Holmes Is Missing

CHAPTER 1

IT WAS 2 a.m. The posted speed limit on the Williamsburg Bridge into Manhattan was 35 miles per hour. But Auguste Poe was abiding by his personal driving code: Go as fast as possible, whenever possible. For short stretches, the needle on his vintage Shelby Charger was touching 60. The hum of the tires bounced off the concrete side barriers. Margaret Marple sat beside him in the front passenger seat, gritting her teeth — and biting her tongue.

“I know what you’re thinking, so keep it to yourself,” said Poe. “Helene said to get there in a hurry.”

“And hopefully, still among the living,” Marple replied, watching the bridge struts whiz by in a blur.

The call had come in on Poe’s personal cell phone barely half an hour ago — not on the main line at their private detective agency, Holmes, Marple & Poe Investigations. Marple was usually the one with connections, so it irked her just a little that in this case Poe was the one with the inside line to an NYPD homicide detective, but she knew why. And a case was a case.

“Helene said this was a big one. That’s about all she had time to say,” Poe had told Marple after he’d knocked on her apartment door, down the hallway from his own.

Now fully awake, Marple took in the glittering lights of Manhattan, its towers and spires glowing like party ornaments. They crossed the bridge and sped west across the city. Even at two in the morning, there was traffic along Delancey. Poe downshifted through a yellow light and made an illegal screeching left turn onto Ludlow, heading south.

Marple rocked hard to the right. “Bus!” she shouted.

Poe swerved just in time to avoid clipping the thirty-ton brute. “I wish Holmes was here,” she said.

Poe shot her a quizzical look. “Why would you miss him right now?” he asked. “Brendan is a terrible driver.”

“That makes two of you,” said Marple.

Their destination was St. Michael’s Hospital, but the police barricade stopped them a block short. Poe pulled the Charger to the right and double-parked, effectively blocking two NYPD patrol cars. He turned off the ignition and opened the driver-side door, ignoring the “Hey, asshole!” shouts from cops nearby. Marple could barely squeeze out between the passenger door and the police vehicle to her right. Poe met her on the sidewalk. He put both hands on her shoulders.

“Look, Margaret. It goes without saying that I miss Brendan too,” he said. “Don’t worry. He’ll send us a sign when he’s ready.” They both turned and hurried to the end of the street, where St. Michael’s loomed — a ten-story hunk of granite with small, narrow windows. It had been a fixture in the neighborhood since the late 1800s, when the Sisters of Charity convinced a group of rich Upper East Siders that the Lower East Side needed help. The nuns were long gone, but the hospital had evolved into one of the city’s most prestigious private medical centers.

As Marple and Poe got closer to the hospital entrance, they saw cops running in the same direction, flowing from a nearby precinct house, shoulder radios squawking. The street was lined with small businesses, most closed and shuttered for the night. One glowing exception was Cops & Docs, a worn-looking bar sitting kitty-corner from the hospital.

“There’s Helene!” Poe called out. Marple spotted her at the same time.

Detective Lieutenant Helene Grey was waiting near a stone pillar in front of the hospital. She wore dark trousers and a matching jacket, with a telltale bulge from the gun belt at her hip. Her badge was suspended around her neck, dangling over her crisp white blouse.

As they got closer, Marple noted there was no overt acknowledgment between Grey and Poe that they’d been lovers for months. There were no pleasantries at all, just cursory nods all around. Helene’s face looked drawn — as grim as Marple had ever seen her. And they had been together in some very tough situations.

“What is it?” asked Poe. “What’s going on?”

“It’s a kidnapping,” said Grey. “But not just that. Honestly, I’ve never seen anything like it. Nobody at NYPD has.” She turned to lead the way past a hospital security booth and into the main lobby. Grey walked quickly, blowing past other detectives and plainclothes teams. Uniformed cops gave her room as she powered toward the first-floor elevator bank.

“Where are we headed?” asked Marple.

Grey jabbed the Up button with her thumb. Her expression turned even darker.

“Maternity,” she said.