Holmes, Margaret and Poe, page 17
As they approached the doorway, Poe could hear the low hum of powerful electric motors. The cop went in first. Grey followed. When she gave the all clear, Poe stepped over the steel threshold, with Holmes and Marple right behind him.
“Jesus,” he muttered. The room was smaller than the space that had held the prisoners. Everything here was clean, precise, pristine. Unlike the steel lining of the pit, the walls and floor here were covered in gleaming white tile. Huge vents passed through the walls at the back of the room, and a powerful hum came from the outside.
“There’s your heavy-duty air cleaning,” said Grey.
“And that’s the reason,” said Poe, pointing at two large steel bins against the wall. They were about the size of oil drums, coated in plastic. Flexible orange ducts led from the tight-fitting bin lids to the wall vents.
Holmes sniffed. “Acid baths.”
“Just big enough for a body,” said Marple.
“Body parts,” said Grey.
Poe looked around to take in the whole room. “This is the skeleton factory.”
Two stainless-steel tables rested on pedestals in the center of the room. Openings at the base of each table were connected to drains in the floor. Rolling hospital carts alongside each table held an assortment of surgical instruments. Pliers. Clamps. Saws.
Holmes walked to the corner of the room and opened the door to a large stall shower. “They cleaned up down here, before transferring the bones to the subway tunnel.”
“But why?” asked Grey.
“They were following a pattern,” said Poe. “A protocol somebody else set.”
“What’s in there?” Marple asked, pointing to a row of metal cabinets against the left-hand wall.
Still wearing surgical gloves, Poe started working his way down the row, opening the doors as he went. The first cabinet held two sets of head-to-toe rubber suits on hooks. The next contained a neat stack of heavy-duty black plastic bags and respirator masks. The third cabinet had shelves with plastic containers marked “HCl” and labeled with a skull and crossbones.
The last cabinet was empty except for a metal pail at the bottom, covered with a blue surgical towel. Poe lifted the pail out and set it on the floor as the others gathered around. He reached in with a gloved hand and plucked the towel away.
At the bottom of the bucket was a pile of blood-encrusted teeth.
CHAPTER 77
FIVE MINUTES LATER, as ambulances and CSU vans crowded the street in front of the house, Holmes walked with Poe to the back, near the detached garage. He knew his partner was frustrated and disappointed in him. He could see it in Poe’s eyes and hear it in his voice. He knew he had it coming.
“Brendan,” said Poe, “this ridiculousness has to stop. You need to listen to me. I’m your closest friend. This. Has. To. Stop.”
Holmes knew it was true. His OD had put the whole operation—and the firm’s reputation—in jeopardy. “It will stop,” he said. “I promise …”
He looked across the driveway at the open garage. The Sigliks’ red Lamborghini sat in front of them in a large bay. There was an APB out for the brothers, but Holmes worried that they were already on a plane out of the country.
He watched as Poe walked slowly around the sleek sports car. The vehicle straddled a narrow channel in the floor, outlined in reflective yellow stripes.
“Unbelievable,” said Poe. “These bastards have their own personal work pit.”
“Maybe they don’t trust Midas Muffler,” said Holmes.
He leaned down from the other side, shining his small Fenix flashlight under the car and into the channel below. A set of metal stairs led down from the rear. Holmes could smell gasoline and motor oil.
But other things too. Isopropyl alcohol and benzyl acetate, with notes of sandalwood.
Aftershave.
Holmes took a breath to center himself. Was his brain playing tricks on him? He slid his slender frame under the car and dropped into the concrete trench. He passed his flashlight beam around the perimeter of the concrete walls, and then on the short metal staircase that led down from the floor level. Everything else about the place was precision fitted. Something wasn’t right.
“Auguste!” he called up. “Get down here!”
Poe swung his legs over the edge. He supported himself with his forearms on the lip and then dropped in feet first.
“Look,” said Holmes. He yanked on the left-side railing of the steps. A gap opened in the concrete wall behind the staircase. Poe grabbed the other rail. Together, they pulled straight back. The stairs moved toward them.
