As the heroin molecules attached to his opioid receptors, he took on the groggy look of a sleepwalker. With his olfactory senses altered, he saw and smelled the city in a whole new way. He understood the risk of damaging his nasal passages—and threatening his hyperosmia—but also took pleasure in dulling his occasionally overwhelming sensitivity. His natural fastidiousness faded and he reveled in the grit of the streets. The bold colors of the store signs, the distant wail of sirens—it all felt magical.

  As Holmes descended the subway steps into the thick air of the underground station, he heard the rumble of the approaching J train. He heard it as thunder, then as pounding hooves, then as a hurricane. He loved it. As the train slowed, he walked alongside and positioned himself directly in front of a door.

  He stepped inside. He could smell the bleach from the previous night’s cleaning, but it registered as pleasantly floral. He grabbed a support pole as the train lurched forward and rolled toward Brooklyn. The racket of the wheels on the rails felt soothing, and he was delighted by the passing mosaic of the tunnel walls—blurred but beautiful.

  His fellow travelers included a woman slouched in a seat across from him, turban askew, purse gripped tightly in her lap. At the other end of the car, a young man with a shaved head rocked to the beat in his earbuds. Behind the bleach, Holmes picked up the acidic overtones of stale vomit, but it washed over him like a gentle wave. A delightful experience, the New York subway system, he thought—if you’re in the right state of mind.

  Holmes exited the train at the Gates Avenue stop. He was alone in the station. By the time he reached the top of the staircase to the street, he felt inexplicably winded. Suddenly, his legs felt wobbly. He staggered over to a building and leaned against the front wall. This never happened. Had he miscalculated the dose? Had the product been laced? His mouth felt dry. His tongue felt thick. He stared at a beer sign in a bar window, trying to focus. The colors spun like a kaleidoscope, then faded to black. Holmes felt himself starting to drop, and then … nothing.

  He was in an alley when he came to. That much he knew. His head was pounding with pain. He was propped against a wall, as if somebody had placed him there, like an abandoned doll. There was a small streak of dried saliva on his jacket collar.

  As his senses returned, he anxiously patted his pockets, then tipped his head back and let out a loud, angry grunt. His pockets were empty. His stash was gone. Also his cash, his keys, his penknife, and his testing kit. He was relieved that he’d left his cell phone, wallet, and ID at home. Otherwise, somebody, right now, might be in the process of stealing his identity.

  He stroked his face and checked his fingers. No blood. He gently palpated his aching skull, feeling for lumps or lacerations. Nothing. Whoever had rolled him had not knocked him out. Holmes had taken care of that all by himself.

  As his olfactory bulbs fired up, he could smell liquor and mayonnaise from a glass recycling bin. And, much closer, the smell of dried urine. He looked down, startled—then disgusted. A dark stain ran from his crotch to his knees. The urine odor was all his.

  CHAPTER 39

  AUGUSTE POE’S BEDROOM glowed with exactly one hundred candles. He was slightly out of breath from hurrying to set up and light them all while she was taking her shower. The amazing woman in his life. He wanted her to be surprised and excited—as excited as he was about her. She was the one. He was sure of it.

  He heard the shower tap turn off. The bathroom door opened. For a moment, she was silhouetted by the bathroom light, her slender figure outlined beneath the negligee.

  “Wow,” she said, glancing around the room.

  “Do you like it?” Poe asked, leaning up against a pillow.

  “I love it,” she said with a laugh. God, he adored that laugh. “I just hope the sprinklers don’t go off.”

  She was kneeling on the sheets now, smelling like jasmine soap and smiling her incredible smile. “It’s beautiful, Auguste,” she said softly. “Just beautiful.” She leaned over and kissed him, slow and deep. Her dark hair fell across his face. She pulled back slightly, stroking his forehead. “Everything’s beautiful with you,” she said.

  He ran his fingers over her shoulders and teased the flowered straps of the negligee down her arms.

  She gave him a playful frown. “Wait. Did I put this on just so that you could take it off?”

  “So silly,” said Poe. “Seems like a wasted step.”

