by Eva Chase
He would have marched right through it if a filmy white figure hadn’t flickered into sight at exactly that moment. My heart lurched as a prickle ran down the back of my neck from my contract mark. Garrett stopped dead, staring. He rubbed his eyes.
“What is it?” John said, looking over. Bog’s form was already fading. I blinked, and the shrouded one was gone.
What the hell was it doing? The shrouded folk had laws about their interactions with human society. To appear before the unknowing…
“I just—it must have been a trick of the light,” Garrett said. “I thought I saw a flash of something in the doorway.” He shook himself and marched on out.
I willed myself to relax in my chair. I’d seen Bog in full clarity, but my senses were attuned to its kind. It hadn’t fully manifested on this plane. Toeing the line without quite crossing it.
Reminding me that it was still watching me, and that it could interfere in certain ways if it wanted to.
Sherlock and John didn’t appear to have noticed anything at all. Sherlock was eyeing me.
Shit. I hadn’t been able to completely control my reaction. This called for some redirection. Thankfully, I had an obvious route to restore my grip on the conversation.
“Detective Lestrade is a little prickly, isn’t he?” I said with a shaky laugh, as if it were his abrupt exit that had unsettled me.
“He’s very committed to his job,” John said diplomatically.
“He has a temper, but he always sees reason quickly enough,” Sherlock said. He swept up his file folder. “Now, I have work to do. I’ll keep you apprised of my progress, Miss Moriarty.”
Dusk fell early in London at this time of year. As the sun sank below the tops of the buildings across the courtyard, I tugged my window open and slid the gauzy curtain across it. A gust of cool air washed over me, but I could tolerate that for the moment. I turned on my reading lamp and set it on the little table where it would be visible through the curtain.
While I waited, I worked through a couple rounds of push-ups, sit-ups, and lunges, and then shifted into practicing some of the combat sequences from my training. I didn’t get into physical altercations very often, and you lost your precision if you let your practice slide. Besides, keeping the body fit invigorated the mind as well.
I was halfway through a set of jab-cross-hook combos when the curtain whispered. I continued through the motions, snapping out my right fist, swiveling on my left leg. My visitor approached with a shift in the air and a wisp of warmth over my skin.
“This elbow could stand to be a little higher, Majesty,” Bash said in his low smooth voice. He tapped my arm, bringing with him the familiar scent of gun oil mingled with a light tang of musk. After seven years in my service, Sebastian Moran trusted that I knew when he’d arrived even if I didn’t let on—and that I wouldn’t break his nose with one of these fists in a startled reflex.
I made a face at the wry nickname, nudged my elbow up, and threw another punch. “Better?” I asked with an arch of my eyebrow.
“Perfect.” Bash offered his usual subtle smile. He’d worn a black turtleneck and black jeans for his foray up the hotel wall, setting off his tan skin and light green eyes. A little scruff had accumulated on his jaw since I’d seen him last week, nearly as thick as the wiry black hair he kept cropped close to his skull.
I’d asked him once about his background, and he’d told me he was a bit of this and a bit of that. A Venezuelan lady on one side, a Turk on the other, and my grandma insists that if you go back a few generations there was a Kenyan prince in the mix somewhere. It makes it easy to blend in wherever I want to go. Although in my experience, people usually choose to see me as whatever option gives them the most excuse to be an asshole.
He’d said that last bit with a hint of a smirk. If Bash wanted to, he could make any person regret being an asshole before they could so much as blink.
When he was standing this close to me, a part of me wanted to lean into him, to drink in his scent right up against his solidly muscled chest. But I had no shortage of practice at leashing that urge and sending it off to its kennel. Only an idiot would ruin the formidable partnership Bash and I had with a tumble between the sheets. He was the only person in the world I trusted. I wanted to keep him standing right here beside me.
I threw myself into the combination again with a little more force.
“And though she be but little, she is fierce,” Bash said dryly.
I snorted at the Shakespearean quote and his pretense at irony. I’d somehow found myself with a hitman who was a sucker for historical dramas, no matter how much he made fun of them.
He stepped back, and I let my body fall out of the fighting stance. His gaze traveled to the dresser beneath the TV. The corner of his mouth quirked up, but he didn’t comment on the odd arrangement of cosmetics bottles, notepapers, and TV remote spread out across it. My little Fibonacci sequence. It wouldn’t stop Bog from dropping in if the shrouded one really wanted to, but it worked as a casual deterrent.
“I checked in with your local forgers and the new auto ring,” he said. “The latest payments should be arriving shortly.”
“Perfect. And I got out some more funds for you.” I reached for my purse. Bash accepted the wad of cash without a word and tucked it into his wallet. I sat down on the edge of the bed. “Are you settling into the new place all right?”
I wasn’t sure he’d have complained even if he wasn’t, but he definitely wouldn’t say a peep if I didn’t ask. I’d have set him up right here in the hotel if there wouldn’t have been so much risk of one of the trio bumping into him at the wrong time.
“It’s not bad.” Bash glanced toward the window. “Heat, decent water pressure, a TV—that’s about all I need. Now if only there was any place in London that could deliver a proper pizza.”
