Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

BY THE TIME Marple and her partners walked into the St. Michael’s task force war room at One Police Plaza, it had already been humming for over twenty-four hours. The place reeked of body odor and burnt coffee. Marple saw Holmes wince, and worried that his sensitive olfactory bulbs would be overwhelmed. She grabbed his arm. “Steady, Brendan.”

Most of the clearly sleep-deprived occupants were NYPD detectives or techs. A few wore blue windbreakers with FBI stenciled on the back. On one wall, scans of six newborns were lined up like yearbook photos, captioned only with a gender and the parents’ surname. “Girl Pickard,” “Boy Bronson,” and so forth. Otherwise, they looked pretty much interchangeable. Across the room, Captain Graham Duff looked up in annoyance.

“Again?” he called out. “Who the hell invited you people?”

He slammed a folder down and started across the room. Helene Grey stepped up from a table nearby and blocked his way. “I did, Captain. Maybe they can help. Fresh eyes.”

“Fresh brains,” added Holmes. “From what I can see, everybody in this room is mentally depleted—including you, Captain. No offense.”

Duff stared for a second, then narrowed his eyes. “So this is the mighty Holmes. The missing link.” He leaned in with a faux-confidential whisper. “Where have they been hiding you?”

“I was taking a self-improvement course,” said Holmes. “I highly recommend it.”

“What are we looking at here?” asked Marple, diverting everybody’s attention to a huge monitor at the front of the room. The image on the screen was segmented into six rotating scenes of beautiful city apartments and luxury houses. It looked like the home page for a high-end realtor’s website.

“We’ve tapped into the parents’ laptops and phone lines,” said Grey.

“You mean the people who hired us?” said Poe. “Isn’t that an invasion of privacy?” Marple noticed that Poe and Helene were barely looking at each other.

“We have their permission,” said Duff. “On the basis of security and efficiency. Spared us the need for warrants. In my mind, they’re all persons of interest.”

“Agreed,” said Holmes. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen a client in cuffs.”

The observation sounded cold, but to Marple, it showed that her partner’s analytical mind was at least partly engaged, which was a good thing. She took a step closer to the screen. The captions at the bottom of the images matched the surnames of the babies. As the visuals rotated, she recognized a few of the parents pacing through the frames. The scenes confirmed something else they all had in common:

Money.

Even seen through laptop lenses, the rooms were dazzling. One was a high-ceilinged loft filled with Craft Revival antiques. Another was surrounded by glass, with a stunning river view. A third sat near the top of a Manhattan high-rise, looking out over Central Park. The audio on the feeds was muted, but the faces that occasionally loomed into view all looked severe and drawn.

“The world’s most depressing Zoom meeting,” muttered Poe.

“The parents are sitting at home, waiting for ransom calls,” said Duff. “If we get a hit, we’ll trace it from here.”

Holmes turned away from the screen and swept his gaze across the busy room, his expression grim. “There won’t be any ransom calls, Captain.” He waved his hand toward the screen. “This is all a waste of time and money.”

Marple was encouraged to hear that Holmes’s intuition matched hers—even if their conclusions were equally bleak.

“Mr. Holmes is right,” said Marple. “These babies aren’t hostages. They’re merchandise.”