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“Who’s Charles Milver?”

“An identity that comes in handy from time to time.”

“Why the fake name?” asked Poe.

Stapleton smiled. “I could ask you two the same thing. From what I can tell, you both emerged from nowhere, fully formed, with no pasts. Same for your friend Marple.”

“We prefer an air of mystery,” said Holmes. “It serves our purposes.”

“Well put,” said Stapleton. “So, I guess we’re all birds of a feather. By the way, if you’re recording any of this, you should know that there are jammers in the walls.”

“That’s an FCC violation,” said Holmes. “What if somebody needs to call an ambulance?”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” said Stapleton. “But I suppose that depends on why you’re here.”

“We know you’re shorting the energy market,” said Holmes. “Your client, Mr. Paul, has obviously been tipping you off before his acts of sabotage.”

“I’m impressed,” said Stapleton. “That must have taken some legwork.”

“We’re very good at what we do,” Poe replied.

Stapleton’s veneer of bonhomie suddenly disappeared. “Well, I’ll tell you one thing you’re not good at. And that’s getting Agnes Matts released from prison. I understand that she’s been moved to a more secure facility. Where is she?”

“If we knew, we wouldn’t tell you,” said Poe. “It would be just one more place for your client to blow up.”

“After you shorted prison company futures, of course,” added Holmes.

“You can’t prove anything,” said Stapleton. “I’m a businessman. Unconventional, no doubt. Maybe an opportunist. But there’s nothing illegal about that. I simply have good judgment, and good luck. My timing may be impeccable, but my nose is clean.”

“I’m not sure the SEC would see it that way,” said Poe. “Especially if they knew about your connection to a fugitive domestic terrorist.”

Stapleton sighed heavily. “Look. I’m sorry you felt it necessary to come all this way from your little chalet. We really could have handled this on the phone. I have nothing to say to you except this: Oliver Paul is a patient man. A meticulous man. He understands the vicissitudes of the prison system, especially if his wife is being held at a black site. Which is why he’s granted you some grace. But the clock is ticking. If Agnes Matts is not freed by tomorrow night, more people will die. Hardworking, innocent people. Hundreds of them.” He looked from Holmes to Poe. “And their blood will be on your hands.”

CHAPTER 65

“THIS IS NAUSEATING, Auguste! I can’t bear it!”

Holmes was miserable. It was the smell again. Fish Tales was a compact retail space in Cobble Hill, about a mile south of the Brooklyn Bridge. Even with cold air circulating, the scent of brine and seaweed and hundreds of pounds of iced fish filled his nostrils. It was worse than Margaret’s fumet. Holmes had his nose buried in his gloved hand when Poe pointed him toward a large tub-shaped tank. “There!”

Holmes breathed through his mouth as he elbowed his way to the display. A pod of lobsters was clustered at the bottom of the tank. They looked like huge insects, their dark shells flecked with orange, their bulging claws bound in turquoise rubber bands. There were about a dozen of them.

Holmes caught the eye of a bearded employee behind the counter. “These lobsters!” he shouted. “Fresh caught?” The guy wore a black polo shirt with the store logo on his chest. “Swimming this morning,” he called back. He pantomimed the breaststroke.

“I want your two biggest,” said Holmes.

“Be right there!”

The salesman walked over to the tank, slipped on a rubber glove, and plunged his arm into the water. He poked around the bottom, nudging the smaller lobsters aside until he isolated the two fattest specimens. He pulled them out one by one and set them, still dripping, on the countertop. They sat there in a bizarre lineup, antennae stalks bobbing, legs wriggling, claws waving.

“Good?” the salesman asked.

“Fine,” said Holmes. “Box them up, along with some mussels and two pounds of eel. I’m taking them on a plane.”

“Will do. It’ll be their second trip today,” said the salesman with a grin as another worker scurried off to gather the remaining ingredients Holmes had requested. “Frequent fliers, these guys!”

Holmes smiled wanly at the joke, but he was in no mood for repartee. He could barely keep his oatmeal down. And where the hell was Poe? He’d totally disappeared.

The salesman plucked the lobsters off the counter one by one and put them into a chilled Styrofoam container. “That’ll be $379.75, with tax and the boxes. The rest will be right over.”