Murder with Lens: A Sherlock Holmes Case (221B Baker Street Series) (11 page)

“Don’t be ridiculous. But I do know of this man. It’s just stunning luck that he’s in town. He’s Russian,” Sherlock swept to the laptops and started the browser. He typed so fast and perfectly that it looked like a computer was generating text, rather than a human being. He pulled up a list of wanted criminals and selected one. “This is him.” He turned to Ree.

She smiled at him. “You’re pretty handy, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Thanks,” he sighed in satisfaction and looked up at the Cyrillic on screen, which said Аркадий Делов. “Arkadiy Delov has been called the Archangel of Death. He’s a very bad man, with a very bad habit. He loves the rush of carrying around the weapons of his trade in public. Suffice it to say, he didn’t go through an airport scanner to get here.”

Reese ignored a sharply disapproving look from Young when she laughed at this. “He’s pretty stupid, this guy. The murder weapon’s between his ears. It’s always with him. What a moron.”

Sherlock pointed at John. “We need to go.”

“Sherlock,” Lestrade held up his hands. “Wait a second, here. Delov’s a really bad bloke, and I can’t have you running off on your own like that. I’m going with you. We’ll take Donovan.”

Calmly, Sherlock turned and said, “I think we should arm my assistant.”

“I think we shouldn’t.” Lestrade said. “We can’t have him going about shooting people. He’s a civilian, Sherlock.”

“He’s an ex-soldier and a better shot than anyone here.”

John shook his head. “Sherlock, I don’t need a gun for this one. I trust Donovan and Lestrade.”

“That’s curious,” Sherlock said on his way out the door. “I don’t.”

“Assets have a lot of trust issues,” Young said to Lestrade. “It’s a fundamental part of their psychology, and has nothing to do with you.”

“You’ll pardon my saying that’s bollocks.” Lestrade told her as he passed. “If these guys don’t trust us, well, no one’s born not trusting other people.”

John smothered the grin he felt, turned, and nodded goodbye to Reese. It gave him pause to see the girl so emotionless and still, framed by her blacked-out room. Lewis made himself comfortable in a chair by the door.

Sherlock was well down the hall. In fact, John had to run to catch up with the man. “We lose them in the building. The Homeless Network will know where Delov is.” He glanced at John. “I knew it from the moment Reese said ‘park’. However, the network will evaporate at the first sign of police.”

“You are police.” John told him happily.

Sherlock didn’t appreciate the reminder, and grimaced, “Yes. I’ll need to divest myself of that at first opportunity. What about you? Are you hungry? Should we stop by the house for the Browning?”

“If we’re going alone then… yes.” John admitted. “And I could really use breakfast.”

Sherlock’s glance was clever, “Wouldn’t want you passing out mid-apprehension.”
“Wouldn’t want you getting shot,” John added a belated, “again.”

***

‘Molly. Need the microscope a little longer. -SH’ Sherlock wrote on Molly Hooper’s blog, sat back, and watched John sprinkle tabasco on his eggs.

Sherlock lifted his curled finger off his lips to say: “Smells wretched.” He backed up a page and frowned at the pinkness. Most of her real estate was devoted to frolicking kittens. So fluffy. So insubstantial. In many ways, that was Molly. Why was she so interested in him? Such a handy and inconvenient thing – he couldn’t fathom it. He needed her to be. And he wished she wasn’t. He hated needing her. He hated her pushing; her entrapments; how her gambits forced his hand. But needed her. He’d come to detest the smell of Molly’s Sung perfume. But when he thought about that fact, his mind presented him with the memory of chocolate and black cherries, and he felt a small twinge. A kick of appetite.

John interrupted his devolving thoughts, but then he was good at keeping a man from dwelling. He said, “You ate a whole bottle of tabasco last time you refueled.”

“Quite right. It was the only way I could stomach the tins of mushroom,” Sherlock told him. When John looked green around the gills, Sherlock felt rewarded. He turned aside and grinned.

And Sarah knocked at the living room door, even though it was open, and then walked into the flat. Sherlock didn’t particularly want to see Sarah right then. She waggled her fingers at him, and Sherlock ignored the action. He had busied himself nosing around in Lawrence Waters’ cell phone. He eventually closed his hands around it and held it cupped under his chin.

