Chapter 69

CHAPTER 69

IT WAS 8 p.m. by the time Holmes, Virginia, and Poe pulled up in front of the Paul house. Poe, as usual, had wanted to drive, but Holmes insisted on an Uber Black. After hours in a stiff seat on the train to and from Delaware, he craved a touch of luxury.

When the big Suburban pulled away, he bounded up the town-house steps and rang the doorbell. Virginia and Poe stepped up behind him. No answer. Holmes felt a quick shiver pass through him. He pulled out his phone and tried Paul’s number again. This time, there was no voicemail prompt. Instead he got a message that the number was no longer in service.

Poe looked up at the facade of the four-story building. “No lights,” he said. He stepped forward and pulled a thin metal tool from his pocket.

“Watch closely, Virginia,” said Holmes. “You’re about to witness a property crime.”

Poe leaned in close to the door and worked his tool into the keyway of the lock. It took only a few seconds before he pushed the outer door open. Holmes and Virginia followed him into the entryway. The interior lock took a little longer. But not much.

Holmes led the way up the stairs. He had his hand on the butt of his pistol under his jacket but didn’t pull it out. Not yet.

The door to Paul’s apartment was slightly ajar. “Oliver?” Holmes called out. “Irene?” No answer.

Poe pulled Virginia behind him, then unholstered his own gun and stepped up next to Holmes.

Holmes pushed the door open with one hand, holding his pistol up with the other. He stepped inside. Poe followed him. Virginia followed Poe.

The apartment was dark, except for a few night-lights plugged into outlets near the floor.

“Stay back,” Holmes whispered to Virginia as he and Poe split up to search the parlor, kitchen, and downstairs bath. “Clear,” they each stated as they emerged from one room after another.

Holmes moved toward the staircase and started up, heart pounding, with Poe and Virginia close behind him. As the treads creaked, Holmes tightened the grip on his pistol. If somebody was waiting at the top of the stairs, the element of surprise was certainly gone. He felt stupid for having allowed Virginia to come along. This could be dangerous. For a second, he considered turning around and taking her back downstairs. But then he felt Poe behind him, pressing him forward.

On the upstairs landing, Holmes and Poe quickly split up again. Holmes moved down the narrow hall and into the master bedroom at the end, one with bow windows looking out over the street. Empty. So was the luxurious attached bathroom.

When Holmes came back into the hallway, Poe had finished with the second bedroom on the floor. He shook his head and tucked his pistol back under his jacket.

Holmes looked down the staircase.

Where is Virginia?

Suddenly, he heard a thud from the bathroom at the end of the hall. Through the half-open door he could see the edge of a claw-foot tub. He moved quickly down the hall and pushed the door all the way open.

Virginia was slumped on the tile floor, unconscious.

“Poe!” Holmes shouted.

As his partner burst through the door, Holmes slid his arm behind Virginia’s shoulders and lifted her gently. He saw her eyelids flicker, then open slowly.

“What happened?” asked Holmes.

“Not sure,” Virginia mumbled. “Something about this room.” Suddenly, her eyes burst open. “ Kids! You said kids lived here?”

“Right,” said Holmes. “Oliver Paul’s little girls.”

“What about the boy?” asked Virginia.

“No boy. Only the girls.”

Virginia pushed Holmes away and lunged toward the huge porcelain tub. “Not now,” she said. “Years ago. A teenager. A teenage boy.”

Poe stepped over, listening intently. It wasn’t the first time Virginia had sensed things that nobody had told her about.

“What about the boy?” Poe asked.

Virginia’s normally pale skin went a shade whiter. She gripped the edge of the tub. “He killed somebody,” she said. “Right here. A woman.”

Now Holmes blanched. The mother. The drowning. The boy. Oliver Paul! He helped Virginia to her feet, knocking the bathroom door partway shut behind him.

Holmes looked up. On the back of the door was a calendar turned to September. A thick red circle was scrawled around one date. September 30. The anniversary of Oliver Paul’s mother’s death. Just over a day away.

Holmes grabbed the calendar from the door. “Dammit!” How could he have been so stupid? How could he have been so stuck in the details of the case that he didn’t see the plain truth? But he saw it now.

Somewhere, another mother was about to die. Accidentally on purpose. With the help of Oliver Paul.