Chapter 49

CHAPTER 49

NINE HOURS AFTER the meeting with Dr. Stone at HavenCare, Holmes was feeling exhausted and frustrated. The meeting in Bedford had been a waste of time, totally unproductive. To his great disappointment, he hadn’t detected any signs of evasiveness in Dr. Frank Stone. No wavering eyeline. No incongruent gestures. No scent of stress sweat. The doctor was either a sincere communicator or a practiced liar. Or both.

Holmes was also feeling guilty. Over an hour ago he’d left his partners at home, telling them he wanted to inspect the St. Michael’s escape route one more time in the dark, to see if the forensics team had missed anything. Instead, he’d made an escape of his own—to Harlem. At this very moment, he was walking up the front steps of Oliver Paul’s elegant brownstone.

Holmes pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed the sweat from his forehead. His body ached. He felt clammy and nauseated. He had predicted that the first seventy-two hours without his medication would be the worst, but he was determined to fight through it. Despite the challenge of going cold turkey, he stubbornly held to the belief that it was better this way.

Suddenly, his gut lurched. He bent over the metal railing, fully prepared to vomit into the bushes. Nothing came up. After a few seconds, the worst of the feeling passed. He stood up and pressed the door buzzer.

“Yes? Who’s there?” Irene’s voice.

“Irene, it’s Brendan. Brendan Holmes.”

“I’ll buzz you in,” said Irene.

At the sound of the buzz, Holmes pushed through into the vestibule. As he stepped inside, the interior door lock clicked open. He walked slowly up the staircase to Paul’s apartment. He felt a bit like a kid playing hooky. He still hadn’t told Marple or Poe anything about his little side project.

He rationalized his secrecy by telling himself that he didn’t want to distract them from the kidnappings, but it was really the independence that excited him. He didn’t want them to either discourage him or try to horn in on the case. For the first day or two, he’d thought of “The Mother Murders” case as a hobby. But it was quickly becoming a private obsession.

When Holmes looked up, Irene was waiting for him on the landing, one of her little girls in her arms. “Welcome back, Mr. Holmes.”

“Call me Brendan,” said Holmes, mounting the last few stairs. “Or Sherlock.” He had initially resented Oliver’s nickname for him, deeming it sarcastic and overly familiar. But he’d quickly realized that Paul wasn’t using it in a disrespectful manner. He was using it very seriously, as if he were conferring a royal title. Holmes was getting used to it. In fact, he found himself getting oddly comfortable with the little watchmaker and his family. In some ways, they seemed almost normal.

He glanced at the child. Which one was it? What was her name? Linda? Glenda? Brenda!

He leaned forward. “How are you tonight, Brenda?” No reply. Was the girl shy? Mute? What age did children start speaking, anyway? Holmes realized he had no idea. The girl lifted her head slightly off Irene’s shoulder and gave Holmes a tentative smile.

As Irene led the way into the living room, Holmes spotted Oliver Paul sitting in an easy chair, cradling the other girl in his lap. Holmes racked his brain again. Lila? Lola? Lily!

The watchmaker looked up. He seemed surprised but pleased. “Sherlock! What a treat.” He nodded to the sleeping child in his lap. “Excuse me if I don’t get up.”

“I hope I’m not intruding,” said Holmes. Actually, he hoped that he was. He liked to catch people unawares. It was one of his favorite techniques. Spontaneous reactions could be very revealing. He scanned Paul’s face for any hint of defensiveness, sniffed the air for any scent of anxiety. Nothing.

A cell phone jingled in the kitchen. “That’s mine,” said Irene. She set Brenda down and smoothed the girl’s Disney-print shirt. “I’ll be right back, sweetheart,” she whispered.

“Please, sit,” said Paul, pointing to the sofa.

As Holmes walked across the room, he could feel the little girl following him, toddling along in his shadow. As soon as he sat down on the sofa, Brenda pulled herself onto his lap by climbing the folds of his trousers. Holmes wasn’t sure how to react. He’d never held a child in his life. Puppies, yes. And occasionally Margaret’s cat, Annabel. But children, never. They were not in his social set.

Holmes felt the girl settle into position with her hip on his thigh and her head nestled against his torso. Her body radiated warmth, along with the essence of applesauce and soap.

“Looks like we have a new babysitter,” said Paul.

Holmes shifted awkwardly, trying to be a good sport. “I’m afraid my hourly rate would be exorbitant,” he said. He looked down at the toddler. Her thumb was tucked into her mouth and her eyes were closed. Holmes rested one hand on the armrest and the other on the little girl’s shoulder—very lightly—as if she were an egg that might crack. He turned his head hopefully in the direction of the kitchen, but Irene had apparently taken the phone into a back room.

“Don’t worry,” said Oliver. “She’ll be back soon. To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“All right, then,” said Holmes softly. “If you don’t mind, let’s talk a little bit more about your mother.”

“Of course,” said Paul. “Moms are my favorite topic.” He cocked his head to one side and gave Holmes that odd look, the look where only one eye focused. “How long since you’ve seen yours?”

Holmes felt a squeeze in his gut. The question threw him. Strange. Irrelevant. Inappropriate. “ My mother?” he replied evenly. “My mother died a long time ago. I’m not here to talk about her.”

Paul sighed gently. He tucked a small blanket over Lily’s bare feet. “Passed away,” he said. “That’s what they told you. And I can understand why you’d want to believe it. Easier that way, I expect, considering her circumstances.”

Heat prickled the back of Holmes’s neck. He leaned forward, then eased back, trying not to disturb the sleeping child in his lap. Memories flashed in his brain. Painful memories. He shook them off and stared hard at the watchmaker. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t look so surprised, Sherlock,” said Paul. “I’m an expert on mothers. Yours was an insecure, narcissistic, self-destructive drug addict. But trust me, she is very much alive.”