Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

“ ARE WE ABSOLUTELY sure this is a good idea?” asked Marple. She was now having second thoughts about the mission, not least the toll a ten-hour return trip might take on her sleep-deprived driver.

“What? Surprising him?” asked Poe. “It’s the best possible idea.”

“What if we trigger him? Throw him back into his old patterns?”

“Are you saying we might be a bad influence on Brendan Holmes?”

“No,” said Marple after a moment’s thought. “Probably the other way around.” Whether the trip was prudent or not, the truth was she couldn’t wait to see him.

They were heading up Route 79 toward Ithaca, New York, in Poe’s ’66 Pontiac GTO—a better cruising machine than the Charger, he claimed. Marple couldn’t really tell the difference. To her, all of Poe’s flashy muscle cars were loud and uncomfortable. Fun to drive, maybe, but not great for the passenger. All jerky shifts and engine whines. Marple much preferred sedate high-end sedans from Uber Black, but Poe loved to drive, and she wasn’t about to deny him that small pleasure. Not in the mood he was in.

They were west of the Catskills now, about halfway to Ithaca, two and a half hours northwest of the city. Along the way, they passed bare fields with isolated farmhouses and small towns that had seen better days—the kind of places where Marple loved to indulge two of her favorite hobbies: antiquing and bird-watching.

“How long has it been?” asked Poe. “Since he left.”

“Two months, eleven days, six hours,” said Marple. She’d been keeping count. She could have added the minutes.

Marple absolutely agreed with Virginia. The office was not the same without Holmes. Without him, the place lacked a certain drive and energy. Fortunately, the workload had been light since he’d been away—minor cases, easily disposed of, or ongoing investigations that could afford to simmer for a while. At least until last night.

Even on small cases, Marple missed her partner’s deductive skills and technical savvy. As a detective, he was one of a kind. She missed their everyday camaraderie too. The banter. The discussions. Even the arguments. Holmes, Marple, and Poe. The magic of three. One on one, she sometimes found Poe’s moodiness exhausting.

Marple looked over at him, his hands tight on the steering wheel. So far on the drive, Poe had been quiet for long stretches, seemingly lost in his own world. Except for the ten times he had tried to speed-dial Helene—without result.

“Is something on your mind, Auguste?”

“Nothing I want to talk about right now.”

“All right, then…” Time for a distraction. Marple turned on the radio and pressed Scan. Reception was iffy until the receiver locked on to a classic rock station, which came in loud and clear.

When Marple recognized the bass line to “Every Breath You Take,” she cranked up the volume and began singing along, adding a sweet high harmony to the lead vocal—the one about watching somebody’s every step, every word, every move.

“This should be our company theme song,” said Marple, humming along when she ran out of lyrics she knew. Poe stared ahead at the road. Something was eating at him, Marple could tell. She also knew enough not to pry. At least not at the moment. Patience. It was a lesson she had learned from countless interviews and interrogations over the years. Give the dam time to burst on its own.

Marple kept humming along with Sting as she pulled out her iPad and started zipping through international crime reports. As her fingers flew across the keys, she thought about how much the world had changed since she was a fledgling investigator. It didn’t seem that long ago. Now even Interpol had a presence on social media.

She spent the next couple of hours digging down to a file of current investigations around the world—cybercrimes, government corruption, counterfeiting. A few firewalls and keywords later, she landed on a confidential report from London. Four infants had recently gone missing from a private, upscale hospital in Kensington. The authorities were keeping it quiet. Somehow they’d even managed to keep the parents out of the media.

“Aha!” she said. “Take a look at this!” She held the screen up so Poe could see it.

“Not now,” said Poe. “We’re here.”

Marple looked up and put away her iPad. They were approaching a set of fieldstone pillars with a thick iron gate. No engraved plaque told visitors that this was Lake View, but as the gate immediately swung open upon their arrival, Poe eased through the entrance and onto a winding gravel road. A minute later, the rehab center rose into view. The brick building had an almost Norman design, with wood and natural stone around the entryway, some of its hues blending in with the surrounding woods. In the distance, Marple could see sunlight reflecting off Cayuga Lake.

As they pulled up to the entrance, she smiled when she spotted Holmes on the front porch, the only Black man in the row of residents sitting in huge Adirondack chairs. His shaved head gleamed, and his bare feet rested on a small stool. He wore a plush white robe over pajamas.

“Do you think he knew we were coming?” asked Poe.

“Well, he is Holmes after all.”

Poe pulled the car to a stop in a visitor parking space. Marple opened her door and stepped out. She waved. Holmes waved back. He wiggled his bare feet.

“He looks content,” said Poe. “Maybe he’s planning to stay through the fall.”

“No,” said Marple. “He’s ready to leave. I can feel it.”