John, however, shoved over to make room for Sarah. She laid a plastic container on the coffee table and tapped it with her fingertips. “Date squares. I know how you love dates.”

“Luckily, Sherlock doesn’t like dates.” John chuckled.

“He eats anything.” Sarah told him. “Nice try.”

“Would you believe double-entendre?” John asked, “Want some scrambled eggs?” She stood straight and the sun through the windows made a sheen of her hair. Beautiful!

Once she joined him on the couch Sarah picked up some of the bacon and bit into it with a satisfying crunch. It was mouth-watering, really. John had no idea how Holmes could stand going so long without food, and even less notion how he went without companionship. When he looked at Sarah, the idea was too lonesome to imagine.

“I talked to her.”

He blinked, “Who?”

“Sofia.”

“Oh! Yes, Sofia.” There was a cramped bookshop, an empty dorm room, several CIA agents, a girl genius, and a decapitated body between John and Sofia now. “How is she doing?”

“She’s sorry. She feels that she overreacted.” Sarah lowered her voice some. “You know, I checked and she actually did find him charming. And good-looking. He caused her a terrible bout of butterflies.”

“In… the room.” Sherlock said lazily. He gave up and looked her way. “What caused the crying?”

“She had a death in the family.”

Holmes tucked the phone in his pocket. “Go back to her and tell her she doesn’t have to lie.”

“Excuse me?” Sarah lowered the bacon strip.

“She made it up,” Sherlock said. “There was nothing about her that said ‘death in the family’. I mean, look at her. Lively pink cheeks; flushed red mouth; no circling under her eyes; and that hair – massive banana curls. One doesn’t spend hours prepping for a date when there’s been a death in the family. Even if one isn’t effected directly, it’s disrespectful. She’s lying. Lying is normal. Means she’s hiding something embarrassing, frightening, or dangerous. Go back.”

Sarah shook her head, “Sherlock… I’m not sure if you understand this…” John looked in her direction, “but I can’t go back to Sofia and accuse her of lying about a death. If there has been one, something like that could cost the friendship. It’s not done.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock said sagaciously. “Well, do it anyway, mostly, because I’m right.”

“We have to go.”

They all looked up to the voice at the door.

Long, thin Reese, in her fluffy pink coat and mini pig tails, stood in the doorway. “We have to go now.” She gawped and added to this, “Oh my God, Sherlock – I love your Hitachi TM3000 SEM! Can I play with it?”

Holmes tucked Lawrence Water’s phone away and considered her. But he didn’t answer.

Beside John on the couch, Sarah blinked away her alarm. “I bet she says that to all the boys. John, who’s this?”

John felt himself go pale. Why Reese’s being here should fill him with such dread, he wasn’t certain. He had the distinct feeling she was in danger out in the city far from her protectors. “Oh, hell.”

Reese’s red lips screwed up a moment. “Who was prepping for a date?”

Sherlock’s head rose a little. “Where’s your minder?”

“Napping.” Ree stepped into the room and looked about her curiously. “I wasn’t joking. I mean, about the microscope, too, but we have to go, Sherlock. It won’t be a half an hour before they figure out I slipped Lewis some of my Ambien. They’ve got to have the wits to send someone to check here, don’t they? Even if they are apes.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. Ideally, they’ll get here, find you, and take you to the Yard-”

“Sherlock!” her red lips thinned aggressively, “Do you know how hard it is to slip those guys? I don’t throw away my stash of sleeping pills for nothing. I’ll lose privileges now, until I hit America again, you realize. But I need to go with you.”

“You need to find a pattern from the maps I gave you.” Sherlock replied.

“Hello. I have my iPad with me, genius. Besides, the array is random. I ran stats. Not significant. Lawrence didn’t have rich enough information. However, the little stick figure drawings are interesting. Looks like there are more, but they only come in two varieties. One is always sitting up or rampant; the other always has a little plus sign or cross under the extended front leg.” She walked into the room and showed him her iPad’s screen. “Two different forces at work here. Oh, and the infinity symbol stands for his CIA contacts in London. The Langley head offices of Think Tank, they use an infinity symbol over the ‘i’. He was to check in on this corner here. Lawrence only had to show up in front of the camera and wait for our junk mail to hit his phone. But that night, he missed.”

