Chapter 27

CHAPTER 27

LATE THAT NIGHT , Holmes started keeping his end of the bargain. At least that’s how he saw it. His partners had succeeded in chasing down a person of interest, even if she seemed to be a dead end. And Marple in particular seemed to have a solid grasp of the workings of the hospital.

Now it was his turn.

Holmes craved human intelligence, and he needed to test his own faculties. Were his powers of deduction and intuition as dimmed as he assumed them to be, or might he still have a flicker of his old genius left? Only one way to find out.

When he walked into the Cops & Docs bar at midnight, he had to suppress his olfactory reaction. It wasn’t just the smells of beer, perfume, and body odor. Those were right on the surface, and not entirely unpleasant. More potent was the background blend of urine and bleach from the restrooms, the scent of disinfecting wipes from the supply closet, the sting of ammonia from last night’s floor mopping. He had to let it all wash over him and then press it back while he engaged his frontal lobe and visual cortex.

The place was packed with the expected clientele, mostly off-duty cops and hospital workers, some still wearing scrubs or vests marked ER or EMT . The atmosphere was humming at what Holmes estimated to be about 85 decibels, which included the music from the ceiling speakers. Loud but tolerable. At least for a short stretch.

As he shouldered his way through the crowd from the door to the bar, Holmes repeated, “Pardon me,” and offered polite nods. He had a charming smile and he knew how to deploy it. But tonight it seemed to be having a negative effect. Everybody he glanced at—male or female—either ignored him or flat-out turned away.

When he finally reached the bar, Holmes slid onto a stool and tried to catch the attention of the bartender, a well-muscled guy with a thick moustache. It took some effort. When the man finally walked over, wiping his hands on a towel, he appeared to lack the traditional barkeep bonhomie.

“Is it me,” asked Holmes, “or is this place a little clannish?”

“No,” said the bartender. “It’s you.”

“Why? Am I overdressed?” Maybe a custom-tailored suit had been the wrong choice. Force of habit.

“You’re a pariah.” The bartender pointed behind the bar. Holmes leaned over to look. He saw photos of himself and his two partners lined up like mug shots, their names labeled underneath. “Some top cop told the police and hospital people not to talk to you. Any of you.”

“Top cop?”

“Tall, skinny guy.”

“Captain Duff?” asked Holmes.

“Sounds right.” The bartender placed a coaster in front of Holmes. “Look. Makes no difference to me. I’m here to sell drinks. What can I get you?”

“Club soda,” said Holmes. The clean-cut guy at the stool next to him got up and walked away. Holmes noticed the bold NYPD on the back of his windbreaker as he left.

A second later, his place was taken by a young woman with a halo of blond curls and heavily shadowed blue eyes. Late twenties. Black leggings, leather jacket, Wet Leg band T-shirt. She smelled of citrus and cinnamon.

Holmes smiled at her. She smiled back. It was a start.

“Undercover?” he asked.

“In a way,” she replied.

She caught the bartender’s eye with no effort at all. “Hey, Lou!” she called out. “Shot of Jameson!” She gave Holmes an appraising look. “You don’t belong here,” she said.

“I could say the same about you,” Holmes replied. His soda and her shot arrived at the same time. He raised his drink. “Salut.”

She tapped her glass against his and knocked back the whiskey.

Suddenly, Holmes felt clammy all over. He could feel himself sweating under his suit. His head started pounding. Was it the young woman’s fragrance? Or was he simply no longer capable of talking intelligently to strangers?

He stared down the bar and saw the glow from a hundred backlit bottles. His hands started to tremble around his glass, shaking the ice cubes inside. He realized that he was about to violate one of the cardinal rules from his time in the woods. An unbreakable rule. But he couldn’t help it. He needed to tamp down his nerves and build up some confidence.

He raised his hand. The bartender looked over.

“Vodka, neat,” Holmes called out.

“Well, now,” the woman said. “One of us just got a little more interesting.”