Holmes, Margaret and Poe, page 20
As Grey slid into the car, her cell phone rang.
The ID said POE. She tapped Accept.
“Where the hell are you?” asked Grey.
Poe’s voice was clipped. “Jersey Shore University Medical Center,” he said. “Brendan shot himself.”
“What?” said Grey. “How? Where?”
“At a motel in Asbury Park. We found Zozi Turner and Eton Charles.”
“Wait. Slow down. The girl and the stepfather? They’re alive?”
“They’re fine,” said Poe. “They’re under arrest. The Asbury Park cops are holding them.”
Grey’s head was spinning. “Under arrest for what?”
“I have to go,” said Poe.
“Auguste!”
The call ended.
Grey started her car and peeled out of the hospital parking lot, lights flashing, siren wailing.
For a second, she thought about speed-dialing Brita Stans. But she realized she had no idea what to tell her.
CHAPTER 94
GREY FLASHED HER badge as she dashed past the hospital nurses’ station. Her adrenaline was pumping. She could see Marple and Poe sitting in plastic chairs outside a row of curtained treatment rooms. They both stood up as she got there.
“What happened?” asked Grey. “What’s his condition?”
“They’re working on him,” said Poe. “Not sure how much damage he did.”
“And the kidnapping?” she asked. “What the hell happened there?”
“Not a kidnapping,” said Marple. “A relationship.”
“Relationship?” said Grey.
“Zozi and the stepfather,” said Marple.
Grey felt a little twist in her gut.
“They were on their way to Belize,” said Marple.
“Hold on,” said Grey, pressing her hands against her temples. “Start at the beginning.”
“Not now,” said Poe, nodding over her shoulder.
Grey turned as a tall woman in blue scrubs approached, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the tile floor. “I’m looking for Auguste Poe,” she called out.
“Right here,” said Poe, raising his hand.
“I’m Doctor Hamsha, the trauma surgeon. You’re Mr. Holmes’s healthcare agent?”
“I am,” said Poe. “How is he?”
“The bullet creased the right parietal bone. No cranial penetration, fortunately. But he bled a lot. We’ve sedated him, and we’re watching for signs of swelling or concussion. He’s very lucky. Another inch to the left and half his brain would be gone.”
“Is he stable?” asked Marple. “His heart? His lungs?”
“For now,” said Hamsha. “We need to run more scans. Then we’ll see how he does.” The doctor took a step closer toward Poe and lowered her voice. But Grey could hear every word. “I need to tell you that your friend had some very nasty drugs in his system,” Hamsha said. “Street grade. The worst. Frankly, I’m surprised he lived long enough to shoot himself.”
“When can we see him?” asked Marple.
“Not for a while,” said the doctor. She turned and headed back up the corridor, shoes squeaking.
As soon as the doctor was out of earshot, Grey turned to Marple and Poe. “We need to talk,” she said.
“About what?” asked Poe. “You heard what she said.”
“About Asbury Park,” said Grey. “I need to know what happened down there.”
Poe rubbed his eyes. “Like Margaret said, it wasn’t a kidnapping. It was a bad romance. Case closed.”
Grey bristled. It had been a long day and her nerves were fried. She wasn’t about to settle for a brush-off like that. Not on a case this important. Especially not from Poe.
“That’s enough!” she snapped. “You can’t cut me out of the loop like this. And you sure as hell can’t cut the FBI out of the loop. You guys were told to let them handle the Charles case, and instead you took off on your own, like vigilantes! I’m glad the girl and the stepdad are alive. That’s better than the alternative. But this is not how law enforcement works!”
“It’s not our fault if everybody else is two steps behind,” said Poe. “We’re very good at what we do.”
“Really?” said Grey. “If you’re really good at what you do, then why is your partner lying in the ICU with a gunshot wound to the head?”
Poe looked away.
Grey knew it was a low blow, but she wanted to make a point. She took a deep breath and spoke slowly and deliberately. “I want to hear about your whole night,” she said. “Every single detail. I need to call Brita Stans, and when I do, I don’t want to sound like a goddamn idiot.”