“Two forces,” Sherlock’s eyes combed the map. His voice was quiet. “Thank you… and you should go back to Scotland Yard now.”

She gave a very teenaged guffaw. “Sherlock, I’m not going. I just explained. I need to do this.”

“You need to help us look for a professional assassin? Why?” Sherlock asked her. “The odds are excellent that he’ll try to kill us.”

“CIA think tanks?” Sarah’s head turned so suddenly her sunny hair whipped. “A professional assassin? You’re doing what, John?”

But John only shook his head and squeezed one of her hands.

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. “You’re 19 years old, Ree. No. You cannot come with me.”

“Us.”

“John!” Sherlock exclaimed and got to his feet. He thought the better of whatever he’d been about to say and pointed at the door. “Ree, leave here and go back to the Yard. I’ll contact you.”

“I don’t take orders from unaffiliated Assets.” Reese circumnavigated him and flopped down on the couch beside Sarah. “You make cookies too. God knows how you managed to spend the last couple of years unattached, Doc, though considering what a hound dog the last guy was, maybe you’re gun-shy. Well… unless… open the Tupperware already. Let’s have a taste.” Ree rubbed her hands together.

Sarah stared at the girl, looked from her to Sherlock’s vexed face and back again. Slowly, she reached down and pushed the Tupperware container to Reese. “How did she know that?”

John tapped his fork on the nearly empty plate before him. “This is Reese. She’s with the CIA, Sarah. In America, the government runs a program for people like Holmes. She’s one of their star pupils. She’s the CIA’s ‘Sherlock’ so to speak.”

“I don’t have a cool job title like Consulting Detective.” She took out Holmes’ badge, which prompted John to feel about his person and then frown. He extended a hand to her and she placed the leather badge holder on his palm.

Sarah brightened tremendously. “No jokes. You’re like Sherlock?”

“Being smart,” Reese said around a cheek plump with date squares, “it’s not just for boys anymore. There goes my theory you weren’t able to cook. Now, if you could talk to him about taking me on this hunt for Delov, Doc Watson?”

“I think he’s right.” John told her. “Reese, it’s very dangerous. You’re inexperienced. We’d have more of a job having to worry about your safety.”

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock put his hands on his hips and stared down at Reese. She glanced over him and then looked at Sarah.

“Seriously, I heard it on the way up to the flat. Who is Miss Banana Curls?”

“Not your business.” Sherlock said coldly.

Ree stood up, planted a boot on the coffee table and stepped over the top of it to face Sherlock. Her temper was frayed. “Quit doing that! I know you were raised ‘in the wild’ or whatever, but you seem ignorant of exactly how few of us there are out there. If we’re not each other’s business, we’re really screwed. I’ve been in contact with 13 people good enough, I’m reasonably sure, that they could have stood in and picked that guy out of seconds of blurry video. That’s it. By the way, trying to send me back to Scotland Yard kind of negates the idea we’re not one another’s business.”

Of all the things Sherlock might have said – rude or reasonable – he blinked down at Reese and chose, “Only thirteen?” His tone had changed. That drew John’s attention at once.

“You’re not the oldest of us either.” Reese told him. She opened her arms. “Just tell me?”

“Sofia Rothingham. Why are you asking?” Sherlock cocked his head.

Ree heaved a sigh at him. “Way to waste all that genetic potential, scout. Her name isn’t on the list of 13, and she’s not in the American group.” She circled him to drink in Holmes’ environment.

“My God,” he said coldly, forced to turn to follow her movements in the flat. “The CIA has made you take leave of your senses. Or is a master race their next plan for your team? Soon they’ll try grafting. Be okay with that?”

“Look, I’ve been around our kind my whole life, so maybe I’m not the one who’s taken leave of her senses,” Ree laughed and returned to her scrutiny of the room, but her focus landed squarely on Sherlock, as if that end had ever been in doubt. “We wake up in the morning in jigsaw-world, these traits and actions and oddities, and multiple dozens of other mad, fun, screwed-up things everywhere. The apes never see them. Even if you point them out, some apes just can’t. New things, everything, is a collection of symbols and infinite codes to our type. You and I were born with the tarnhelm, lets us be whatever we want, and makes us invisible when we need to be – we can do that.” She swung a finger up to his temple, almost gun-like, “This brain is a born codebreaker. It’s like breathing. You don’t turn off breathing and live, stupid. So, given all that, what does Sofia do?”

