Page 44 of Holmes Is Missing
“This is surveillance footage from the maternity floor of St. Michael’s a few days before the kidnapping,” said Marple. She watched Stone’s face as he peered at the footage of two young women in business suits casually walking the hospital corridor. They appeared to be on their own, with no official escort.
One of the women held her iPhone in front of her for part of the time, apparently recording as she walked. Patients and hospital personnel passed by without paying them any attention. At one point, the two women stopped a doctor, apparently asking her for directions. She’d turned and pointed them toward the nursery.
Marple froze the frame and indicated the woman in the white coat.
“That’s Dr. Callie Brett,” she said. “These women told her they were from HavenCare, doing a facility evaluation. Do you recognize them?”
Stone looked closely at the image, then shook his head. “Sorry, I don’t. But that doesn’t mean anything.” He looked up at Marple. “We’ve got more than a thousand employees on this campus alone, a thousand more spread out across the country. Nothing from facial recognition?”
“No matches,” said Marple. This was true, but it wasn’t thewholetruth. Holmes, Marple, and Poe had obtained the footage from their inside source, Dr. Revell Schulte, but they had yet to share it with the authorities. Marple knew they were walking a fine line by withholding evidence this important, but she felt their first obligation was to the parents and their babies, not to the NYPD. And certainly not to Captain Duff.
“What reason did Dr. Brett say these women gave for being there?” asked Stone.
“Checking the facilities,” said Marple. “Equipment. Floor space.”
“September 20th,” said Stone, squinting at the date beside the time code. “I can help with that.” He pulled out his iPhone and started tapping away as he talked. “We have a team devoted to onboarding at St. Michael’s. I’ll check their schedule.” He opened a program, tapped a few more keys, scrolled for a few seconds, then looked up. “Sorry. Nobody from our team was at the hospital that day. And my guess is that it would have been a larger contingent anyway. This hospital is a very important acquisition for us.” He clicked out of the program and slid the iPhone back into his pocket.
“So I was right,” said Poe. “These ladies were casing the place.”
“Does that mean we’re looking at the kidnappers, posing as HavenCare representatives?” asked Stone.
“Not likely,” said Holmes. “Different skill sets.”
“We have a nurse who’s confessed to tipping off an outside contact,” said Marple. “But she doesn’t seem to know anything else about the kidnapping.”
“Keelin Dale,” said Stone. “The drug addict. I heard about her arrest. She’s no longer a hospital employee, of course.”
Marple reached down and opened her purse. “There is one more thing…” She pulled out a small green ankle band and dangled it from her finger.
“That’s a NovaGen,” said Stone. “Standard in all our maternity units. I believe St. Michael’s has started using them on our recommendation.”
Marple handed him the band. “Actually,” she said, “that’s a counterfeit.”
“We tested it,” Holmes said, “and found that it’s been programmed to register a signal at rest, butnotwhen near an alarm trigger.”
“The label on the inside says, ‘Manufactured in Great Britain,’” said Poe. “Is that where the real ones are made?”
“It is,” said Stone, turning the device over in his fingers and looking closer. “Could’ve fooled me. Medical devices are big business over there. It’s very lucrative.”
Marple reached to take back the band. Her mind flashed to the four infants missing in London.
“Interesting,” she said. “Sort of like the business of selling babies.”
CHAPTER49
NINE HOURS AFTERthe meeting with Dr. Stone at HavenCare, Holmes was feeling exhausted and frustrated. The meeting in Bedford had been a waste of time, totally unproductive. To his great disappointment, he hadn’t detected any signs of evasiveness in Dr. Frank Stone. No wavering eyeline. No incongruent gestures. No scent of stress sweat. The doctor was either a sincere communicator or a practiced liar. Or both.
Holmes was also feeling guilty. Over an hour ago he’d left his partners at home, telling them he wanted to inspect the St. Michael’s escape route one more time in the dark, to see if the forensics team had missed anything. Instead, he’d made an escape of his own—to Harlem. At this very moment, he was walking up the front steps of Oliver Paul’s elegant brownstone.
Holmes pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed the sweat from his forehead. His body ached. He felt clammy and nauseated. He had predicted that the first seventy-two hours without his medication would be the worst, but he was determined to fight through it. Despite the challenge of going cold turkey, he stubbornly held to the belief that it was better this way.
Suddenly, his gut lurched. He bent over the metal railing, fully prepared to vomit into the bushes. Nothing came up. After a few seconds, the worst of the feeling passed. He stood up and pressed the door buzzer.
“Yes? Who’s there?” Irene’s voice.
“Irene, it’s Brendan. Brendan Holmes.”
“I’ll buzz you in,” said Irene.