened.
“Everybody does that” came a voice from the doorway. “I can’t quite figure it out myself.”
Marple recognized their host from his viral TED Talk “Healthcare on Mars,” and from Virginia’s detailed research. She was impressed that Stone arrived with no entourage, no assistant, and no lawyers. Of course, there was no telling who was watching via the tiny cameras in the ceiling. In rooms like this, Marple always assumed she was being watched.
“Dr. Stone,” said Marple. “Thank you for meeting with us. We’re—”
“Holmes, Marple, and Poe,” said Stone brightly. “I know your work.” He glanced back toward the door. “Are we waiting for anybody else? FBI? NYPD? Anybody from St. Michael’s?”
“We’re here on our own,” said Poe.
“Representing the parents of the missing children,” Holmes added.
“I can’t imagine what those poor people are going through,” said Stone, shaking his head. “How can I help?”
Stone exuded sympathy. Of course, Marple realized. That was one of his professional tools. Maybe the vestigial remains of his old bedside manner. She pulled out her iPad, tapped a key, and slid the screen across the table.