I laughed. “You survived years in Afghanistan without your beloved New York-style slices—I think you’ll make it through a few more weeks here.”
“Only in intense agony,” Bash said, completely deadpan. “Where are we at with your plans, Mori?”
That nickname I didn’t mind at all. He’d started using it after a couple years of working together, saying that “Moriarty” was starting to feel ridiculously formal.
“Everything’s moving along even faster than I’d hoped,” I said. “They’re investigating Richter’s local crimes already. But the way Sherlock is, I’m sure the murder mystery will keep niggling at him. He’s going to do some more digging into that chain of events sooner or later.”
“I’ll be ready for your alert, then.”
I nodded. “Let’s make sure he doesn’t end up going down any roads I’d rather leave closed.”
Chapter Five
Garrett
My fingers twisted over the notepad I was gripping, pulling the pen in a winding line that made a caricature of the woman sitting rigidly behind her desk between stacks of framed paintings. At this point, it seemed incredibly unlikely that I was going to get any information from her worth writing down. The smell of oil and varnish that hung in the art dealership’s back room seeped farther into my lungs, and my stomach turned.
“I hope you understand that any additional insight you can provide may help us stop an on-going series of crimes that have affected far more than just this dealership,” I said, leaning on guilt as a last-ditch effort. “What you tell us could protect so many more people in the future.”
“I really can’t think of anything I didn’t tell the police during the original investigation,” the woman said. “I’m so sorry.”
She didn’t sound sorry at all. I restrained a sigh and flipped my notepad closed. The officers who’d been on this case had been almost certain that Stefan Richter had extorted early looks at and insanely cheap prices on valuable new acquisitions. Unfortunately, with the original tip anonymous, the sales records of any transactions with Richter mysteriously missing, and everyone at the dealership all clammed up, my colleagues hadn’t been
able to push the investigation very far.
Either this woman really didn’t know anything, or she was a lot more afraid of Richter than she was of injustice going unpunished.
“Thank you for your time,” I said, and left the place with gritted teeth. I’d set off yesterday morning determined to find just one fresh lead in all of the cases the department had on file—to come to Sherlock holding the key that would bring the villain to his knees, just this once. I’d skipped a seminar on interrogation techniques that I’d been looking forward to so I could hit the streets. All I’d come away with after two days’ work was a notepad full of doodles.
This was ridiculous. We’d known Jemma Moriarty for all of ten minutes before Sherlock had been chomping at the bit to take on her problems. Weren’t there enough crimes in London that needed solving?
The problem was I couldn’t keep up that indignation for very long before I admitted that what I’d said to the dealership woman, as Sherlock himself had pointed out, was true. Richter was a menace. Why had I worked my arse off rising through the ranks if I didn’t rise to an occasion like this? We had to put him out of commission. It would feel so satisfying when we did, like one huge piece of the balance had tipped in the right direction.
I couldn’t rewrite my past, but I could do real good now. Had it been so much to ask that I turned up something remotely useful toward accomplishing that today?
Evening was setting in outside under the dreary sky. If I legged it, I could be back at the hotel in time for dinner.
I flagged a taxi. As it wove through traffic to where I was standing on the curb, an elderly woman walked by with a little Yorkie on a leash.
My skin tightened. I stepped as close to the road as I felt I could without risking the toes of my shoes, giving them plenty of space to pass, and trained my attention on following the taxi’s path. The click of the dog’s nails against the concrete made my nerves itch. When the taxi reached me, I hopped into the backseat and yanked shut the door, away from memories I’d rather not have dredged up.
Back at the hotel, I hustled into the lobby and spotted a bunch of the conference goers heading to the dining room. Maybe some good food would spark the inspiration I needed.
John was at the buffet table when I reached it. He ladled some buttered baby potatoes onto his plate and glanced over at me. “How was your day?”
“Not particularly productive,” I admitted. My mouth watered at the smell of the roast beef. I carved myself off a piece. “I suppose your partner has already tied the whole Richter thing up.”
John knit his brow as he turned toward the white-clothed tables. “Far from it, actually. He’s been in one of his dark moods since around lunch time. I let him skip that meal, but I told him I was going to cart him down here on a luggage trolley if he didn’t come get some kind of nourishment into him.”
Sherlock was stumped? A twinge of victory that really should have been beneath me shivered through my chest. Not that I’d been victorious in any way myself. I’d been stumped too.
I followed John’s gaze to where our renowned consulting detective was sitting. His thin form loomed over the table, one elbow propped on the edge, while he prodded his plate noncommittally with his fork. Even if he hadn’t been frowning, I’d have known he was in that mood from the atmosphere of melancholy that had come over his whole demeanor. Sherlock in a funk might as well have his own personal storm cloud casting a shadow on him wherever he went.
“He’ll come out of it,” John said with typical optimism. “He always does.” His gaze twitched to the side. “Jemma! Why don’t you join us?”
He waved the young officer over. Wonderful—now dinner would definitely revolve around her unresolved case. Although I supposed it probably would have anyway.