Holmes bent forward and shined his light into the exposed opening in the wall.
Poe poked his head halfway into the opening.
A gunshot almost blew it off.
CHAPTER 78
THE BULLET RICOCHETED off the concrete wall and pierced the gas tank of the Lamborghini. Gasoline sprayed down into the pit. Holmes flattened himself against the wall. Poe pulled out his Glock. The next second, he was crawling through the opening. Holmes followed close behind. His head was clear now, his heart pounding.
After a stretch of about twenty yards, the tunnel widened slightly and opened onto a dank circular chamber lined in rusted metal. A metal utility ladder led up to a round opening. The chamber vibrated with the sound of moving traffic.
“Storm drain,” said Poe. “We’re under a street.”
Holmes led the way up the ladder and out of the hole. Cars honked and whizzed past, inches away. He stumbled forward. Poe yanked him onto a curb. Holmes shuddered. Maybe his reflexes were still a little off.
He looked up the street toward a somewhat busy intersection, even at this hour. The light turned red, bringing traffic on their side of the street to a slow halt. At the head of the line, a white Mercedes GT revved and inched forward impatiently.
Suddenly, Holmes saw two men approach the Mercedes from either side. One of them smashed the driver’s window with the butt of a pistol. He prompted the driver out at gunpoint and shoved him to the pavement, then took his place in the driver’s seat. The man on the right jumped in on the passenger side.
“It’s them!” shouted Holmes.
The doors slammed shut and the car took off through the red light, barely missing an oncoming van.
Holmes looked to his left. They were just one block north of the police perimeter. He could see the portable white barriers and the blinking blue lights on the police SUVs.
He turned back just in time to see Poe disappear into the front lot of an auto body shop. When Holmes reached the entrance, a 1990s vintage Ford was pulling out.
“Get in!” shouted Poe. He reached across and pushed the passenger door open.
Holmes slid into the seat. The interior smelled like mold. He glanced at the steering column and saw a screwdriver jammed into the ignition slot.
“Couldn’t find the key,” said Poe.
He cranked the wheel and careened onto the street, just making it through the intersection on a yellow light. The chassis rattled and the engine whined.
“There!” shouted Holmes.
The Mercedes was a block ahead, inching through another red light, angling for an opening. As soon as the driver found room, he gunned the car through the gap.
“Dammit! Move!” Poe shouted. Holmes was jammed back against his seat as Poe floored the accelerator, following the Mercedes up the ramp onto the 278 Expressway. They were pushing 70 now, heading toward Sunnyside. Holmes glanced at the dashboard just as the oil pressure icon started blinking.
“Hold on!” Poe shouted. “This thing could seize up or blow.”
The Mercedes swerved onto an exit ramp, barely missing the barrier. Poe slammed on the brakes. The Ford went into a skid. A pickup careened around to the left, clipping the rear bumper. Poe jammed his foot down on the accelerator. He fishtailed across the white stripes bordering the exit, then straightened out on the ramp.
“Left! Left!” shouted Holmes, leaning forward to keep the Mercedes’s taillights in sight. Poe roared down the incline and yanked the wheel hard into the turn, tires squealing. They were just three cars behind.
The Mercedes made a sharp right onto a one-way street. Poe followed.
“Wrong way!” Holmes shouted.
“No choice!” Poe shouted back.
When they rounded the corner, a delivery truck was barreling toward them, horn blaring. Poe swung the Ford onto the sidewalk. Holmes ducked as the passing truck knocked the mirror off his side.
Poe gunned the Ford off the curb and accelerated down the narrow street. The sound of the engine echoed off the building walls. One block. Two blocks. Then a hard right onto another main drag. Holmes leaned forward onto the dashboard. He spotted the Mercedes’s taillights a block ahead.
“On the right!” he shouted.
The Mercedes was sitting at an angle, having crashed halfway through a set of elaborate wrought-iron gates. The hood was crumpled, and the front car doors were hanging partway open. Poe pulled to a hard stop a few yards behind, then kicked his door open and jumped out, pistol raised. Steam was pouring from under the Ford’s hood. As Holmes scrambled out of the passenger seat, he saw Poe sweeping the interior of the Mercedes.
