Page 51

“I’m not looking for magic,” said Grey. “When the time comes, I want a maternity bed and a big juicy epidural.”

Suddenly the air outside filled with the loud whup-whup of a helicopter rotor. Virginia turned toward the window and saw the black chopper touching down on the snowy lawn. “They’re back!”

A few moments later, the front door opened. Poe walked in looking tired and dejected, followed by Holmes and Marple. Marple seemed especially gloomy. She was carrying a bin full of what looked like old books.

“Everybody okay?” Grey called out from her chair.

Poe closed the door. “Things got a little out of hand in Brooklyn.”

“We know,” said Virginia. “It’s been all over the internet.”

“How many casualties?” asked Grey.

“Three cops wounded,” said Poe. “Four suspects dead.”

“Unfortunately we were all barking up the wrong tree,” said Holmes. “Again.”

“Where are Edwards and his friends?” asked Grey.

“Back at the field office,” said Poe. “I think they were finally put off by our rustic lifestyle.”

“Or maybe they didn’t like our company,” said Holmes. “In any case, good riddance!”

Virginia watched as Marple put down the bin of books and headed for the kitchen, waving her hands apologetically. “Sorry all. I need to brush up on my roux for tomorrow.”

“Absolutely. Go right ahead,” Holmes replied. “Good to see you have your priorities straight.”

Virginia could hear the cold sarcasm in his voice. She knew things had been rocky between Holmes and Marple for a while now. Clearly the situation wasn’t getting any better.

She offered Grey a blanket, then stood and walked over to where Poe and Holmes were standing. “I’ve been champing at the bit all afternoon,” she said. “I need to show you something.” She nodded toward the comms room.

“You tracked down Charles Milver?” asked Holmes. That had been Virginia’s assignment for the day.

“Yes and no,” said Virginia, leading the way. “His law firm has no website. No Instagram. No X account. No social media at all.” She sat down at a workstation and spun the chair toward the screen. “But I dug up an old DMV photo and ran it through Diogenes. The facial-recognition software is a little glitchy, but I managed.”

“It’s still in beta!” said Holmes. His tone was a bit defensive.

“Anyway,” said Virginia, “this is what I found.” She tapped a key. The large screen at the front of the room filled with a still image of Milver in profile, looking twenty years younger. He was sitting at what appeared to be a busy Wall Street trading desk. The room was crowded with young men in suits and crisp shirts. A large stock ticker display ran around the perimeter of the room.

“Where was this?” asked Holmes.

“When was this?” asked Poe.

Virginia clicked to another angle. “Morgan Stanley, Manhattan, 2006.”

“Milver was a trader?”

Virginia nodded. “Made a small killing, apparently. That’s before he quit and went to law school. But look here…”

Virginia zoomed in on Milver’s workstation, where a plastic nameplate sat just below his multiscreen Bloomberg Terminal system.

Poe squinted. “Jock Stapleton?”

Virginia nodded. “Stapleton passed his Series 55 exam in 2004. Went to work at Morgan Stanley that same year. Left three years later. Now he’s the principal at a small investment company in Manhattan, specializing in energy stocks and futures. SunForce Capital, it’s called.”

Holmes pointed to the face on the screen. “But that’s…”

“Correct,” said Virginia. “Charles Milver and Jock Stapleton are the same person.”