Page 16

CHAPTER 16

THE NEXT MORNING , Brendan Holmes woke up in his own bed for the first time in months. It felt like waking up in a prison cell. Instead of windows open to the lake breeze and the sound of chirping robins, the sole window over his bed was clamped shut against the honks and hums of Brooklyn traffic.

And the odors! Holmes was a hyperosmiac—a super-smeller. It was a blessing and a curse. A blessing when it helped him quite literally sniff out a buried body or hidden explosives. A curse when he gagged on the stench of uncollected garbage on the street below. This morning, even the aroma of fresh coffee from the first-floor kitchen hit him wrong. There was no other way to put it: his apartment didn’t feel like home anymore. He was miserable. When he’d walked out the day before, he’d seriously considered catching a cab to JFK and just getting on a plane, any plane, to anywhere. Then he’d realized that he didn’t have his wallet. Or his passport. Or his pills. Poor preparation. Not like him.

Holmes stood up, reached for his prescription bottle, and took his daily dose of withdrawal medicine, sticking the little orange pill under his tongue. He had studied every detail of the chemistry, of course—the sublingual absorption, the low intrinsic activity at the opioid receptor, the reinforcing subjective effect—all properties that were supposed to make him feel something close to normal. Instead, they just made him feel dizzy. As soon as the pill started dissolving, he felt like throwing up. But he didn’t. Stick with the program, he told himself. All twelve steps. One day at a time. One pill at a time.

When he opened the front door of his apartment—still in his pajamas—he could feel the buzz of activity downstairs. He looked over the balcony. Virginia was busy at her desk, her eyes locked on her computer screen, headphones on, fingers flying across her keyboard. Baskerville sat like a sentry by her workstation.

As Holmes walked down the staircase, he picked up a thread of conversation from the kitchen. His partners were talking about the kidnapping case.

Correction. His ex -partners.

Marple looked over as he walked up to the counter. “Put some clothes on, Brendan. We’ve got a meeting with the task force in an hour.”

Interesting ploy, thought Holmes. Marple had obviously chosen to deal with his resignation by pretending that it simply hadn’t happened. Treating him like he was still part of the team. Appealing to his sense of responsibility.

Nice try.

“Maybe you do,” said Holmes. He walked to the far end of the counter and plucked a pumpkin muffin from a plate. He saw Marple glance at Poe, who slid off his stool and picked up the pursuit, with a slightly different tack.

“Brendan. Please. We need you on this. This could be the biggest case the firm ever had. The most important case. They’re babies, for God’s sake! If you had been in that maternity unit with me and Margaret, you’d have been on board in a heartbeat.”

“Emotion clouds efficiency,” said Holmes. He tore a piece from the muffin and popped it into his mouth.

“That’s exactly why we need you,” said Marple. “Your logic. Your objectivity. Auguste and I stared into those poor parents’ eyes.”

“We promised them help,” said Poe. “We promised them you !”

“You had no right to speak for me,” said Holmes. “You knew where I was.”

“We did,” said Poe, his tone sharper now. “But we didn’t realize you’d given up.”

That cut a bit. Holmes tossed the rest of the muffin into the trash and headed back toward the staircase. “I need rest,” he said. “My medication makes me drowsy.” His foot was on the first step when Poe called out.

“Do it for Helene!”

Holmes stopped. He turned around.

“That’s right,” said Poe. “You have no idea what she’s going through. Captain Duff, the new head of the Major Case Squad, is a nightmare. He’s trying to cut her off at the knees. She’s operating on zero sleep. Her own maternal hormones are probably not helping…”

Poe was laying it on a bit thick, but Holmes liked Detective Lieutenant Grey. She was a tireless investigator, and she’d brought the firm in on a couple of career-changing cases. Holmes straightened his shoulders and walked back into the kitchen.

“All right. I’ll do it. This one meeting. For Helene.”

“Bravo,” said Marple.

“It’s the least I can do,” said Holmes. He stared straight at Poe. “The poor woman deserves one level-headed male in her life.”