“Empty!” Poe shouted. He looked to the right. “This way!”
Holmes sprinted down the sidewalk and followed his partner through the gates. He looked up and saw:
CALVARY CEMETERY.
CHAPTER 79
“THERE!”
Holmes pointed toward a pair of moving shadows about twenty yards ahead. He heard a loud pop as a shard of stone stung his cheek.
Poe ran forward and ducked behind a huge obelisk. Holmes ran up beside him and pressed his back against the thick pillar. He peeked around the corner, making a quick scan through the bleak forest of stone.
Nothing moving.
“Let’s go!” said Poe. “Stay close!”
They moved in a crouch across the patches of green between the monuments.
Holmes saw a fleeting motion behind a massive headstone. A gunshot blasted the face off a statue two feet from his head.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got a spare?” asked Holmes, nodding at Poe’s gun.
“Where’s yours?” asked Poe.
“You don’t remember?” said Holmes. “It’s back at the house. Marple disarmed me.”
Poe stared ahead into the darkness. “Can’t blame her.”
He took off at a run, weaving between the marble markers and statues. Holmes followed. As they crossed a small meditation park, Holmes spotted the two shapes again, moving in front of a small mausoleum. Within seconds, the door was open. The figures slipped inside.
“That’s it!” Holmes called out. “They’re cornered.”
It was a twenty-yard sprint to the mausoleum steps. Holmes and Poe pressed themselves against the vine-covered walls on either side of the door, which was hanging ajar. Poe raised his Glock and nudged the door open with his foot. He inched into the entryway, pistol first.
Holmes slipped in after him. The air inside was damp and musty. There were no sounds. Poe nodded. Holmes clicked on his flashlight and swept it around the small chamber. The walls and floor were made of thick stone. Metal-grilled vents near the roofline allowed slivers of ambient city light to pass through.
Toward the rear of the chamber, a massive marble crypt rested on a granite platform. Poe walked slowly around to the back, staying low. Holmes followed. The flashlight beam cut through the shadows. The space behind the crypt was empty.
Holmes paced the length of the back wall, pressing on stones, looking for an exit. He looked back at Poe and shook his head. The only way out was the way they came in. But that was impossible. Unless they’d been chasing spirits.
Holmes leaned back against the crypt. He could feel the cool stone through his clothes. Poe walked toward him—and stumbled. Holmes beamed his light at Poe’s feet. The rectangular floor stones were neatly set. Except one.
Holmes felt a fresh pump of adrenaline. He squatted down next to the rogue stone, slightly loose and out of line with the others. He dug his fingers into the gap up to his second knuckle and leaned back for leverage. The stone started to shift, then tip. Holmes slid around to the narrow end of the stone and muscled it up until it was resting upright.
Underneath was a rusted metal frame outlining a rectangular opening, about eighteen inches wide. Holmes dropped flat onto the dank stone floor and shined his light into the space beneath.
“Don’t tell me,” said Poe, breathing hard.
“These two love tunnels,” said Holmes.
He swung his feet over the opening, then lowered himself into the hole. It was a short drop to the solid dirt floor. He turned off his flashlight and felt Poe drop in next to him.
The space was dark and deathly silent.
A tomb beneath a tomb.
CHAPTER 80
HOLMES STARED AHEAD into the gloom and waited for his eyes to adjust. His nostrils filled with the smell of loam and clay. And then—again—a whisper of aftershave.
They passed under a grate that let in fragments of light, enough to see that the passage widened just ahead. Holmes could make out an indentation in the wall a few yards up. Poe spun and aimed his gun into the opening, then waved Holmes forward.
Holmes beamed the flashlight in the direction of the gun barrel.
They were staring into a small underground room with a crude wood floor. A half dozen unlit kerosene lamps sat on a card table. Two metal folding chairs were tucked underneath. A row of rusted storage bins lined one side of the room. An ancient chemical toilet was nestled in the opposite corner. The odor was caustic—formaldehyde and bleach. Holmes stepped across the threshold and got a quick waft of sweat and sandalwood. He blinked—and took a stunning blow to his right temple.
