Page 58 of Holmes Is Missing

“What’s going on?” Poe asked Duff, tugging his arms free. “They wouldn’t tell me anything!”

“Three girl babies,” said Duff. “Nine months old. Attempted kidnapping in the middle of a goddamn diaper commercial. Security guard spooked the perp and cornered her in a soundstage over there.” He pointed to a closed steel door, wide enough for a truck. Other ground-level openings had long ago been walled over. The place looked like a fortress.

“Was Marple’s tip right?” asked Poe. “Is the suspect Megan Robinson?”

Duff nodded. “She came in on an H-2 visa six months ago. Started working here through a connection with some British producer. She was in charge of managing the kids.”

“Where are the babies now?”

“In there with her.” Duff took a step closer to Poe and tapped him on the chest. “How did you and your partners discover this information? What’s your connection? Who’s your source?”

Even in the midst of a tense situation, Poe couldn’t help but take pleasure in Duff’s consternation. “We’ve told you before, Captain, and I’ll tell you again. We’re very good at what we do.”

They were interrupted by loud screams and wailing coming from a few yards away. Three crazed-looking women had burst out from behind a lighting equipment truck. They were being held back by uniformed cops. Duff glanced in their direction.

“The moms,” he said. He shouted over to the cops. “Get those ladies back inside!” The cops half dragged the distraught women back down the sidewalk.

“Let me talk to them,” said Poe, starting in their direction.

Duff planted himself firmly in his path. “Not a chance.”

The roar of engines echoed off the building as another SWAT truck pulled up.

And behind it, a sedan with a single blue flasher on the dashboard. The car stopped, and a man stepped out.

“About damn time,” growled Duff.

“Who’s this?” asked Poe, eyeing the man’s polo shirt and rumpled khakis.

“Hostage negotiator,” said Duff. He turned to the two cops. “You guys have one job.” He jabbed his finger at Poe. “Keep this jerk out of my way.”

CHAPTER63

“MOVE! COMING THROUGH!”

Holmes was running at top speed through Moynihan Train Hall at Penn Station, toward the Seventh Avenue exit, shoving slower-moving pedestrians aside. When he reached the plaza outside, he spotted a taxi queue at the curb. Travelers with backpacks and satchels were waiting in a ragged line. Holmes pulled his wallet from his pocket and waved his PI identification over his head as he ran. “Official business!” he shouted. He jumped into the first cab in line and slammed the door behind him.

The cabbie turned around and glared. “What the hell, buddy?”

“Silvercup Studios in Queens! Life or death! No questions!Go!”

The cabbie pulled away from the curb with a gut-twisting lurch, cutting off a city bus and getting a chorus of honks from other cars. Holmes pulled an assortment of bills from his wallet and waved them in front of the Plexiglas partition. “I’ll pay you a hundred dollars for every ten miles over the speed limit you can go,” he said.

“You’re nuts if you think anyone’s even moving as fast as the speed limit in this traffic, let alone ten miles over,” the cabbie retorted. “Besides, I don’t need another suspended license!”

Holmes fastened his seat belt. “Don’t worry—I can fix that too! Let’s move!”

The driver gave him a wary look in the rearview mirror. “I’m gonna hold you to that,” he said. He made a hard turn on 34th Street and did his best to bull his way across town, making ample use of the bus lane and running two red lights along the way. He couldn’t do much in the single-file flow of the Queens–Midtown Tunnel except curse and tap his horn, but he earned his money on the east side of the river, blasting up 21st Street through Long Island City and Hunters Point, then zigzagging through side streets to dodge the police barricades as they got close to the studio site.

A block away from the big red Silvercup sign, two patrol cars and a SWAT van blocked the street. Holmes pounded on the partition. “Close enough! Stop here!” He pushed a bunch of bills through the slot, including three crisp hundreds. “See? Big fat tip and not one speeding ticket.”

“They got traffic cams, you know,” said the cabbie. “I could still get nailed.”

Holmes reached back into his pocket and stuffed a business card through the slot. “If they caught you, call me.”

He shoved the back door of the cab open and started running. One of the cops at the barricade held up a hand to warn him off, but Holmes held up his PI identification again and vaulted over the far edge of the barricade, heading for the riot of lights ahead. He was gambling that nobody would give chase or shoot him in the back.

He was sweaty and out of breath when he rounded the corner into the parking lot. The scene was chaos. SWAT teams withautomatic rifles were positioned behind vehicles and on top of the building. News vans were parked at the edge of the action, with reporters and cameramen competing for the best angle. All attention seemed to be focused on a single red steel door.

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