His voice was quiet. “She’s an artist.”

“Oh Christ,” Ree tipped her head back and laughed. “You’re such a romantic, Holmes. So naïve: running around free; slumming with your doctor friends; trying to connect with the apes. But will you think about it? This girl, she could never lie to you. She could never hide from you, not anything. The more you’d care for her, the more you’d cage her, and she’s an artist. They do badly in cages. Your attention would be keener than any razor blade, and you couldn’t turn it off. But to me, it’s normal. To your own kind, you’re sane. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you run off and get hacked up like Lawrence Waters. No way. I’ll be there. I’ll be your backup.”

Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on the girl before him. His expression was, by now, unreadable. It was possibly his most polished technique; over on the couch, John was transfixed, but Sherlock betrayed nothing.

“You’re not changing my mind.” he said.

Her tone was level. “Will you just trust me?”

“You’re a clannish, a cheat, and a thief.”

“And so are you.”

She snatched the coat out of his hand and held it fast. He couldn’t leave without it, and, therefore, without her. “Imagine a world where you don’t have to explain every… single… thing, every time?”

“I can’t.”

“Then forget the apes. Trust me. I can handle myself, and if things go horribly wrong I’ll be your backup, even if it’s just to pull the fire alarm.” She stared up at him.

John chewed his almost forgotten eggs, perfunctorily, as he watched. The tension in the air was numbing. The two were like opposite sides of the same tuning fork.

“This is preposterous.” Sherlock told her. But he was calm when he took his coat back.

“Okay, and I’ll go sit in the cab with Sarah if it comes down to that…. But, Sherlock, try to understand, I knew Lawrence for months. He used to just send me texts like ‘Good morning’ and ‘How’s it going’. I’ve never had texts like that. No one gives a crap how it’s going. I really want to get who did this,” she turned and carefully glanced through curtains at the street below, before adding, “but not at the cost of your life.”

“Then you agree to listen to my every word and obey without question,” Sherlock said.

Reese shut her eyes and tried to ignore the indignity lighting up her cheeks. “I do. I guess that’ll have to happen. It’s settled,” she turned toward Sarah. “And you’ll stay in the cab. With a First Aid kit. Better safe than sorry, right?”

***

John frowned. “Sarah’s not coming with us, Reese. I’m sorry but-”

Sarah slid into her coat and picked up her purse. She walked around the coffee table and reached out to link arms with Reese, in fact. “If we lose contact, or it looks dodgy, I’m phoning Detective Inspector Lestrade.” Sarah gave Reese a stunning smile. “I’m so glad to meet you, Reese.”

“Then you’re seriously misinformed. But there’s no time to worry about that. Listen closely and you can hear-”

“Distant sirens on the approach,” Sherlock agreed. “Shut the doors, John. Let’s go.”

John just managed to dash out from the kitchen. He kept a comprehensive First Aid Kit there. He handed it to Sarah, and, if nothing else, it freed poor Reese from her feminine companionship. But, John saw before they hurried down the stairs, it also steadied Sarah’s nerves.

The police arrived quickly. Sherlock led their number into Mrs. Hudson’s empty flat – the one she’d yet to rent out. They stood in silence until the sound of boots charging up the stairs died, and Sherlock’s phone began to vibrate. John scrambled to shut off his cell’s ringer, accomplishing it just in the nick of time, in fact. With the sound of boots overhead, Sherlock led them out onto the sidewalk, behind the tall, turned back of Scott who studiously scanned traffic, and all the way down, until they carefully rounded the corner and caught a cab.

“That was crazy,” Reese giggled as soon as they set off toward the Isle of Dogs. John noticed it, because he’d never seen – or heard – her so animated. “That was… cat-like. You’re not just smart, you’re tricky. That’s cool.”