Holmes dropped onto the tunnel floor, sparks flashing in the periphery of his vision. Something wet and warm oozed down over his right eye. Through the blur, he could make out a pair of expensive dress shoes in front of him. Then he felt something cold and hard against his head.
“Get up.” A man’s voice. Low and calm. He felt a rough hand grip under his right armpit, lifting him to his feet and dragging him back into the room. Holmes tried to control his breathing and fought to stay conscious.
He heard the squeak of metal. He blinked and looked up. He could make out the lower half of a second man’s body as he slammed one of the folding chairs down in the middle of the room. Then he saw Poe being pushed onto the seat. His left cheek was bruised. The man behind the chair put a gun to Poe’s head.
Poe’s gun.
Holmes felt his vision fade in and out. He saw Poe make a slow half turn and look up at the man behind him, the one with the well-groomed stubble. “Richard. Am I right?” said Poe. His speech was slightly slurred and his face looked contorted with pain.
“Shut the fuck up,” the man replied.
Poe turned back and looked over at the man holding Holmes. “And that makes you Nelson.” He leaned forward, smiling through a split lip. “I always thought your Instagram shots were better.”
Richard gave Poe a hard slap on the back of his head.
Holmes felt warm breath in his ear. “Your friend is a wiseass,” said Nelson.
“Just observant,” said Holmes.
“Good,” said Nelson. “Because he’s about to watch you die.”
Holmes felt himself being pushed forward, the gun pressing even harder against his skull. For a second, he met Poe’s eyes. He knew he had to do something. He bent forward at the waist, coughing and spitting.
“I’m going to be sick!” he mumbled, drool spilling from his mouth.
“Not on me!” Nelson shoved Holmes roughly toward the chemical toilet. Holmes dropped to his knees and placed his hands on the corroded metal bowl. It was filled with foul blue liquid. The fumes burned his nostrils.
Nelson was right behind him, pressing his head down. “If you’re gonna puke, puke!” he growled.
Holmes held his breath and slid one hand off the rim and into the blue liquid. He cupped his hand and whipped around, splashing the chemical into Nelson’s face. Nelson twisted away, clawing at his eyes. “Fuuckkk!” His gun dropped and clattered on the floor.
Richard took a short step toward his brother. For a split second, the gun barrel slid off Poe’s temple. Poe spun off the chair, grabbed it by the back, and brought it up hard under Richard’s chin. Richard rocked backward. Poe dived for Nelson’s loose gun and rolled hard to the side. Stunned and off-balance, Richard fired two wild shots. Bullets splintered the flooring next to Poe’s head. Poe whipped his arm around and fired once. The top of Richard’s right ear blew off in a bloody mist. He grabbed his head, dropping Poe’s gun, and spun onto the floor, screaming.
Nelson lunged blindly at Holmes, driving him against the wall, hands around his throat. Holmes whipped his left hand around and stabbed two fingers into the side of Nelson’s neck, compressing the junction of the carotid sinus. Nelson dropped like a sack of cement and hit the floor, unconscious.
Poe staggered to his feet, wincing as he scooped up his gun and pointed it across the room at the wailing, bleeding Richard Siglik. He glanced at Nelson’s inert body, then at Holmes.
“Nice takedown,” he said. “Who taught you that?”
Holmes was bent over with his hands on his knees, catching his breath. “I learned it from Margaret,” he wheezed.
One more thing to thank her for.
CHAPTER 81
IN THE MIDDLE of New York Harbor, the early morning air was cool.
Helene Grey rested her arms on the starboard railing of the Staten Island Ferry as it chugged across the water. The Statue of Liberty glowed in the distance. The passenger count was sparse crossing out of Manhattan’s Whitehall Terminal. A bunch of twentysomething clubbers heading home from the city. A few sanitation workers and housekeepers on their way to their jobs.
Grey had spent the last few hours booking the Siglik brothers and taking their statements, which amounted to total confessions. Case closed. Finally. She was bleary-eyed and exhausted. But this was an appointment she did not want to miss. Because she had another mystery to solve. Three of them, in fact.
