by Gini Koch
“Yes,” Sherlock said. “It did. You also destroyed the school careers of not one, but two other girls.”
“They were compensated by the show.”
“Not enough. But you turned all that into a career. Good for you. You were happy to drop out. Those other girls were not. Good day, Miss Adler.” With that, Sherlock spun on her heel and stalked into the living room.
Irene looked at me. “Can’t you do something, anything, Dr. Watson? Cliff, Tony, and Joey all said that she was brilliant and would be able to help.”
Based on everything that had just transpired, I couldn’t feel brilliant for realizing that she was speaking of Cliff Camden, Tony Antonelli, and Joey Jackson or, as I thought of them, the Unholy Three. They were the creative force behind not only Campus Queen, but a host of other reality TV shows. I found them repulsive, though Sherlock got along with them.
“So whatever has been... lost, it’s not something one of them gave you?”
“No.”
“What is this thing? I might be able to convince Sherlock to at least hear you out, but not based on anything so nebulous. She’ll want details.”
Irene bit her lip. It was incredibly sexy. I knew she knew it, too. But that didn’t stop me from being attracted to her a little bit more because of it.
“I borrowed some jewelry for a gala. I wore it to the gala, and also when I went out during the weekend. I was very careful with it and put it into the wall safe in my house. But yesterday when I went to return it, it was gone. No one but me knows the combination to the safe, and there were no signs that anyone had been in my home, let alone tried to open the safe.”
“What’s the value on the jewelry, and what specific pieces? And their description. Sherlock will want to know.”
“No she won’t,” Sherlock called from the living room. I could hear her typing on her laptop.
I pressed on anyway. “The value?”
“Millions of dollars. Necklace, bracelet, and earrings. Chunky black jet, obsidian, and black diamonds.”
“What event did you attend?”
“The Gala for Everything.”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s a charity function run by the Odessa Foundation. We raise money for a variety of worthy causes.”
I heard Sherlock snort, but forged on. “Is that well-attended?”
“Yes, it’s something that brings out most of Hollywood. I was photographed, of course.”
“Of course.” Now I was sure I heard Sherlock making quiet gagging sounds. “So anyone who attended the event or saw photos of you at it would have seen the jewelry?”
“Yes. It’s not unusual to showcase people’s jewels or dresses, of course. It’s a given that whatever most of us are wearing is borrowed.” She bit her lip again. It was still sexy, but this time it seemed less affected. “I haven’t heard that anyone else has lost anything.”
“Well, if I can convince Sherlock, we’ll check that out. I’ll need a way to contact you.” I pulled out my cell phone.
Irene gave that tinkling laugh again, took my phone from me, and entered her number into my address book. “You think you can bring her around?” she asked, softly.
“I can’t promise, but I’ll do my best.”
She smiled and handed the phone back to me. “Call me either way.” She leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Definitely call me,” she whispered, and in a louder voice, “I’ll see myself out.”
She turned to the door, opened it, looked over her shoulder at me with a move I knew she had to have practiced many times in the mirror, and gave me a slow smile. Just then, it didn’t matter that it was an affectation. It was still sexy and fetching “Goodbye for now... John.”
And then she was gone.
I GATHERED MYSELF for a few moments, then went into the living room. Sherlock was studiously staring at her laptop.
“I don’t understand why you won’t help her.”
Sherlock heaved a sigh. “Watson, you know why I watch reality television, correct?”
“Yes. Because it gives you insights into human nature. But it’s still pretence.”
“Yes, it is. And yes, she’s an actress. However, personality traits are truly revealed during these reality shows, in part because most of the participants aren’t trained actors—they may aspire to be, may hope to use the show as a launching pad as your Miss Adler did, may hope to use the fame and notoriety in some way, large or small—but what they are not is good actors. At least, not on those programs.”
“You feel that because Irene was asked to play the villain when she was a younger woman that she’s a villain now.”
“I don’t think it, I know it.” Sherlock looked at me and heaved another sigh. “And yet you’re already smitten and anything I say will be ignored. Fine. For you, I’ll look into whatever con she’s perpetrating.”
