“Is that what Charlotte told you?” He sighed. “I don’t know for certain what happened. I got the impression, from Leander, that he’d gotten caught feeding classified information to the Russians. It’s not important. Either way, he lost his job. They were having money problems—you’ve seen that house, it’s absurd to imagine the upkeep—and they were fighting about it, and so they had a child. That child was Charlotte. And while I love your friend, Jamie, I don’t think she’s ever made anything easier for anyone.”
I bristled. “That’s an awful thing to say.”
“The state of her parents’ marriage isn’t her fault,” he said. “But she put extra weight on an unsteady foundation. They’re not happy people, Alistair and Emma Holmes. Not the way Leander is. Not the way I imagine myself to be.”
“I know.” My father could be called a lot of things, but miserable wasn’t one of them.
“Try to keep that in mind as you’re going through all this with Charlotte. It can be so easy to get bogged down in it. The darkness. The heartlessness. Not in Holmes, of course. Well, sometimes . . .” I didn’t know what Holmes he was talking about, there. I don’t know if he did. “Besides, you’re young, much younger than I was when I got mixed up with this lot. I don’t want it to ruin you.”
“Why won’t you let me read Leander’s emails?” I asked. He’d mentioned his friend’s name so many times, always with such . . . longing. It didn’t sound romantic. It didn’t sound unromantic, either. It sounded like he was mourning the loss of a limb.
He was silent for a moment. “Well, he says a few things about his niece that aren’t very nice.”
“Really? They seem really close.”
“They are,” he said. “But she’s a teenage girl, and makes mistakes, and—oh, dammit, those emails are private, Jamie. They weren’t meant for you. I’m sorry to put it so plainly, but I need to make you understand. I’m so far away from all of it, and thank God for that, because the last case I took with him? It almost killed us both. I have small children. I live in America. I need that distance, but . . .”
“But you can’t cut him off completely.”
“Yes. Well. Listen, I’ll send you the IP addresses from his last few emails. Maybe Milo’s grunts can make something happen on that front. Hold on—” He covered the receiver with a hand. There was some muffled conversation, and when he got back on, his voice was ridiculously jolly. “Well, son, I’ve been told that I need to go sing about figgy pudding! Happy I could help with your girl problems! We’ll talk more soon. I’ll send what I promised. Love you, Jamie.”
“Bye, Dad,” I said. “You too.”
“SO. NATHANIEL ZIEGLER,” HOLMES WAS SAYING AN HOUR later, spinning back and forth in her rolling chair. “Was arrested for possession three years ago. Want to know the address?”
“Let me guess.” August paused for dramatic effect. He was sprawled on Milo’s couch. We’d taken over his penthouse, despite the complaints of his staff. There was more space here than in our room. “221B Baker Street.”
“Yes, you’re a rare wit, August. Have a cookie. The address, in fact, is one we visited last night.” She gave us a street name ending in strasse. “Would the underground pool ring a bell?”
“The place was raided?” August sat up. “During a party?”
“According to the report, he lived there.”
I remembered what Hanna said, about the art school girls who hung on older men’s arms for money and connections. “I wonder if that was how he met Hadrian.”
“It certainly fits.” Holmes frowned. “And Leander’s supposed to be meeting him tonight, Watson?”
I thought back to my conversation with Nathaniel at his loft. “Yeah, if he shows up. The way he reacted when I told him that Leander was hanging out, back at home, it was like . . . it was like he knew that wasn’t possible.”
“You mean to say, he reacted like he knew Leander was dead.”
I shifted in my chair.
“Leander isn’t dead,” she said. “I know it for sure.”
“For a fact?” August asked. “Or for sure?”
Holmes lifted her chin. “He can’t be dead,” she said, and there was only the slightest quaver in her voice.
I had a lot of experience fighting Holmes over her outlandish assertions, but I didn’t have the heart to insist that, yes, in fact, her favorite uncle could be lying in a ditch somewhere. “We can. So?”
“So. It’s seven o’clock already. I doubt Leander’s ‘usual time’ for meeting Nathaniel was any earlier than eight. He’s been at this for a while; he wouldn’t want to meet even at twilight. He’d want the cover of darkness. Still, I have access to the cameras covering the corners in case he shows early.” She swiveled her chair to look out the window. “East Side Gallery is a big place. It’s a tourist destination. We need a plan to make this meeting work for us.”
“You do have an entire company of trained men at your disposal,” August said.
“Do I?” she asked. “Even if they’d follow my lead, using other people’s men leaves a rather large margin for error.”
“You really think your brother would hire subpar help.”