“Jesus,” he muttered. The room was smaller than the space that had held the prisoners. Everything here was clean, precise, pristine. Unlike the steel lining of the pit, the walls and floor here were covered in gleaming white tile. Huge vents passed through the walls at the back of the room, and a powerful hum came from the outside.
“There’s your heavy-duty air cleaning,” said Grey.
“And that’s the reason,” said Poe, pointing at two large steel bins against the wall. They were about the size of oil drums, coated in plastic. Flexible orange ducts led from the tight-fitting bin lids to the wall vents.
Holmes sniffed. “Acid baths.”
“Just big enough for a body,” said Marple.
“Body parts,” said Grey.
Poe looked around to take in the whole room. “This is the skeleton factory.”
Two stainless-steel tables rested on pedestals in the center of the room. Openings at the base of each table were connected to drains in the floor. Rolling hospital carts alongside each table held an assortment of surgical instruments. Pliers. Clamps. Saws.
Holmes walked to the corner of the room and opened the door to a large stall shower. “They cleaned up down here, before transferring the bones to the subway tunnel.”
“But why?” asked Grey.
“They were following a pattern,” said Poe. “A protocol somebody else set.”
“What’s in there?” Marple asked, pointing to a row of metal cabinets against the left-hand wall.
Still wearing surgical gloves, Poe started working his way down the row, opening the doors as he went. The first cabinet held two sets of head-to-toe rubber suits on hooks. The next contained a neat stack of heavy-duty black plastic bags and respirator masks. The third cabinet had shelves with plastic containers marked “HCl” and labeled with a skull and crossbones.
The last cabinet was empty except for a metal pail at the bottom, covered with a blue surgical towel. Poe lifted the pail out and set it on the floor as the others gathered around. He reached in with a gloved hand and plucked the towel away.
At the bottom of the bucket was a pile of blood-encrusted teeth.
CHAPTER 77
FIVE MINUTES LATER, as ambulances and CSU vans crowded the street in front of the house, Holmes walked with Poe to the back, near the detached garage. He knew his partner was frustrated and disappointed in him. He could see it in Poe’s eyes and hear it in his voice. He knew he had it coming.
“Brendan,” said Poe, “this ridiculousness has to stop. You need to listen to me. I’m your closest friend. This. Has. To. Stop.”
Holmes knew it was true. His OD had put the whole operation—and the firm’s reputation—in jeopardy. “It will stop,” he said. “I promise …”
He looked across the driveway at the open garage. The Sigliks’ red Lamborghini sat in front of them in a large bay. There was an APB out for the brothers, but Holmes worried that they were already on a plane out of the country.
He watched as Poe walked slowly around the sleek sports car. The vehicle straddled a narrow channel in the floor, outlined in reflective yellow stripes.
“Unbelievable,” said Poe. “These bastards have their own personal work pit.”
“Maybe they don’t trust Midas Muffler,” said Holmes.
He leaned down from the other side, shining his small Fenix flashlight under the car and into the channel below. A set of metal stairs led down from the rear. Holmes could smell gasoline and motor oil.
But other things too. Isopropyl alcohol and benzyl acetate, with notes of sandalwood.
Aftershave.
Holmes took a breath to center himself. Was his brain playing tricks on him? He slid his slender frame under the car and dropped into the concrete trench. He passed his flashlight beam around the perimeter of the concrete walls, and then on the short metal staircase that led down from the floor level. Everything else about the place was precision fitted. Something wasn’t right.
“Auguste!” he called up. “Get down here!”
Poe swung his legs over the edge. He supported himself with his forearms on the lip and then dropped in feet first.
“Look,” said Holmes. He yanked on the left-side railing of the steps. A gap opened in the concrete wall behind the staircase. Poe grabbed the other rail. Together, they pulled straight back. The stairs moved toward them.
Holmes bent forward and shined his light into the exposed opening in the wall.
Poe poked his head halfway into the opening.
A gunshot almost blew it off.