“Why do you assume she’s conning us?”
Sherlock turned her laptop towards me. There was a picture of Irene on the screen, clearly at an event of some kind. “This was taken at the Gala for Everything. Please describe what you see.”
“Irene posing. She’s in a tight, glittery, low-cut red dress with a slit up the side showing off quite a bit of her excellent legs.”
“I’ve noted that you’re smitten. I’ll try and hold off gagging for later.”
“Heard you gagging earlier. Anyway, she’s in the same shoes as she wore here today—black stiletto pumps.”
“Interesting that you noted that, Watson, I’m impressed. What else?”
“Her hair’s up the same way it was today. And she looks amazing.”
“Duly noted. Feel free to ask her out to dinner—I’m certain she’ll be willing to pick you up in her rented limo.”
“How do you know it’s not hers? Or from the studio?”
“Honestly, Watson, you see and yet you do not observe. Rental limousines have numbers on them to allow them to be traced back to whoever owns and manages their fleet. They also have license plates, and I ran Miss Adler’s while you and she were chatting. It’s a rental.”
“Stop calling her that,” I said mildly.
“As you wish. Anyway, what else do you see in the picture of The Woman?”
“‘The Woman’?”
“You’ve asked that I change how I refer to her. For now and ever after she will be The Woman as far as I’m concerned.”
I decided that arguing this wasn’t going to improve Sherlock’s mood or my chances of her truly helping Irene. So I turned back to the picture. “Maybe she doesn’t know how to drive or have a car.”
“She knows how to drive, and I’m certain she has a car. However, I’m also certain The Woman likes to make an entrance.”
This was a point I couldn’t argue with, so I didn’t. “I don’t see anything much else of interest in this photo.”
“Because you’re a straight male and what you’re staring at are her breasts and her legs. Look up just a tad from the breasts. Now what do you see?”
“Uh, creamy skin?” That I’d like to run my mouth over...
“Truly, ask her out. If only so I don’t have to see you panting over her, at least for the time you’ll be gone. But nothing is the key, Watson. The Woman is not wearing jewelry of any kind. And if she’s not wearing it at the very event she said she was, then it’s unlikely to either exist, much less to be lost and/or stolen.”
I stared at the picture. “Perhaps she took it off? For some insane reason?”
Sherlock scrolled through the rest of the pictures of Irene at the event. No jewelry was in evidence. “She took nothing off because she had nothing on. And she had to know I’d check immediately.”
“But why lie to you?”
“The question, Watson, is not why The Woman lied. The question is why did she go through this ridiculous charade in order to lie to us?”
I GAVE THE question serious thought.
“My normal answer would be ‘to case the house,’ or ‘to see you when you’re at h
ome.’” I didn’t like my normal answer, but appealing as Irene was, Sherlock had enemies, and those enemies would certainly have the money to hire Irene to infiltrate our home.
“Possibly.” She patted my hand. “I’m touched, Watson, thank you.”
“Excuse me?”
She chuckled. “You went from slavering man-beast to protective, worried friend in a moment. Your entire demeanor changed. And I appreciate it, truly. Yes, it’s very possible The Woman has been hired by an enemy—don’t ask, it’s an obvious concern—however, I tend to doubt it. It shouldn’t be ruled out, and we should sleep with one eye open and keep that eye on Mrs. Hudson as well. But I think The Woman is playing a game. Whether that game is dangerous to us or not is the question.”
“How do we determine the answer?”
Sherlock shrugged. “Do what you wanted to anyway. Call her up and ask her out.”
I was about to ask if this was really the wisest course when the house phone rang. Mrs. Hudson insisted we have a landline, for safety reasons, and Sherlock liked it because we could ignore it and allow the calls to go to voicemail if she wasn’t in any mood to interact. While she could and sometimes did do the same with her cell, she felt that not answering her cell was rude. I could never fathom the difference.
