Page 55 of Holmes Is Missing

“What about?”

“Never mind,” said Poe. “But believe me. We are personae non gratae with the task force.”

“Listen, Auguste. I have a lead that there may be another kidnapping about to happen in New York.”

Poe swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Where?”

“I don’t know. But take down this information.”

Poe opened his side table drawer and pulled out a pen and notepad. “Ready.”

“You need to track down a Megan Robinson. Age twenty-six. British. Possibly there on a work visa. May be working as an au pair, possibly under the table. All I know is that she’s involved. Probably on the inside.”

“I’ll put Virginia on it,” said Poe.

“No!” said Marple firmly. “Puteverybodyon it. You. Brendan. The task force.”

“Brendan’s not here,” said Poe.

“Where is he?”

“He took off for Delaware.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Iknewit!”

“What’s he looking for in Delaware? He wouldn’t tell me.”

Marple sighed. “He’s looking for trouble, is what. All right, forget Brendan for the moment. Focus on the babies! Find the girl! Do it now!”

The line clicked off.

CHAPTER59

HOLMES EXITED THEcab about twenty yards short of the address he was looking for. The street was narrow and lined with trees. Behind him, he could see the northern border of the state park. As the cab drove off, he started walking along the shoulder toward a weathered mailbox with the number 304.

Holmes stepped behind a hedge at the edge of the property and peeked through. There was a house visible at the end of a long gravel driveway. It was a downscale ranch with faded burgundy siding. The roof was patched, and the chimney was missing a few bricks near the cap. A dented RAV4 sat outside the closed garage.

Holmes walked along the far side of the hedge, scanning the yard for clues. No toys or playsets. Nothing to indicate the presence of a dog. No surveillance cameras poking out from under the eaves. The gravel near the car was worn down only on the driver side, indicating probably only one resident.

As he stared at the vehicle, making sure there was nobody inside, Holmes flashed on the last time he’d seen his mother. She’d been in the back seat of a large sedan, slumped to one side.Holmes remembered tapping on the window to get her attention, but she had barely lifted her head to acknowledge him, as if she didn’t even have enough life force to wave good-bye. He remembered the sensation of his father’s large hands on his shoulders as the car pulled away.

Holmes remembered the burning in his throat and the sting in his eyes. He remembered walking back into the house and picking up the first book he laid his hands on, a mystery novel. He remembered slamming the door to his bedroom, ready to lose himself again in somebody else’s problems. Problems that came with solutions.

By the time Holmes had reached the end of the hedge, he was only about fifteen yards from the rear of the house. He spotted a small, well-tended garden out back. He darted across a short patch of grass to the rear of the garage, then leaned his head out to peer through a kitchen window overlooking the backyard. Better to wait for dark, of course. But he couldn’t wait.

Not if she was really here.

Holmes pulled the pair of folding opera glasses from his pocket and focused the lenses. He could detect movement behind the kitchen curtains. A single figure, short and slight but otherwise undecipherable—just a faint silhouette. He put the small opera glasses away and walked in a crouch toward the back entrance. As he passed by the window, his angle provided a glimpse between the curtains.

He froze mid-step.

There, reaching up into a cabinet, was a sixty-something woman with sharp features—features that Holmes remembered as delicate. He crossed to the back porch and leaned against one of the wooden posts. His mind was reeling. He couldn’t catch his breath.

Oliver Paul was right. Itwasher.

Now what?

Holmes stood stock-still for a second. Then he felt himself backing away toward the garage. Nervous. Confused. Sweating. Coming here had been a bad idea. Maybe the worst idea ever. Better to leave the past in the past. The heel of his right shoe caught on the gravel. His left foot came down with a loud crunch. He heard the cupboard door slam. A second later, the back door opened. The woman leaned out, one hand on the doorknob, the other on the frame. “Hey!” she called out. “Who the hell are you?”

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