CHAPTER 78
THE BULLET RICOCHETED off the concrete wall and pierced the gas tank of the Lamborghini. Gasoline sprayed down into the pit. Holmes flattened himself against the wall. Poe pulled out his Glock. The next second, he was crawling through the opening. Holmes followed close behind. His head was clear now, his heart pounding.
After a stretch of about twenty yards, the tunnel widened slightly and opened onto a dank circular chamber lined in rusted metal. A metal utility ladder led up to a round opening. The chamber vibrated with the sound of moving traffic.
“Storm drain,” said Poe. “We’re under a street.”
Holmes led the way up the ladder and out of the hole. Cars honked and whizzed past, inches away. He stumbled forward. Poe yanked him onto a curb. Holmes shuddered. Maybe his reflexes were still a little off.
He looked up the street toward a somewhat busy intersection, even at this hour. The light turned red, bringing traffic on their side of the street to a slow halt. At the head of the line, a white Mercedes GT revved and inched forward impatiently.
Suddenly, Holmes saw two men approach the Mercedes from either side. One of them smashed the driver’s window with the butt of a pistol. He prompted the driver out at gunpoint and shoved him to the pavement, then took his place in the driver’s seat. The man on the right jumped in on the passenger side.
“It’s them!” shouted Holmes.
The doors slammed shut and the car took off through the red light, barely missing an oncoming van.
Holmes looked to his left. They were just one block north of the police perimeter. He could see the portable white barriers and the blinking blue lights on the police SUVs.
He turned back just in time to see Poe disappear into the front lot of an auto body shop. When Holmes reached the entrance, a 1990s vintage Ford was pulling out.
“Get in!” shouted Poe. He reached across and pushed the passenger door open.
Holmes slid into the seat. The interior smelled like mold. He glanced at the steering column and saw a screwdriver jammed into the ignition slot.
“Couldn’t find the key,” said Poe.
He cranked the wheel and careened onto the street, just making it through the intersection on a yellow light. The chassis rattled and the engine whined.
“There!” shouted Holmes.
The Mercedes was a block ahead, inching through another red light, angling for an opening. As soon as the driver found room, he gunned the car through the gap.
“Dammit! Move!” Poe shouted. Holmes was jammed back against his seat as Poe floored the accelerator, following the Mercedes up the ramp onto the 278 Expressway. They were pushing 70 now, heading toward Sunnyside. Holmes glanced at the dashboard just as the oil pressure icon started blinking.
“Hold on!” Poe shouted. “This thing could seize up or blow.”
The Mercedes swerved onto an exit ramp, barely missing the barrier. Poe slammed on the brakes. The Ford went into a skid. A pickup careened around to the left, clipping the rear bumper. Poe jammed his foot down on the accelerator. He fishtailed across the white stripes bordering the exit, then straightened out on the ramp.
“Left! Left!” shouted Holmes, leaning forward to keep the Mercedes’s taillights in sight. Poe roared down the incline and yanked the wheel hard into the turn, tires squealing. They were just three cars behind.
The Mercedes made a sharp right onto a one-way street. Poe followed.
“Wrong way!” Holmes shouted.
“No choice!” Poe shouted back.
When they rounded the corner, a delivery truck was barreling toward them, horn blaring. Poe swung the Ford onto the sidewalk. Holmes ducked as the passing truck knocked the mirror off his side.
Poe gunned the Ford off the curb and accelerated down the narrow street. The sound of the engine echoed off the building walls. One block. Two blocks. Then a hard right onto another main drag. Holmes leaned forward onto the dashboard. He spotted the Mercedes’s taillights a block ahead.
“On the right!” he shouted.
The Mercedes was sitting at an angle, having crashed halfway through a set of elaborate wrought-iron gates. The hood was crumpled, and the front car doors were hanging partway open. Poe pulled to a hard stop a few yards behind, then kicked his door open and jumped out, pistol raised. Steam was pouring from under the Ford’s hood. As Holmes scrambled out of the passenger seat, he saw Poe sweeping the interior of the Mercedes.
