Page 46

CHAPTER 46

HOLMES WAS WAITING impatiently with Marple in the lobby of an apartment building on Central Park West when Poe slid out of a cab, late for a 5 p.m. appointment the three had promised to keep. Holmes was peeved at Poe’s tardiness but even more curious about his meeting with Helene. He knew Marple felt the same.

“How did it go?” he asked as Poe walked in. From the slack expression on Poe’s face and the scent on his breath, Holmes knew the answer.

“Not the time,” Poe replied tersely.

“Very well,” said Marple briskly. “Let’s focus on the moment. The people upstairs are counting on us. And they’ve already paid an upfront fee.”

Thanks to Poe, the team was overdue for a meeting with the parents of the six missing St. Michael’s babies. Holmes had resisted the gathering, but Marple had insisted on it. “These people are victims,” she reminded her partners. “But some could be co-conspirators. Pay attention to eyes and body language.”

“Yes, Margaret,” said Poe numbly. “We know the drill.”

Marple opened her purse and handed Poe a pack of breath mints. Then she turned to the building’s Nordic-looking concierge. “We’re all here now.”

The concierge picked up a handset and mumbled a few sentences sotto voce, then nodded toward the elevator. “Penthouse level.”

Holmes stood aside and let his partners enter first. They made the ride up in silence. A half minute later, the doors opened onto the foyer of a stunning split-level unit. Through the windows on the far side, Holmes could see the autumn foliage in Central Park, muted by early evening shadows. Twelve adults were gathered in the huge living room, huddled in tense conversation.

When Holmes and his partners walked in, every head turned and the whole room went silent. A man who seemed to be in charge walked straight over. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded. He looked angry enough to throttle someone.

Holmes recognized the man right away: Sterling Cade, the alpha-dad Marple had told him about. The penthouse belonged to Cade and his wife, Christine.

“Our apologies,” said Marple in her most soothing tone. “Personal matter.”

Cade did not seem mollified. “We’re paying you to concentrate on our case,” he said. “We expect your full attention.”

“You have it,” said Holmes crisply. “We’re here.”

“And you’ll notice,” added Poe, “that the police are not.”

Cade’s wife stepped up beside her husband. “He’s right,” she said. “The police don’t do anything but tap our phones and laptops and tell us to be patient.” Christine Cade’s eyes were red, and she looked worn and haggard.

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 Margaret Marple’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.” Marple paused 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’re white, 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.