The Last of August

Holmes nodded beside her. Her body language mirrored the girl’s—hand on cocked hip, a snarl. Strangely, it seemed like it made the girl more at ease.

“I already said his name was Professor Ziegler,” she said. “His email is on the school website. I have to go.”

I smiled at her, but I didn’t move my foot. “Did he ever live here?”

“Who are you?” she asked, crossing her arms. “Why do you care?”

“My camera,” Holmes said, in a low, accented voice, “cost me three months serving drinks to assholes.”

The girl sighed. “Ziegler used to live here. The only man who ever lived here until the school found out and made him move. They didn’t like that he lived with all college girls.”

“Not his students?” Holmes asked her, disgusted.

“College girls. Not Sieben girls. But Ziegler’s friend owned the building, and so he got cheap rent. Whatever. Not important. Ziegler doesn’t have your camera. He’s not a thief, just a creep.” After a moment’s pause, the girl shifted her weight and said, “I’ll look for it. Your camera. Come back tomorrow, ask again.”

“Who’s his friend?” I asked. “Ziegler’s friend?”

“For the love of God,” the girl said. “His name was Moriarty,” and she slammed the door against my foot, once, twice, three times, until I pulled it away and limped triumphantly down the steps.

“That was rather straightforward,” Holmes said.

I could feel my pulse in my crushed big toe. “Well, I guess I’m not very subtle.”

“It’s been thirty minutes.” Holmes checked her phone. “Feel like doing one more?”

Three long blocks and an alley, then four flights of stairs. Holmes moved like a dog on the scent. We were surprisingly close to our next destination.

It only took us a few minutes to ransack Nathaniel’s loft, the place we’d been to last night, where the Draw ’n’ Drink had been. Holmes had me pull up the public records on the building while she rifled through the sketches that the Sieben students had left behind.

“This place is owned by the school,” I said, peering at my phone in the dark. “On the school webpage, it looks like it’s listed under faculty housing. I think. The translate function is saying it’s ‘house for grown bears.’”

She took the flashlight out of her teeth. “Clearly, he doesn’t live here full time. Check the bedroom.”

“What bedroom?” I craned my neck to look up into the loft. “The only thing up there is an easel.”

“Exactly,” she said, taking the sheaf of sketches and slipping it into her portfolio bag. “There has to be a third residence. Some place where he actually lives. Hold on, I’m going to give it the loft once-over. Look for loose boards. Footprints. That kind of thing.”

Holmes usually didn’t explain her methods to me. “Need any help?”

“No,” she said, with a bit more sharpness than necessary.

I raised an eyebrow at her.

“We don’t have enough time,” she amended. “And anyway, you haven’t gone through that closet yet,” and she hoisted her bag over her shoulder and zipped up the stairs.

The closet had a sad-looking jacket in it and a man’s left snow boot. The kitchen cabinets had some mismatched wineglasses; under the sink, there was an old, disgusting plunger. Other than the chairs and tables I’d seen here the other night, the loft was empty of anything interesting. And God knew I couldn’t read clues into dust trails or windows cracked a half inch open. I looked around the loft with some disappointment. Surely, somewhere here, there was a clue to where Leander was being kept. There had to be—

“I found something,” Holmes said, pounding down the stairs. “Look.”

Forms. A thick stack of them. The top one said INVOICE, and below it, an address for Hadrian and Phillipa Moriarty. This painting for this amount of dollars. This painting for more. It was an inventory of all the work that Nathaniel had sold to Hadrian, his counterfeit middleman.

Langenberg, one of the pieces said, followed by an item number. I ran my finger down the list. Langenberg, Langenberg, Langenberg . . .

“Where did you find that?” I asked.

“Under the floorboards. With this underneath. Look.”

It was a business card, dog-eared and scuffed. DAVID LANGENBERG, it read. CONSULTANT.

“That’s descriptive,” I said. “This was all in the floorboards?” Almost like she’d just materialized them.

“Langenberg,” Holmes said impatiently.

“I can read,” I reminded her. “I thought that Hans Langenberg didn’t have any children.”

“He didn’t. But he might have nephews. Great-nephews. Leander was posing as ‘David,’ right? David Langenberg. Simple.” She tucked the card and the papers into her portfolio. “Did your father text you those IP addresses?”

“Earlier, while we were at East Side Gallery.” I showed her the list on my phone. “I haven’t had a chance to look through them yet.”

“Send them on to Milo’s grunts.” She smiled at me, sleek and satisfied.

“I thought you were just complaining about Milo’s grunts doing all the work for you.”

“Let them.” She closed the space between us, put her fingers on my chest. I almost recoiled—was I being played?—but then she scuttled back, like she’d only then realized what she’d done. “I’m starving. Don’t you want to get dinner?” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">