The Downward Spiral

by Ridley Pearson

  Once outside, he stopped, placing his back against the cold wall, waiting to see if anyone had followed.

  He counted to sixty and headed toward the Dartmouth Street entrance.

  CHAPTER 33

  “COMPANY,” I SAID, LEADING SHERLOCK through the glorious Bates Hall. My memory of the library had come back slowly, like awakening from a dream. Father was in that dream. Sherlock and I hurried, hand in hand, through the stacks.

  A woman in her late twenties kept pace with us. She looked so casual that it was hard to believe she might be following. But I trusted Sherlock. My heart beat a bit faster now, my feet moved more quickly.

  “Do you suppose she’s—” I choked out. I needed a better workout program.

  “Most certainly,” Sherlock said.

  We passed through the mezzanine. Sherlock let go of my hand and sped up to pull alongside me. “I’ll take care of her,” he said. “You find us a cab, or plot a route back to your house. You know the city. I do not.”

  “Got it!”

  Sherlock turned an about-face. The sound of a collision echoed through the grand space.

  I never looked back.

  As I crossed the entrance chamber, there was Lois, of all people, looking like a schoolteacher awaiting us after a field trip.

  Sherlock, his hair ruffled, his face beet red, appeared unexpectedly beside me. I let out a yip.

  “Don’t do that!” I said to him. “Warn me. Say something. But don’t spook me.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said.

  “This way,” Lois said calmly, as if we’d arranged to meet her. She led us through the library’s hallways.

  “Lois,” I said. She and Ralph had dropped us off. “I thought you had errands to run? That we were meeting back at the house?”

  “We were in the neighborhood,” she said.

  I glanced at Sherlock to suggest I didn’t believe her. There was nowhere to do errands in this neighborhood. It was all high-end shopping. Had she been spying on us?

  We followed Lois into the Newsfeed Café. She lowered her voice. “Where’s James?”

  “Dartmouth Street entrance,” I answered.

  “Why?”

  “Never mind that,” I said. “We need to keep moving, Lois. There are some people here who weren’t very nice to us.” I couldn’t think of a better excuse.

  “Ralph is just outside. Text James and let him know.”

  In my two years of owning a smartphone, two years of enduring endless complaints and criticism about texting, Instagram, and Snapchat, this was a first. Lois telling me to use my phone! “Ah . . . OK.”

  “I wouldn’t mention the trouble inside. Not in front of Ralph.”

  “Ralph?” I said, objecting. “He’s family.”

  “And he feels incredibly protective of you two. You mention something like that and he’s likely to drag you inside and have you point them out to him, and we don’t want that.”

  “No! Of course not.” I heard what she was saying, but it felt like there was a different message swimming just below the surface.

  Lois opened the café door out to the sidewalk.

  Our black car idled at the curb, Ralph behind the wheel. We took only a few strides in that direction before a man called out from behind us.

  My first instinct was to run. Sherlock followed me into the car’s backseat. Lock was pulling the door shut as the voice, a foreign voice filled with authority, stopped him.

  “Might I have a word, please?” He stood tall and wore a dark, calf-length belted overcoat. His nose and ears red from the cold, he stepped closer, training his flinty gray eyes past Lois and onto me. Me, not Sherlock.

  He allowed a small wallet to fall open from his right hand. It contained a gold badge.

  CHAPTER 34

  “DETECTIVE SUPERINTENDENT COLANDER,” the man said. He wasn’t French or German or Spanish. Scandinavian, maybe. His badge read: INTERPOL. International Police. “Where is James Moriarty? He went inside with you. Are we to meet up with him?”

  How, I wondered, did this man, an international police officer, know that Sherlock was not my brother?

  “He’s . . . busy,” I said. “He won’t be home until later.” I carefully covered my mobile. If no one took it away from me I could text James to hightail it away from here.

  “There are individuals inside the library identified as international criminals. Those same individuals arrived after a phone call was placed from within the library mentioning you and your brother.” He didn’t bother to explain how his people had intercepted the phone call. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

  “The librarian’s assistant,” Sherlock said so only I could hear him. “I knew it!”

  Detective Colander addressed Lois. “I wonder if I might ride along?” He unfastened his coat, apparently to show us he wasn’t armed. It seemed a strange thing to do.

  Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but I squeezed his arm. This was grown-up stuff.

  “You’ll sit in the front,” Lois said. “I’m with the children in the back.”

  I hated being called a child. Mr. Lowry was working for Father’s estate—James’s and my estate—and Lois worked for Mr. Lowry. Therefore, Lois worked for me.

  She opened the front door and gave Ralph a wary look. I caught a faint drop of the chin by Ralph. He’d agreed to something. I didn’t know exactly what, but it had to do with the detective.

  I texted without looking at my phone.

  cops. stay away. follow my phone.

  I hit Send. James and I were following-friends on our smartphones.

  Lois joined Sherlock and me in the backseat. The detective superintendent sat alongside Ralph. He rattled off an address then leaned around the headrest. “Once we get to our destination, I’d like to speak with just the two young people, if that wouldn’t upset things too horribly.”

  “They are both minors. He,” she said, referencing Sherlock, “is not one of us. Currently I am in the service of Moria’s legal guardian, Mr. Lowry. He must be notified before there’s any of this nonsense.”

  “I cannot stop you from involving Mr. Lowry, nor would I try to. But I can and should advise you that my relationship with these two will grow far more formal should you elect to involve attorneys. That said, the decision is entirely yours.”

  Ralph’s eyes flashed at Lois in the rearview mirror.

  “All the same,” Lois said, “it’s a call I have to make.” She worked her mobile phone and spoke softly with her hand cupped over her lips.

  “And you are?” Colander asked Sherlock softly.

  “James’s roommate at boarding school. We’re in the city for the weekend.”

  “Your name?”

  “Sherlock Holmes.”

  “And you will be seeing James in the near future?”

  “This evening,” I said.

  Lois handed her phone to Detective Colander. “The children’s legal guardian.”

  “Very well,” said Colander. Another clandestine discussion that ended with Colander thanking Lowry and passing the phone back to Lois.

  “OK,” Lois said. “Yes. I understand.” She ended the call and pocketed the phone.

  “I will visit with Moria and Sherlock here,” Colander said, pointing for Ralph to slow the car. We pulled to the curb in front of a large reflecting pond surrounded by office towers. In the distance, an old stone church. “You may accompany us, if you wish.”

  “Oh, yes, I wish,” said Lois. “And, as you are very much aware, Mr. Lowry will be on speakerphone.”

  Colander’s face puckered, one part smile, one part snarl, one part consternation.

  Ten minutes later, we gathered in a small, unmarked conference room. I was happy to see Ralph along with us as well. Just in terms of his sheer size, when Ralph was nearby I felt safer.

  Outside, the reflecting pond reflected, stretching the office towers taller.

  “My title makes me sound more important than I am,” Colander said, clearly trying to
break the ice. “The fact is, for some time now—years, a decade or more—our international police agency has been aware of, and has been tracking, an Irish criminal gang. Sophisticated crime. No swat-and-grab burglaries or that kind of thing. Computer crimes. Blackmail. Identity theft. Immigration violations. Money laundering.”

  “Irish mafia,” Sherlock said.

  “You could think of it that way, certainly. Let’s call it the Irish Mafia. Fine! Why are they interested in one or both of you?” Colander studied us both.

  I said nothing. Sherlock said nothing.

  “You spent over an hour referencing older periodicals. Newspapers, mostly. Tell me about that.”

  I found myself aghast. Who could possibly know what we’d been doing in the library?

  “History papers for school,” Sherlock said, not missing a beat. “You know the kind. Citations and such. A better library than we have at Baskerville, our school.”

  “Of course,” Colander said. “Reference.”

  “Newspapers,” I said, supporting Sherlock.

  “So, what you’re telling me is that the Meirleach—that’s the name they’ve taken for the past eighty years or so—are interested in high school students who are doing their homework.” He made it a statement.

  “Who are they?” I said.

  Lowry jumped in over the speakerphone to protest. The two men entered a discussion. It was agreed Colander could continue.

  “The Meirleach are usually busy slitting throats and pulling museum heists.”

  “Slitting throats?” I blurted out.

  Lowry again, telling Colander to back down on the sensationalism.