Jemma’s plate was already full—a bit of meat, a bit of vegetables, and the rest offerings from the dessert table she was still perusing. She snatched up a lemon tart to add to her collection and swept her bright red hair back behind one ear as she joined us.
“Are we having our own little conference again?” she asked with a soft smile she aimed at John. I wouldn’t have thought she was all that pretty just to glance over her in a room, but with the confident way she moved and that clear measured voice, something about her shone a little brighter. If I hadn’t known Sherlock disdained anything to do with romance, I’d have thought we’d ended up on this crusade because he had a crush.
I certainly wasn’t going to catch one. Even if, as we headed to the table, my gaze couldn’t help straying just for a moment to the subtle sway of her slim hips in her tastefully fitted slacks.
“It seems that way,” John said to her. “Although I’m not sure how much any of us have to contribute beyond what we discussed yesterday. I’m no detective in my own right—I fully accept my role as sidekick.”
He grinned at her, she laughed, and I tried not to resent his easy good-naturedness. I benefitted from it often enough myself.
Sherlock barely stirred from his glum lethargy as we sat down around him. His blue eyes were always cool, but when they got this distant, they were outright chilly. He seemed to be looking a long way away through the centerpiece.
Some generous impulse compelled me to say, “I didn’t have any luck either. That Richter fellow has every part of the city he’s touched under lockdown.”
Sherlock’s lips pursed. His gaze didn’t lift.
Jemma glanced from me to him. “You haven’t been able to find enough grounds to arrest him for anything?”
“Not on my end,” I said. “I dug into every old case I could. They couldn’t be any colder.”
“There will be a way,” Sherlock said slowly. He blinked, and his eyes started to clear. “The man can’t be clever enough to sow so much turmoil and cover his tracks successfully everywhere. But he has made it quite difficult. I’m not sure how long I’d have to stay on his trail to find a misstep.”
Jemma bit her lip with obvious disappointment. “I can’t ask you to put your other responsibilities aside to keep after him.”
“Of course not.” Sherlock tapped the tabletop, his energy coming back to him. “The answer is obvious. We follow the trail that’s still warm—the murder he just committed. It may require some careful maneuvering of questions of jurisdiction and so forth, but we’ll have our man much faster that way.”
“Oh,” Jemma said. “If you think that’s our best option.”
She wasn’t fawning over him in adoring gratitude like the consulting detective’s many professional fans tended to. Maybe I should cut her more slack—we’d come to her, after all.
On the other hand, who wouldn’t jump for joy to have Sherlock Holmes personally investigating on their behalf?
I watched her as Sherlock poked at his already mangled green beans. “I think it’s by far our best chance of putting him away for close to as long as he deserves,” he said.
The smile she gave him looked genuine. “In that case, I can’t thank you enough.” She reached out and touched John’s wrist where he was sitting next to Sherlock. “It means a lot to me that you’d both put your minds to this case.”
Did John ease his arm a little closer to hers as he beamed back at her? Was it a little coy, the way she lowered her eyelids under his gaze?
Which one of us had been out there pounding the streets for her the last two days?
“I’ll stay on the case too,” I found myself blurting out. “I can get in touch with your local department over in Germany, see about setting up an exchange of information, and work through some of those jurisdiction concerns. Tomorrow, when they’re out of bed.”
“Of course,” Jemma said. “I can get you their number. I have a card on me…” She opened her purse.
“That’s all right,” I said. “We’ve got a database at the department with the best contacts for international coordination.”
“Right, of course you do.” Jemma shook her head ruefully. “Maybe it would be helpful if I initiated the call?”
Strange. Maybe I was reading too much into the exchange because I’d already been frustrated with how involved we’d gotten in her work. But my instincts had served me well before.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” I said. “It might even go over better for them to hear directly from us from the start, to reassure them that we’re fully on board.” Or, at least, that I was. I’d have to find out tomorrow what the chief was going to say about this.
Jemma leaned toward me, her distinctive gray eyes more intent than they’d been a moment ago. “You’ll have a better idea than I do. I don’t want you to think I’m ungrateful for the efforts you’ve already made, Garrett. Thank you so much for your dedication in following up on all those old cases—I know it must have been tedious. I never meant to derail anyone’s plans by bringing that file here with me.”
Under her gaze, with her that little bit closer to me, a flicker of heat raced over my skin. I couldn’t deny that she cared a lot about the case, poring over it even during what should have been an escape from her regular work. Maybe she’d gotten the invitation to this conference thanks to her close-to-Sherlockian brilliance, but she had a sense of commitment I couldn’t say very many of my colleagues in Scotland Yard shared.
I swallowed thickly. “We volunteered to pitch in. The man needs to be caught. I’m happy to contribute to the cause.”
How true was that last comment? I couldn’t have said. In that moment, I was happy to have her looking at me with so much appreciation… and possibly something more than that?
I tugged my gaze away and gave myself a mental smack upside the head. Sherlock would never have been distracted by a striking pair of eyes. I speared a piece of roast beef for something to do. My thoughts returned to the odd impression I’d had about her reaction.