Poe sat down heavily in one of the plastic chairs and looked up at Marple. “You explain,” he said. “I’ll keep watch.”
“Perfect,” said Grey, taking Marple firmly by the arm. “Girl talk.”
CHAPTER 95
SITTING AT A small table in the hospital cafeteria, Marple unspooled it all for Grey. The hidden pearl transmitter. The chase through New Jersey. The scene in the motel room. As she talked, doctors and nurses shuffled past in white coats and wrinkled scrubs. At other tables, families and visitors huddled in conversation. When she was done, Marple set her cup of vending-machine tea aside. “We need to tell Addilyn,” she said.
“Let her sleep,” said Grey. “I’ll talk to her in the morning.”
Marple nodded. “I’ll come with you.”
“Hello, Mrs. Charles,” said Grey, as if practicing a speech. “The good news is, your husband and daughter are alive and well. The bad news is, they’re a couple.”
Suddenly, a loud voice blasted from the hallway. “FBI! I’m looking for Detective Lieutenant Helene Grey!”
“Oh, shit,” said Grey. “That didn’t take long.”
Marple saw Grey take a deep breath as Special Agent Brita Stans pushed through the doors and headed for their table. She was still shouting when she got there.
“Helene! I just talked to the Asbury Park station. What in the living fuck is going on?”
“Have a seat, Brita,” Grey said calmly. “We’ll explain everything.”
Stans looked anything but calm. “Why are my kidnapping victims in holding? Where the hell are the kidnappers? Who’s the goddamn redhead in leather?” She looked at Marple. “And why are you here?”
Marple’s reply was low and even. “Because my partner was shot.”
Stans yanked out a chair and sat down. “Which partner?”
“Holmes,” said Marple. “He’ll pull through. Thanks for asking.”
“Who shot him?” asked Stans. “The kidnappers?”
“Self-inflicted,” said Grey.
“Jesus!” said Stans. “What a clusterfuck.” She leaned in toward Marple. “Look. I’m sorry about your partner. I am. This is a great hospital, and I’m sure they’re doing everything they can. But I’m working a kidnapping case. Enlighten me.”
Marple cleared her throat. Obviously, she was going to have to go through the whole story again. “Agent Stans,” she said, “there was no abduction. The daughter and the stepdad ran away together. They were staying out of sight until they could put together new identities and get out of the country.”
“They’re romantically involved,” said Grey.
Stans shook her head. “Oh, for the love of Christ …”
Marple went on. “The whole kidnapping scam was Zozi’s idea. She kept Eton in the dark about that. She demanded five million dollars because that was the amount in her trust fund, which she was set to inherit at age twenty-one. She figured it was her money. Why wait until then to collect it?”
“So who’s the redhead?” asked Stans. “And please don’t tell me they’re a threesome.”
Marple shook her head. “School friend. Idolizes Zozi. Her name is Darla Ross. Zozi hooked her into making the ransom calls and arranging the pickup. Darla trained a rescue dog to make the pickup. Then she switched bags and carried the ransom to the motel. The dog was disposable. The jewelry was going to be Darla’s cut.”
“What about the shirt?” asked Stans. “The stepdad’s blood.”
“An accident,” said Marple. “Eton sliced his ear with a pair of scissors while he was trimming his beard. Zozi decided to send the shirt to Addilyn as a way to make the kidnapping seem legit.”
“Holy shit,” said Stans. She leaned back in her chair, then sat up straight and looked at Grey. “Can we nail Daddy on statutory rape?”
Grey shook her head. “Zozi turned eighteen last month. Age of consent in New York. We can’t prove a relationship before that date. Incest won’t stick either. They’re not blood relations. And he never adopted her.”
“Dammit!” said Stans. “This is sick!”
“You can go after the girls for conspiracy and extortion,” said Marple. “But Darla’s still a minor. It would be a first offense for both her and Zozi. And the entire ransom was recovered. So they’ll probably just get a slap on the wrist. Probation. Maybe a few months of community service. No serious time.”