Sherlock had wanted an old-fashioned rotary phone, but not only were they almost impossible to find and exorbitant in cost, they were hugely inconvenient. I’d put my foot down and we had a nice cordless set with five different handsets, meaning I didn’t have to run from one room to another to answer the phone. Sherlock never, ever answered the landline unless she point-blank expected a call from Mrs. Hudson. Everyone else used her cell, myself included.
We both stared at the phone on the side table for a moment. “Any guesses?” I asked as I lurched into action and went to the phone to do the main portion of my job in our partnership—running interference.
“The Woman is going to wait for you to call her. At least for a few days. We’re paid up on all our bills. I remain blissfully unattached to man, woman, or beast, and you’re between romantic liaisons, at least until you and The Woman make a date. We can hope it’s a real case, but I wouldn’t count on it.”
I answered. “This is the office of Sherlock Holmes, private consulting detective. How may we help you?”
“Doctor Watson?” The man’s voice was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. It definitely wasn’t any of the people at the L.A.P.D. who normally called.
“Yes. Who’s calling?”
“Is Her Nibs in?”
“Excuse me? Who is this?”
The man chuckled. “Still a joker, I see.”
“Not really.” Not now or ever, really. “I’m sorry if you think I’ve recognized your voice, but I haven’t.”
“And you don’t know you’re catnip for the kittens either, right, Johnny Boy?”
No one had ever called me Johnny Boy, and this was a lack I hadn’t even realized I cherished until this exact moment. However, I now had an excellent guess for who was calling. “This wouldn’t be the infamous Joey Jackson, would it?”
“It would! And you’d be the only American who sounds like a Brit without the accent who isn’t on TV or in the movies. You really need to give it a try—you have the face for it.”
“So you love to insist. Why are you calling?”
“I need to speak with Her Nibs.”
“I can practically guarantee that she won’t like that nickname.”
He chuckled again. “I can guarantee that she loves it. Anyway, is she around? We need to hire her.”
“Hold please.” I put the phone on mute. “The most obnoxious of the Unholy Three would like to speak to Her Nibs about a job.”
Sherlock laughed. “Thanks for being offended on my behalf, but ‘Her Nibs’ honestly doesn’t bother me.”
“Why on Earth not? He called me Johnny Boy.” I tried not to sound offended and failed, judging by Sherlock’s effort not to laugh. “I don’t like the name,” I muttered.
She shrugged. “He doesn’t matter enough for me to care what he calls me.” She reached for the phone, then stopped. “Put it on speaker, would you, Watson?”
I did as requested. “You’re on live with Ms. Holmes.”
“Johnny Boy’s the best secretary around. How are you, Sherlock?”
“John is not my secretary, Joey. He’s my partner. And I’m in good health, thanks for asking. Why are you calling out of the blue?”
“Wanted to make sure you were at home, honestly. We’ll be there in a few minutes and we’ll explain it all then.” And with that he hung up.
“I hate him. I really, really hate him.” I punched the speaker button off for emphasis.
Sherlock’s eyes were narrowed as she leaned back in her chair.
“What?” I asked after a few moments of silence.
“Doesn’t it seem the height of coincidence, Watson, that The Woman—who got her start with Andenson Productions—would come here with a bogus ‘case,’ and then, not fifteen minutes after she’s gone, Joey would call to hire us?”
“Yes, I have to admit that it does. However, he said they’ll be here, so I assume all three of the Unholies are coming. Please tell me you don’t want to offer them tea.”
“That,” Sherlock said, as she gazed out our front window, “will depend entirely on what it is they’re here to try to hire me to do.”
TEN MINUTES LATER, another limousine pulled up in front of our home. We hadn’t lived here long, but I was willing to wager that Baker Street never saw this many limos outside of prom season.
Tony Antonelli and Joey Jackson got out, unassisted by their driver, who remained at the wheel, though the car was turned off. Jackson closed the door behind him. If Cliff Camden was along, he was staying in the limo.
