Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

JUST THREE MINUTES later, after a few more tense exchanges with Duff, Holmes had had all of the cramped war room he could tolerate. The smell in the crowded room was getting to him. Plus the apparent futility of the operation.

He turned to Marple. “This is worse than useless,” he said. “If you want my help, I need a firsthand look at the crime scene.”

“I agree,” said Poe. “Let’s start earning our fee.” Holmes could tell that his partner was eager to leave for reasons of his own. Grey had returned to her station near the front of the room. She was tapping on a keyboard, her nose close to her laptop screen. Holmes looked back when he reached the door with Marple and Poe. Grey didn’t even look up.

Poe’s blue ’73 Plymouth Road Runner was waiting across the street. It was a short drive from NYPD headquarters to St. Michael’s. Poe pulled into the small employee parking lot.

Marple pointed at a metal sign in front of the parking space. “Doctors only, Auguste,” she said. “You’ll get towed.”

Poe reached under his seat and pulled out a stack of printed placards, each about the size of a magazine cover. He picked one that read, DOCTOR ON MEDICAL CALL . Beneath the lettering was an official-looking stamp and a caduceus symbol. He tossed it onto the dashboard, face up. “Cheaper than med school,” he said.

As they walked across the street toward the entrance, Holmes noticed a local TV crew, camera ready, obviously sensing a scoop.

Holmes realized this was exactly what he’d once craved. Bigger cases. More visibility. National buzz. Except now he didn’t want any of it. He wanted to go back to bed. But he didn’t want to break a promise, especially to Margaret.

Focus, he told himself as they headed for the entrance. This is your last case .

Holmes led the way through the revolving door and headed for the elevator bank. A podium emblazoned with a large NYPD shield stood in the way, bordered by ropes and brass stanchions. A sturdy cop stood behind the barrier. “Hospital ID,” he said, holding out his hand.

Holmes looked at Poe, wondering if he might have some fake medical credentials to go along with his fake parking pass. But Poe clearly hadn’t anticipated the obstacle. It was Marple who stepped up to the podium and pulled out her PI identification card. “Holmes, Marple, and Poe, private investigators,” she said firmly.

The cop didn’t even glance at the card. “Hospital ID only,” he said. “Sorry.”

“You’re not sorry,” said Holmes. “You’re just obstinate. Why don’t you put in a call to Captain Duff. Graham Duff. He’s in charge of this investigation.”

“Captain Duff was here this morning,” said the cop. “He specifically told me to watch out for you three—and to not let you past this point.”

Holmes turned to Poe. “Maybe you should call Helene?”

Poe looked down. Clearly, that was the last thing he wanted to do.

“Never mind,” he said. “We’re going up.” Poe started to elbow his way past the podium toward the elevator, and Holmes followed suit. Suddenly, three more cops emerged from behind a marble partition. Within seconds, Holmes found himself in a hammerlock, being shoved back toward the entrance. He twisted around to see Marple and Poe right behind him. They were being manhandled by two other cops. Then a woman’s voice cut through the lobby.

“Hey! Officers! Knock it off!”

The cop holding Holmes stopped an inch from the revolving door and loosened his grip. By the time they all turned around, a tall fifty-something woman in a white coat was waving a laminated ID card in the cop’s face.

“Dr. Revell Schulte,” she said. “Head of maternity. I know these people. I’ll vouch for them.” She clipped her ID back onto her coat. “And stop using gestapo tactics in my hospital.”

All three cops let go and shuffled back to their stations across the lobby.

“Dr. Schulte,” said Marple. “We saw you in the unit the night of the kidnapping.”

“You did,” said Schulte. “I saw you too.”

“This is our partner, Brendan Holmes.”

“Late to the party, I’m afraid,” said Holmes.

“This is no party,” said Schulte.

She led them into an elevator and up to her office in a corner of the maternity unit. Rather than a wood-paneled refuge filled with medical texts and possibly an articulated human skeleton, the room was spare and functional, no more impressive than a real estate office—except for the framed diplomas on the wall. MS from Columbia. MBA from Stanford. MD from Harvard.

Schulte slipped behind her desk and sat at the edge of her high-backed chair. She gestured toward the waiting-room-style chairs facing her desk. Holmes took a seat. Marple and Poe did the same.

“Thanks for the rescue downstairs,” said Marple.

“I’ve been tossed out of bars,” said Poe, “but never a hospital.”

Schulte showed no reaction to the quip. She sat quietly, looking from Holmes to Marple to Poe. For a few long moments, she said nothing. Then: “Thirty years ago, I was walking home from the library one night when two men grabbed me from behind. They punched me in the side, tried to pull me into a car. I screamed and kicked my way loose. Then I ran to the nearest police station. I told them what happened, showed them the scratches on my arms, the bruises on my ribs. They took a report. Sent me home. And did nothing.”

“They never caught anybody?” asked Marple.

“It was a Saturday night in the city,” said Schulte. “I’m not sure how hard they looked.” She leaned forward over her desk. “Look. I’m not a big fan of the police. But I’ve read everything about you three. I saw you on TV and in the papers all summer.”

Holmes allowed himself a tight smile. He had wanted their firm to have a significant profile in the city, and now it did. He looked up to see Dr. Revell Schulte staring at him as if she knew what he was thinking.

“I don’t care how famous you are,” she said. “I care how good you are. I need you to find my babies.”

She stood up behind her desk and headed for the door. “Come with me.”