“Empty!” Poe shouted. He looked to the right. “This way!”
Holmes sprinted down the sidewalk and followed his partner through the gates. He looked up and saw:
CALVARY CEMETERY.
CHAPTER 79
“THERE!”
Holmes pointed toward a pair of moving shadows about twenty yards ahead. He heard a loud pop as a shard of stone stung his cheek.
Poe ran forward and ducked behind a huge obelisk. Holmes ran up beside him and pressed his back against the thick pillar. He peeked around the corner, making a quick scan through the bleak forest of stone.
Nothing moving.
“Let’s go!” said Poe. “Stay close!”
They moved in a crouch across the patches of green between the monuments.
Holmes saw a fleeting motion behind a massive headstone. A gunshot blasted the face off a statue two feet from his head.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got a spare?” asked Holmes, nodding at Poe’s gun.
“Where’s yours?” asked Poe.
“You don’t remember?” said Holmes. “It’s back at the house. Marple disarmed me.”
Poe stared ahead into the darkness. “Can’t blame her.”
He took off at a run, weaving between the marble markers and statues. Holmes followed. As they crossed a small meditation park, Holmes spotted the two shapes again, moving in front of a small mausoleum. Within seconds, the door was open. The figures slipped inside.
“That’s it!” Holmes called out. “They’re cornered.”
It was a twenty-yard sprint to the mausoleum steps. Holmes and Poe pressed themselves against the vine-covered walls on either side of the door, which was hanging ajar. Poe raised his Glock and nudged the door open with his foot. He inched into the entryway, pistol first.
Holmes slipped in after him. The air inside was damp and musty. There were no sounds. Poe nodded. Holmes clicked on his flashlight and swept it around the small chamber. The walls and floor were made of thick stone. Metal-grilled vents near the roofline allowed slivers of ambient city light to pass through.
Toward the rear of the chamber, a massive marble crypt rested on a granite platform. Poe walked slowly around to the back, staying low. Holmes followed. The flashlight beam cut through the shadows. The space behind the crypt was empty.
Holmes paced the length of the back wall, pressing on stones, looking for an exit. He looked back at Poe and shook his head. The only way out was the way they came in. But that was impossible. Unless they’d been chasing spirits.
Holmes leaned back against the crypt. He could feel the cool stone through his clothes. Poe walked toward him—and stumbled. Holmes beamed his light at Poe’s feet. The rectangular floor stones were neatly set. Except one.
Holmes felt a fresh pump of adrenaline. He squatted down next to the rogue stone, slightly loose and out of line with the others. He dug his fingers into the gap up to his second knuckle and leaned back for leverage. The stone started to shift, then tip. Holmes slid around to the narrow end of the stone and muscled it up until it was resting upright.
Underneath was a rusted metal frame outlining a rectangular opening, about eighteen inches wide. Holmes dropped flat onto the dank stone floor and shined his light into the space beneath.
“Don’t tell me,” said Poe, breathing hard.
“These two love tunnels,” said Holmes.
He swung his feet over the opening, then lowered himself into the hole. It was a short drop to the solid dirt floor. He turned off his flashlight and felt Poe drop in next to him.
The space was dark and deathly silent.
A tomb beneath a tomb.
CHAPTER 80
HOLMES STARED AHEAD into the gloom and waited for his eyes to adjust. His nostrils filled with the smell of loam and clay. And then—again—a whisper of aftershave.
They passed under a grate that let in fragments of light, enough to see that the passage widened just ahead. Holmes could make out an indentation in the wall a few yards up. Poe spun and aimed his gun into the opening, then waved Holmes forward.
Holmes beamed the flashlight in the direction of the gun barrel.
They were staring into a small underground room with a crude wood floor. A half dozen unlit kerosene lamps sat on a card table. Two metal folding chairs were tucked underneath. A row of rusted storage bins lined one side of the room. An ancient chemical toilet was nestled in the opposite corner. The odor was caustic—formaldehyde and bleach. Holmes stepped across the threshold and got a quick waft of sweat and sandalwood. He blinked—and took a stunning blow to his right temple.