  “I can always wear it for breakfast,” she said, pulling it over her head with one graceful sweep. Her hair fell in damp curls around her pale shoulders. Her body glowed in the candlelight. Poe actually gasped at how beautiful she was. She leaned forward. Her bare breasts brushed his chest. Poe felt his heart beating faster. He couldn’t believe how much he loved this woman, needed her, wanted her. Especially right now. He reached for her. Touched her tenderly.

  “Not yet,” she said. “Close your eyes.”

  He did.

  The next thing he felt was a drip of hot wax on his bare chest. It stung, then instantly cooled. Another drip, this time on his belly. Then two more, on his abdomen. Incredibly arousing. He felt her pulling the sheets lower. She leaned forward, her lips brushing his ear. “Let me know if I’m hurting you,” she whispered.

  “You’re not,” Poe said softly. “You never could.”

  Poe gasped and woke up, clenching his pillow in both hands. He looked around the room slowly, bringing himself back to the present. Back to reality. Back to a world without her. Then the guilt flowed in again, dark and swirling.

  If it weren’t for him, he knew for a certainty, Annie would still be alive.

  Poe sat still for almost a minute, just breathing. Then he leaned over the side of the bed and reached between the mattress and the box spring. He worked his fingers in and swept his hand back and forth—until he felt the familiar flask.

  CHAPTER 40

  AS HOLMES STUMBLED toward home, his body ached and his mind spun with guilt. If he’d spent the night huddling with his partners instead of indulging himself, none of this would have happened. This was the worst possible time for a clouded brain. And his brain was what he needed most. His logical, analytical brain. Sometimes, as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had described it, the rest of his body felt like a mere appendix.

  Poe had told him about his visit to the subway skeletons in the morgue. That case alone deserved his complete focus. And what about Eton Charles and Zozi Turner? Holmes imagined them sweating and praying in some dank basement, waiting desperately for ransom. He realized that he wasn’t doing nearly enough on that investigation either. There were killers and kidnappers on the loose, and what was he doing? Chasing his own demons. He just couldn’t help it. And he hated himself for it.

  Holmes crossed the street in front of the office and walked to the main entrance. Security lights glowed from the first-floor interior. The second floor was dark. He walked up the two steps to the door and punched in the code on the small panel to the side.

  He heard a discordant beep. Wrong digits. He tried again. Same result. Dammit! Had somebody changed the code without telling him?

  Furious, Holmes reached for his cell phone, then remembered he didn’t have it. He raised his fist to pound on the door, then stopped. He decided to turn his problem into a challenge—a way to test himself, mind and body. And to maybe punish himself a little too. A bit of penance for the night’s misdeeds. Code or no code, he was getting in.

  He rounded the corner to the side of the building facing the abandoned tattoo parlor. In spite of many calls to the city hotline, the ground was still littered with rotting crates and rusted equipment.

  Holmes placed his foot on a sturdy emergency water connection sticking out from the side of his building. He stepped up and reached for the concrete sill of the first-floor window. Sturdy bars blocked the opening, and a lace of sensor wires ran across the pane. He needed to get to the second floor, where the windows were alarmed but not barred. There, he might have a chance.

  Holmes placed the tip of his shoe into a small crevice above a course of bricks and pressed himself up, free-climbing onto the slender first-floor window ledge. He glanced to his right. A narrow black drainpipe, marked with scabs of rust, rose from the ground all the way to the roof of the building. Holmes tugged on it. The pipe was anchored too tightly to the wall to shimmy up, but there were thin metal brackets every few feet, good enough for toeholds.

  After a few strained maneuvers, Holmes was spread out like an insect against the wall—one foot braced against a pipe bracket, another resting tentatively on the corner of a brick, both hands gripping the second-story windowsill. Every muscle in his body was burning, and his breaths were coming in short gasps. He glanced down. If he fell now, he could crack his head open on the water pipe or impale himself on a piece of rusted metal. But it was too late to turn back.

  Slowly, meticulously, he walked his feet up the side of the drainpipe, pulling himself up until his face was even with the lower pane of the industrial window. Only one sensor there. Maybe he could disable it or short it out.

