Page 5

CHAPTER 5

IN CHARGED SITUATIONS like this, Margaret Marple found that flashing her private investigator’s official license card opened as many doors as a bona fide police shield. The trick was to wave it quickly for effect and then tuck it away. Her British charm and no-nonsense attitude usually did the rest.

That’s how she got nurse Ellie Tellman to lead her to the actual crime scene—the hospital nursery—after they first slipped into a small staff anteroom to don pale yellow PPE outfits. Tellman was in her early twenties, with neat, beaded cornrows that spilled across her shoulders. Marple had detected a musical lilt to her accent, now slightly muted by the N95 mask.

“You’re Jamaican,” said Marple.

The nurse nodded. “Montego Bay.”

“How do you like working here?”

“I love working with babies,” said the nurse, her eyes wide and expressive. “Until tonight.”

Tellman led the way from the anteroom down a short corridor to an imposing metal door. A sign below a small window in the center read, STAFF ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT. Tellman pushed through. Marple followed.

Inside, everything felt jarringly wrong.

The nursery, designed as an oasis of comfort and quiet, was now occupied by sturdy cops in gowns and masks. Marple’s stomach dropped at the sight of crime-scene tape on six empty bassinets in the center of the room. On one side of the brightly lit space, two new arrivals to the world lay in clear plastic bassinets, wrapped like burritos in hospital blankets. Marple scanned the room from one side to the other. It looked sound and secure. Other than the door they had entered, the only exit was at the back, leading to a side corridor.

This nursery was nothing like the old viewing galleries from the last century, where new parents stood tapping at a picture window, trying to pick their baby out from a roomful of newborns. This was more like a bank vault, designed to protect precious gems.

“Hey! Who let you in here?” It was a man’s voice. Stern and irritated. Marple looked over to see a hospital security guard looming in the doorway, his PPE gown stretched tightly across his broad chest.

“It’s okay, Santo,” said Tellman in her charming lilt. “This is Miss Marple. She’s investigating.”

Marple was ready to whip out her ID card again, but Santo seemed willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. He let the door close behind him and walked over. He peeked at one of the new babies, whose tiny foot had slipped free of the blanket. Marple looked over. The little ankle was encircled by a bright green band, the same hue as the leaves of a neon pothos plant.

“I don’t know how they beat it,” said Santo, shaking his head.

“Beat what?” asked Marple.

Santo pointed at the tiny band. “Every baby has this band. Matched to a band on the mother. The band has a chip inside. A sensor. You know what I mean?”

Marple nodded. “I do.”

“If that band comes anywhere near an exit,” said the guard, “alarms go off.” He pointed at a small monitor on the wall. “Here. At the nurses’ desk. At the security station. Everybody knows.” He made a scissors motion with two fingers. “You clip the band, same thing. Alarm.”

Marple walked over and looked above the exit door. Sure enough, there was the sensor plate, right alongside a security camera. She walked slowly back across the room until she was standing with Santo and the young nurse next to one of the occupied bassinets. Suddenly, she placed her hands on the top and started wheeling the baby across the room.

“Hey!” said the guard, starting after her.

“Miss!” yelled Tellman. “What are you doing?”

“Making a point,” said Marple, moving in smooth, gliding steps. She pushed the bassinet quickly toward the exit door and stopped one inch short as Santo caught up to her, scowling and furious.

“Just wait,” said Marple, holding up one hand.

She stared at the door sensor. Listened for a couple seconds. Looked over at Santo.

No alarm.

“Your little green loops are counterfeit,” said Marple, looking down at the sleeping baby. “They might as well be wristbands at Coachella.”