“And then,” said Grey, “Zozi and her stepdad can do whatever they want.”
Marple could see that Stans was angry, and grasping at straws. “We’ll sue him for the cost of the investigation,” she muttered. “Every goddamn penny.”
“Go ahead,” said Grey. “Eton Charles won’t even blink. He’ll just write a check.”
“Right,” added Marple. “Maybe he’ll send it from the honeymoon.”
CHAPTER 96
Three days later
VIRGINIA HELD ANNABEL in her arms as she looked out the window. She could see the flashing lights through the office window from a block away. They were almost here! She set the cat down on a brick windowsill and headed outside. She ran through her mental checklist for the homecoming, just to make sure she hadn’t neglected anything.
A seven-thousand-dollar adjustable hospital bed had been installed in Holmes’s bedroom. The prescribed medications were locked in the office safe. Most important, according to Poe’s instructions, Virginia had removed every single weapon and sharp object from Holmes’s apartment. Down to the very last pushpin.
Virginia hurried out through the front door just as the GTO rolled up to the curb, preceded by an NYPD patrol car, lights flashing. Helene Grey had arranged for the escort all the way from New Jersey. Sweet touch, thought Virginia.
As the patrol car drove away, she saw Poe emerge from the driver’s side of the Pontiac and hurry around to the passenger side. When he opened the door, Holmes swung his legs out and stood up.
He had a white bandage around his head, extra thick on the right side, just above his ear. He looked good, Virginia thought. A little tired. But better than she’d expected for a man who’d been shot in the head just seventy-two hours ago.
Virginia hurried down the steps, nervous and excited. “Welcome back, Mr. Holmes!”
“Everything ready?” asked Poe, his hand on his partner’s elbow.
“Just like you asked,” said Virginia. “Oh. And I made matzo-ball soup.”
Holmes gave her a little smile. “My electrolyte balance feels better already,” he said.
As Poe escorted his partner up the steps, Virginia saw Marple folding the passenger seat forward from inside the car. She was shouting from the back seat. “Hold on, hold on!”
Suddenly a huge dog with pale fur jumped out of the back seat and onto the sidewalk. Marple maneuvered out too. “Be careful, Virginia! He’s a beast!”
Virginia bent forward gently as the strange dog approached her, trailing a long leather leash. She kept her eyes lowered and her movements slow. The dog was a pale mastiff, the size of a miniature horse.
“He’s beautiful!” said Virginia. “Who does he belong to?”
“Nobody,” said Marple, closing the car door. “His previous owner has no more use for him.”
The dog’s giant head nudged against Virginia’s chest as he explored her with urgent sniffs. She reached out and ran her hand gently along his back and sides, feeling the rise and fall of his massive chest under her fingers. The dog reared up and put both enormous paws onto Virginia’s shoulders, then placed his muzzle in the crook of her neck and gave her a sloppy lick.
“What’s his name?” she asked.
“Not a clue,” said Marple. “Holmes calls him the Hound of the Baskervilles.”
“Baskerville,” said Virginia, giving the dog a kiss on the snout. “That suits him.”
“Okay, then,” said Marple. “I guess now he belongs to you.”
CHAPTER 97
Two weeks later
MARPLE WAS EVEN more impressed by El Viaje than she had expected to be. The restaurant’s spacious dining room extended out in the shape of a fan over the lower Hudson River, as if suspended in midair. The place was so new that musicians and movie people were still tripping over one another in the lounge every night. But the young chef did not seem the least bit awed. Dario Aquilar was a star in his own right, and he acted the part.
Marple had been a fan of the young Peruvian’s first establishment—a tiny Brooklyn gastropub. Now he finally had the space to indulge his whims. He was vain, but his food justified it. Besides, Marple was used to ingenious people who were totally full of themselves. She lived with two of them.
Holmes, happily free of his bandages, was just finishing his appetizer—a colorful mix of persimmon tomatoes and martini cucumbers. “Insanely good,” he mumbled between bites.