  Holmes reached instinctively for his penknife, before remembering that it was now in somebody else’s pocket. Suddenly, his foot hit a patch of scaly rust on the pipe and slipped off. His leg flailed in midair. A loose bracket fell to the ground and bounced against a metal tin with a loud bang.

  Then Holmes heard another noise—this one from above.

  He looked up as the window opened. The barrel of a Glock 45 poked over the sill and hovered an inch from his nose.

  “Auguste! For Christ’s sake, don’t shoot!” said Holmes. “It’s me.”

  Poe leaned out over the edge and gave a shaky wave. “Welcome home, Brendan,” he said. Even in the open air, Holmes could smell the liquor on his partner’s breath. This gave him a bit of solace. In the realm of bad habits, at least he had company.

  CHAPTER 41

  WHEN HOLMES WOKE up in his apartment a few hours later, his head was still clouded, and he felt filthy. He realized that he’d fallen into bed in his soiled suit. He rolled out, stripped himself naked, and stuffed his clothes into a garbage bag. He did the same with the bedsheets. Then he stepped into his shower and let scalding water stream over his body.

  Steam filled the enclosure and cleared his nasal passages. He pressed his palms against the smooth tile walls and took long, deep breaths. Fully sober now, he realized that he was lucky to be alive.

  That’s it, he vowed. No more distractions until all the firm’s current cases are solved. Every single one. He owed it to his clients. He owed it to his partners. He owed it to himself. He stepped out of the shower. Dried himself thoroughly. Then stepped back into the stall and showered again.

  As he walked downstairs in a freshly pressed suit, Holmes immediately sensed something different in the office. A new presence. It was the hair product that struck him first—primarily the acrylic acid and the light citrus additive.

  He walked around the edge of the office and saw a young woman sitting at a desk. A total stranger. She was tapping on a keypad, with a stack of reports and files by her side. Now the scent of hair gel mingled with the aroma of Native body wash.

  “Good morning, Mr. Holmes!”

  Holmes stared at her, puzzled. “Sorry. You are …?”

  The young woman stood and held out her hand. “I’m Virginia.” Her dark hair was streaked with pink. The stud in her nostril glinted in the light. “Mr. Poe hired me to help out with operations. I started yesterday afternoon. I guess you’d already gone out.” Her grip was firm and professional.

  “Of course,” said Holmes, masking his confusion. Had he missed a memo—or just been left out of the loop? It wouldn’t be the first time Poe had gone rogue on office matters.

  “I’m so glad to be here,” said Virginia. “Very exciting.” She sat back down in her chair and swung around to face her desk. “Ms. Marple will be right down. Mr. Poe is sleeping in,” she said. “And the coffee is on. Sumatra dark roast. Mr. Poe said you were an early riser. Same with me. Up with the birds.”

  Holmes started toward his workspace on the other side of the room, then turned back. He scratched his head. “And what was your previous experience …?”

  “I worked at an animal shelter.”

  “I see,” said Holmes. “Well, I expect this will be quite different.”

  “So far, so good,” said Virginia. “Nobody’s bitten me yet.”

  “Wonderful! I see you and Virginia have met.” It was Marple, coming down the stairs with a huge black cat nestled in her arms.

  “We have,” Holmes said pointedly. “Just now. At this very moment.” As Marple approached, Holmes stared at the cat, who looked back at him with strange yellow-orange eyes. Unsettling. “And who is this?”

  Marple rubbed the cat gently behind the ears. “This is Annabel. A gift from Auguste. She is my avenging angel. Not a rodent in sight.” She set Annabel down on the floor. The cat immediately leaped up onto Virginia’s desk and settled into a Sphinx-like pose next to her computer.

  “Virginia is an absolute gem,” said Marple. “She’s already located a crop of unpaid invoices and merged our contact lists.” Marple leaned in toward Virginia. “No rush, but when do you think you might get around to …”

  “Updating the security?” said Virginia. “Done. I sent you all an encrypted email with the new temporary codes last night. That’s just until I order the new iris-recognition system.”