Holmes dropped onto the tunnel floor, sparks flashing in the periphery of his vision. Something wet and warm oozed down over his right eye. Through the blur, he could make out a pair of expensive dress shoes in front of him. Then he felt something cold and hard against his head.
“Get up.” A man’s voice. Low and calm. He felt a rough hand grip under his right armpit, lifting him to his feet and dragging him back into the room. Holmes tried to control his breathing and fought to stay conscious.
He heard the squeak of metal. He blinked and looked up. He could make out the lower half of a second man’s body as he slammed one of the folding chairs down in the middle of the room. Then he saw Poe being pushed onto the seat. His left cheek was bruised. The man behind the chair put a gun to Poe’s head.
Poe’s gun.
Holmes felt his vision fade in and out. He saw Poe make a slow half turn and look up at the man behind him, the one with the well-groomed stubble. “Richard. Am I right?” said Poe. His speech was slightly slurred and his face looked contorted with pain.
“Shut the fuck up,” the man replied.
Poe turned back and looked over at the man holding Holmes. “And that makes you Nelson.” He leaned forward, smiling through a split lip. “I always thought your Instagram shots were better.”
Richard gave Poe a hard slap on the back of his head.
Holmes felt warm breath in his ear. “Your friend is a wiseass,” said Nelson.
“Just observant,” said Holmes.
“Good,” said Nelson. “Because he’s about to watch you die.”
Holmes felt himself being pushed forward, the gun pressing even harder against his skull. For a second, he met Poe’s eyes. He knew he had to do something. He bent forward at the waist, coughing and spitting.
“I’m going to be sick!” he mumbled, drool spilling from his mouth.
“Not on me!” Nelson shoved Holmes roughly toward the chemical toilet. Holmes dropped to his knees and placed his hands on the corroded metal bowl. It was filled with foul blue liquid. The fumes burned his nostrils.
Nelson was right behind him, pressing his head down. “If you’re gonna puke, puke!” he growled.
Holmes held his breath and slid one hand off the rim and into the blue liquid. He cupped his hand and whipped around, splashing the chemical into Nelson’s face. Nelson twisted away, clawing at his eyes. “Fuuckkk!” His gun dropped and clattered on the floor.
Richard took a short step toward his brother. For a split second, the gun barrel slid off Poe’s temple. Poe spun off the chair, grabbed it by the back, and brought it up hard under Richard’s chin. Richard rocked backward. Poe dived for Nelson’s loose gun and rolled hard to the side. Stunned and off-balance, Richard fired two wild shots. Bullets splintered the flooring next to Poe’s head. Poe whipped his arm around and fired once. The top of Richard’s right ear blew off in a bloody mist. He grabbed his head, dropping Poe’s gun, and spun onto the floor, screaming.
Nelson lunged blindly at Holmes, driving him against the wall, hands around his throat. Holmes whipped his left hand around and stabbed two fingers into the side of Nelson’s neck, compressing the junction of the carotid sinus. Nelson dropped like a sack of cement and hit the floor, unconscious.
Poe staggered to his feet, wincing as he scooped up his gun and pointed it across the room at the wailing, bleeding Richard Siglik. He glanced at Nelson’s inert body, then at Holmes.
“Nice takedown,” he said. “Who taught you that?”
Holmes was bent over with his hands on his knees, catching his breath. “I learned it from Margaret,” he wheezed.
One more thing to thank her for.
CHAPTER 81
IN THE MIDDLE of New York Harbor, the early morning air was cool.
Helene Grey rested her arms on the starboard railing of the Staten Island Ferry as it chugged across the water. The Statue of Liberty glowed in the distance. The passenger count was sparse crossing out of Manhattan’s Whitehall Terminal. A bunch of twentysomething clubbers heading home from the city. A few sanitation workers and housekeepers on their way to their jobs.
Grey had spent the last few hours booking the Siglik brothers and taking their statements, which amounted to total confessions. Case closed. Finally. She was bleary-eyed and exhausted. But this was an appointment she did not want to miss. Because she had another mystery to solve. Three of them, in fact.