Marple smiled. Aside from a permanent crease in his scalp, her partner seemed back to normal. Whatever normal meant for Brendan Holmes. At least his urine was clean. Marple was sure of that. She’d tested it herself that morning.
Poe and Grey sat next to each other on Marple’s left. They were sharing a bowl of acorn squash puree with hickory nuts.
“Do they ever serve this in your break room?” asked Poe.
“Only when we run out of instant oatmeal,” said Grey. She closed her eyes as she took another silky spoonful.
The dinner had been Marple’s idea. Part celebration. Part peace offering. She knew that Helene hadn’t totally forgiven the firm for catching the kidnapping case on the sly—or for solving it without her. Grey had taken a huge dose of shit from Police Commissioner Boolin, and she was now on Agent Brita Stans’s permanent blacklist. This was a way to patch things up between Grey and the firm. Maybe. At least a start. Marple liked Helene. And she liked that Helene liked Poe. He hadn’t looked this happy in a very long time.
Dinner and drinks were on the house tonight, thanks to a favor Marple had called in a few months back. Aquilar’s sous chef had been stuck in immigration limbo until the proper documents mysteriously appeared in his attorney’s mailbox. God bless America.
Marple sipped her sinfully expensive sherry, the one Luka Franke had recommended. The other three were drinking wine. The alcohol loosened the mood and heightened the anticipation. When the sampler of main courses arrived, there were actual gasps around the table.
“Outrageous,” pronounced Holmes. And it was. Also decadent, sensuous, and mind-bending. When the squad of waiters departed, the table was filled with plates that looked like modern art. Cheese ravioli in pasta as clear as glass, foamy castles of strawberry and caviar, translucent bubbles of taro root, tinted cubes of beef gelatin topped with dark buttons of olive puree, and a delicately deconstructed lobster Bolognese. Forks were raised. Everybody took their first bites.
For several minutes, the table was silent, except for the clink of flatware and moans of pleasure. As the food disappeared, Marple tapped her glass.
“I’d like to propose a toast,” she said. The others picked up their wineglasses. “To Brendan Holmes, a man who abhors the dull routine of existence. Welcome home.”
Holmes bowed his head solemnly, then broke out in a warm smile for the whole table. “Thank you all,” he said. “For making my existence anything but dull.”
Marple turned to her left, glass still raised. “And to Detective Lieutenant Helene Grey, our sister in crime.”
Grey nodded graciously. All four lifted their glasses toward the center of the table and tapped lightly. Marple took a quick sip and set her sherry down. She placed her palms flat on the table and leaned forward with a mischievous glint in her eye.
“Now,” she said, “let’s play a game.”
CHAPTER 98
A GAME? THOUGHT Grey. What is Marple up to?
So far, Grey had limited herself to a single glass of Chardonnay. She didn’t want to let her guard down. Inside, she was still angry about the kidnapping case, and she wasn’t sure if she should trust any of them. Even the one whose hand was resting lightly on her thigh.
“The game is …” said Marple, inserting a dramatic pause, “Two Truths and a Lie.”
Grey squirmed in her seat. Was this a joke? The last time she’d played this game was in her college sorority house, tipsy on cheap Chablis. The truths and lies that night had been mostly about celebrity crushes and multiple orgasms. It was an icebreaker—a getting-to-know-you game, with no real consequences. She wasn’t sure how to play in company like this, or if she wanted to play at all. But Marple was already leaning in her direction, eyebrows raised.
“You first, Detective.”
What the hell, thought Grey. Better to join in than to seem rude. It was just a game after all, and at least she was in control of her turn. She looked around the table as she considered her options, then settled on three choices. Don’t ever explain, she reminded herself. Keep it short. Don’t blink.
“All right,” she said. She took a deep breath and let it out before making her statements, as matter-of-factly as she could manage.
“I was the top marksman in my academy class. John Mayer once invited me to dinner. My father died in prison.”
She picked up her glass and took a slow sip of wine. Marple drummed her fingers lightly. Poe glanced up at the ceiling, as if the answers might be revealed in the plasterwork. Holmes leaned forward.