  Temporary codes? Of course, thought Holmes. He would have received them if he’d had his phone. Embarrassing.

  Virginia’s desk phone rang. She picked up. “Holmes, Marple, and Poe Investigations. This is Virginia.” Smooth and friendly. As Holmes watched, Virginia’s eyes widened and her mouth gaped.

  “Yes. Of course,” she said softly into the handset. “I’ll tell her right away.”

  She put the call on hold and looked straight at Marple. “It’s Addilyn Charles. She said she just got a bloody shirt in the mail.”

  Marple looked at Holmes.

  Holmes looked at Virginia.

  “Welcome to the firm,” he said.

  CHAPTER 42

  THE CHARLES APARTMENT was swarming with plainclothes NYPD and federal agents. The special agent in charge was questioning Addilyn on the far side of the room.

  Marple stood with her partners in the opposite corner. Poe still looked groggy from sleep. Holmes just looked irritated. Helene Grey crowded in close. “I could have your licenses for this!” the detective hissed. She was clearly furious. “Five days these people have been missing?? What the hell were you thinking??”

  “Addilyn trusted us,” said Marple. “She was afraid that calling in the police would spook the kidnappers. But the instant we heard about the shirt—”

  “We called you,” said Poe, interrupting. “You’re here now.”

  “Right,” said Grey. “And so is the FBI. And I hope to hell we’re not all too late.”

  The bloody evidence was already on its way to the lab. Marple had only gotten a glimpse of it—a white undershirt with a reddish-brown stain running down from the neckline. Addilyn had confirmed that it was her husband’s brand and size. She broke down when she sniffed it. It smelled of his cologne.

  Marple saw the agent hand Addilyn a box of tissues before heading in their direction. The agent’s name was Brita Stans. She was the first person they’d met when they arrived, and it had not been a cordial greeting. Stans was petite but sturdy, with a no-bullshit manner. She planted herself and looked from Marple to Poe to Holmes.

  “Okay, you three—listen to me. From now on, everything on this case runs through my office. No contact with Addilyn Charles. Any information you have, any leads you get, you give directly to me. Got it? You messed up big by not calling us in at the start. You might have caused a kidnapping to turn into a homicide—or two.”

  Marple took a deep breath and hoped that Holmes and Poe would keep their mouths shut for once. Stans looked over at Grey.

  “Keep these loose dicks on a leash, Detective. Can you do that for me?”

  “No problem,” said Grey, her voice tight.

  “But it’s our case!” Holmes protested. “Addilyn called us first.”

  “That was her mistake,” said Stans. “Don’t make it worse.”

  “So we’re supposed to do nothing?” asked Poe. “What if we uncover new information?”

  “Detective Grey has my number,” said Stans. “She’ll pass along anything you find. Otherwise, don’t call us—we’ll call you.”

  CHAPTER 43

  THE SPIRITED WHITE stallion stood a solid seventeen hands. Nobody on the fashion shoot except Lucy Lynn Ferry knew that metric. Everybody else just called it “a fucking big horse.”

  Lucy was so excited. Betsy Bronte had really come through for her. Just three days after the interview, she had her first legit modeling job! For Stella McCartney, no less. She hadn’t even had time to get her tooth fixed. But no matter. All the photographer wanted were serious faces and somber pouts. No smiling required. After an hour in the hair-and-makeup tent, Lucy barely recognized herself. Now she was standing barefoot in the warm grass of Central Park, dressed in an elegant one-shouldered, wide-leg jumpsuit they told her retailed for sixteen hundred dollars. The diamonds dangling from her earlobes were worth even more. She was a long way from the Texas Panhandle. Even if she was living in a lonely basement apartment.

  Lucy hadn’t met the other two models before, and they seemed kind of stuck-up. Or maybe they were just skittish. They were both city girls, and they’d probably never been this close to a half ton animal.

  The photographer was wiry and intense, with a shaved head and a Scandinavian accent. As he crouched and scurried around, setting up his shots, all three models stood silently with their backs to the massive horse, his pale hide and blond mane contrasting dramatically with their all-black outfits.