Chapter 43

CHAPTER 43

TWO BURLY SECURITY guards arrived in seconds. They grabbed Holmes under the arms and lifted him bodily from his seat. He struggled against their grip, but it was no use. His muscles felt slack. No strength or coordination.

“I demand to talk to the library director!” Holmes protested as the guards pulled him out through the reading room foyer.

“We’ll get you on her schedule,” said one of the guards.

“You don’t understand,” said Holmes. “I’m a patron! A generous patron.”

“We appreciate it,” said the second guard. “You’re also a disturbance.”

The guards walked Holmes briskly downstairs to the Fifth Avenue exit and pushed him through one of the ornate front doors and onto the front steps. He felt like a seed that had been spit out.

Holmes straightened his jacket and took a few moments to collect himself. Slowly, he settled back to normal—or at least functional. He no longer felt like screaming. But his brain was still buzzing. He needed to get back to work. He pulled out his new watch and checked the time against his cell phone. Dead accurate. It was 5 p.m. on the nose.

Holmes slipped the watch back into his pocket and pulled up the Uber app on his phone. He punched in a destination and was assigned a car two minutes away. He walked down the broad library steps and leaned against the base of one of the massive marble lions guarding the entrance.

When his Uber, a dark-green SUV, pulled up, Holmes hopped into the back seat.

“Headed for Harlem?” the driver asked.

“That’s right,” said Holmes. “Marcus Garvey Park. Corner of Madison and 124th.”

“You got it,” said the driver. He made a left on East 40th and headed across town toward FDR Drive.

Riding north along the East River, Holmes felt the same twinge he always got when he approached a murder scene, no matter how old it was. It was a blend of anticipation and voyeuristic excitement. Places of death had always held a special fascination for him. They made him feel alive.

Holmes hadn’t bothered to check who currently resided at the Harlem address where Oliver Paul’s mother had died. Whoever it was, Holmes figured he could charm his way in. If not, as Marple had taught him, the PI card often worked wonders.

The Uber driver made great time uptown, beating almost every light. It wasn’t long before they were pulling up alongside the black wrought-iron fencing that bordered Marcus Garvey Park. Holmes climbed out and paused to get his bearings. Then he walked slowly along the street, checking numbers, until he reached the address named in the Post article.

The building was a classic four-story brownstone with granite steps leading up to a set of polished wood doors. For a location this close to the park, Holmes estimated the building’s value would be at three million plus. Gentrification in action.

He walked up the steps and rang the bell. A woman’s voice crackled through the speaker near the door. “Yes?”

“Hello. My name is Holmes. Brendan Holmes. I’m a private investigator working on a cold case in the neighborhood. I’m wondering if I could take a quick look at your apartment.”

There were a few moments of silence. Then, without another word, the buzzer sounded. Easier than he’d expected. Holmes turned the knob and pushed the door open. As soon as he stepped into the entryway, he heard footsteps on the other side of the interior door. Another set of locks clicked open, this time by hand.

The door opened into a dark interior hallway. At first it was hard to see the figure inside.

“Sherlock! You found me!”

The familiar rasp.

It was Oliver Paul.