“Focus.” Sherlock passed her Lawrence’s phone. “We know Delov was hired to kill your source as messily as possible, doubtless a message to you and the CIA to back off your investigation of the Photography Club. Tell me what the Club is doing. Not what the CIA thinks, or wants to think, tell me what you believe they’re doing?”

“Oh,” she waded through her thoughts for a moment, pressing buttons on Lawrence’s phone. “CIA is convinced they’re up to some God-awful bad stuff to strike at the heart of the civilized world, and such. That isn’t sensible. The Club is way smarter than the average bear, and it stands to reason, they’ll naturally love technology. Technology is civilization. Tech makes the Club’s life easier. I mean smuggling people, money, art, just basically doing whatever feels right, that’s Club life: if that’s ‘liberating’ a few paintings stolen in World War II and returning them to their rightful owners, that’s what they do. They aren’t evil. Well, they aren’t just evil. They’re something new. The world’s unfair. And it’s like they decided they’ve been given their gifts in order to correct that disparity. Sometimes it takes the form of kidnappings, executions, and mayhem. Sometimes it looks like exposing corrupt government officials, freeing the wrongfully imprisoned, and playing Robin Hood. The Club is complicated and they don’t want the attention of the CIA.”

Sherlock sank back in his seat to think about that. Reese continued to fiddle with the phone.

“Is what they’re doing directed?” Sherlock asked.

For a moment, she stared at him. Then she switched to Latin. “Not at first. But recently, it’s started to be. They’re through the smoke tests, and about ready to go live. I’m not always so sure I want to interrupt them.”

Holmes smiled and replied in Latin as well. “John knows enough of this language for this to be problematic.”

“I don’t mind him knowing. He’s not an ape. He’s only borderline, a great ape.”

Sherlock laughed and looked in Sarah’s and John’s direction. Sarah was blank. She honestly didn’t know enough Latin. John’s brow was furrowed, indicating he was trying to follow, but was struggling. Holmes took this as a good sign. What was a bad sign – a very bad one – was Reese’s last statement. The Photography Club had just killed a person she alleged was her friend. “Why wouldn’t you want to interrupt them? They murdered Waters. I thought-”

“I’m sorry,” she rubbed her pale face. “I want the murderer brought to justice. No doubt about it. But think what they want, Sherlock.”

“Which is?”

“To carve a place in this world for us to exercise power freely,” she motioned between Sherlock and herself, “instead of having to go the speed of the slowest among us, accepting the inefficiencies of the planet of the apes. They’ve been ruthlessly pursuing that goal.”

“Idiotic.” Sherlock fiddled with a button on his coat. “The numbers are against us. It doesn’t take a genius to understand there is only one resource,” Sherlock told her, “our futures are inexorably bound.”

“Why shouldn’t they try to fix things?” Reese’s brows drew up.

“Because when they need a problem fixed, they hire assassins.”

“So does the Israeli government.” She pointed out.

“And I live in the U.K.” Sherlock replied. He sighed and switched to English. “Not much further now.” But it was also a world away. Reese was compromised.

For his part, with the CIA and Met police abroad looking for her, John felt relieved when they made it into the Isle of Dogs, past newly developed towers of glass, past the expensive, upscale apartments, new to this area, and into the smaller, and old, stone affairs. This was the old Isle of Dogs. The apartment complexes looked cramped and aged. Sherlock had the driver take them right through to the park where he slipped out.

John caught Reese as she tried to follow. “Hey! Where’s he going?” She complained.

“He’s dropping a note,” John pushed her back to her seat and made her settle there.

“With whom?” she frowned at him. “It’s not exactly a public library over here.”

“Homeless network.” John nodded and looked at Sarah’s dubious face. “I’ve seen him do it. Drop a note, and in a few hours they’re hanging about outside with an answer.”

Sarah’s nose wrinkled, “I hardly believe-”

“The premise is sound, but we don’t have a few hours to be at this.” Reese sighed.

“We do.” John reminded her. “You don’t.”

*~ “Fine,” she sank back in her seat and looked around her. “God… I’m bored already. It’s such a pain in the ass. I bet either of you can just walk out the door in the morning. I have to pack half my media center – God.”

Sarah brightened at the girl’s exuberance. “Uhm, maybe you can fix my phone?”