They were both dressed as I was used to—laid back California business casual—khakis and polo shirts, Antonelli in Ralph Lauren, Jackson in Tommy Hilfiger. Despite their both being well-groomed and dressed, they still gave me an oily feeling. I remained certain they were both in the Mob. They certainly looked it, just West Coast style.
“Interesting,” Sherlock said, as the two men approached our door. “Do me a favor, Watson—don’t ask them where Cliff is and definitely don’t mention that The Woman has been here.”
“As you wish.” I hurried to the door and opened it just as Jackson was starting to knock. I’d anticipated this—in fact, I’d hurried to ensure this would happen—so didn’t get punched in the face. He lost his balance momentarily, which I’d hoped for and confess to enjoying far more than I should have.
“Ah, John, great timing,” Jackson said, as he regained his balance.
I gave him points for registering Sherlock didn’t want him calling me Johnny Boy, though I still didn’t feel sorry for the little slapstick moment. “We do our best. She’s waiting for you.”
Antonelli grunted at me as they walked past. Unsurprisingly, they didn’t wait for me to escort them into our home. Whatever their problem was, a large paycheck needed to be attached to it before I’d willingly help Sherlock with their case. I closed and locked the door, then followed them into the living room.
“Sherlock,” Antonelli was now beaming, as he opened his arms wide. “It’s great to see you. You look as amazing as the last time we saw you. How are you doing?”
Sherlock wasn’t pretty or beautiful, but she wasn’t unattractive, either. She was what, a hundred or so years ago, would have been called a handsome woman. Her features were somewhat sharp and, especially when she was involved with a case, she reminded me of a noble predator, an eagle or a wolf. She looked like that now. Considering her boredom just a little earlier, I hoped whatever the Unholies had for us was going to be worthwhile.
She stood and allowed Antonelli and Jackson both to hug her. “I’m well, Tony,” she said after they’d done the fake Hollywood thing. She cocked her head and examined the men. “But you’re not.” She reseated herself, leaned her elbows on the
chair’s armrests, and steepled her fingers. “Tell me what’s happened to Cliff, and be sure to leave nothing out.”
Both men looked surprised. “There’s no fooling Her Nibs,” Jackson said. “Ever.”
“A track record I hope to continue. Again, details, gentlemen. I can’t work without them.”
Antonelli seated himself on the sofa, but Jackson stayed on his feet, so I did as well. “We don’t know what’s happened, Sherlock,” Antonelli said. “That’s the problem.”
“Start from the beginning,” Sherlock said, as I turned on my pocket recorder and got my notebook and pen, sitting in my chair next to hers but set back a bit—so that the clients focused on Sherlock, not on me recording them. “From when you first think something might have been off.”
Antonelli and Jackson looked at each other. “A couple days ago?” Jackson asked.
Antonelli nodded. “We’re filming our first fully scripted show. Glitterazzi. A telenovela-style show. Lots of drama, lots of sex, lots of action.”
“Sounds interesting,” Sherlock said noncommittally. She rarely watched scripted television.
“It will be,” Jackson said. “Cliff’s the director, of course. And I’ve cast some of our former reality show contestants as well. We have a large pool to draw from, and we think it’ll give fans of our other programming a reason to tune in.”
It took all my self-control not to ask if one of those cast was Irene Adler. But Sherlock’s admonition was still in my head and I studiously kept my mouth shut.
“Such as?” Sherlock asked.
“Sarah Foster, Elizabeth Gale, Amanda Rice, George Benning, Julianna Whitesmith, and Irene Adler, for starters,” Jackson rattled off. I was scribbling, so looking at my notepad and hopefully not giving anything away.
“From Campus Queen: Berkeley, Campus Queen: Notre Dame, High School Confidential: Alhambra High School, Campus King: Ohio State, The Real Families of SoCal season three, and Campus Queen: Tulane, respectively,” Sherlock added, presumably for my benefit, or the benefit of our recording.
“Don’t forget Anna Wooten and Kara Rieke,” Antonelli added. “From Real Families of Suburbia seasons one and two. Two of my favorite seasons.”