  Sherlock couldn’t resist playing detective. He said, “So you intercepted this call, or maybe you followed these Meirleach people to the library. They led you to us, Detective Superintendent. You’re asking us to believe that you then abandoned your surveillance of international criminals in order to talk to a couple of teenagers?”

  “Detective work is rarely simple, young man. My explanation of what I may or may not undertake is, frankly, not relevant.”

  I cleared my throat. “Our father passed away recently.” The detective nodded; I had reason to believe this was not news to him. “I don’t mean to sound all Inspector Gadget, but there were events before and after, as well as some curiosities. As his daughter, I have a right to know. My brother and I have the right to know what’s going on. Exactly. Precisely what’s going on. The truth, Detective, if possible.”

  “I make a living of the truth, Moria. What I can advise, if you would allow, is this: Go back to your school. Stick to your studies. The three of you. Leave the investigating to those of us in the business. It’s a dangerous world out there. You shouldn’t go around poking animals at the zoo.”

  “Are you investigating Mr. Moriarty’s death?” Sherlock asked. “How curious that is!”

  “I’m not at liberty to say,” the detective answered.

  “But you don’t deny it.”

  “I’m not in a position, Mr. Holmes, to confirm or deny such an accusation.”

  “So you’re a politician,” Sherlock said condescendingly.

  Colander laughed privately. “Appointed by them, to be sure.”

  “What would an international agency like Interpol be doing investigating an accidental death in the USA?” Sherlock said.

  “I would not jump to conclusions, Mr. Holmes. Answer me this: What were you after in the periodicals archives? I can and will interview the librarians if needed.”

  “Do that,” Sherlock said.

  I worried Sherlock’s defensive attitude might be hurting James and me. “Dates,” I said, irritating Sherlock greatly. “We were researching some dates that Father left me. We didn’t find much, but there was some mention of the family in the society pages.” My English teacher at Baskerville, Mr. Cummings, had told us that details sell the story. So, I added, “I recognized the names of some Beacon Hill families. Nothing more important than that. I suppose he wanted me to know who the family friends were. To whom my brother and I could turn if in need of help.”

  “You have us for that,” Ralph said. I loved him for it.

  “May I see those dates, please?”

  “No,” I said, “you may not.”

  “Young lady—” Lois said.

  I paid little attention to Lois. “My father left them for me, Detective. He made a point of it. Not my brother, but me. Not you, but me.”

  “The dates may be of value to my investigation,” Colander said.

  I didn’t want him seeing the story about the robbery. I felt confused and horrified by our discoveries, and I was not about to share them.

  “You think we’re lying about something,” Sherlock said. “We’re not lying.”

  “I think that there are the lies we speak, and the lies we keep.”

  “A philosopher.”

  “I have scads of free time,” Colander said.

  “Good on you,” Sherlock said. “We don’t.” He grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet. “We’ll be going now.”

  Lowry spoke up, confirming Sherlock’s wishes and supporting the end of the discussion.

  Colander stood. In a way I felt sorry for the man. He seemed to be doing what he was supposed to be doing. His mistake was, it involved our family.

  “My advice,” he said, “keep your eyes open and your wits about you, you two. Tell James to do the same.” He passed us both his business card from under the badge in the wallet. “Funny thing about the truth. When you keep it from me, men like me, us from it, we can’t help you. As much as we’d like to.” He appealed to me more than Sherlock.

  I nodded.

  “Think about it, Moria. And listen, the next time you’re scared, really scared, don’t hesitate to call me.”

  I nodded again. “Yes, sir.”

  “You’ll catch them? Arrest them?” Sherlock said.

  “Yes, but only after they’ve committed a crime, and by then, I fear, it’ll be too late.”

  CHAPTER 35

  AT HIS REQUEST, I GAVE MY SMARTPHONE TO Sherlock the moment we’d pulled away from the curb. He returned it a few minutes later with an article open in the web browser. I couldn’t believe what I read.

  This could not wait.

  “Before we go home, could you drop us at a museum?” I asked from the backseat. Lois turned around and looked at me as if I were crazy.

  “Haven’t we had quite enough for one day?” Lois asked incredulously. “You want to go to a museum after what we just went through?”

  “Yes, please.” I had to think what would convince her. “We’re going to meet up with James, if it’s all right with you and Ralph?”

  “Of course! Why didn’t you say so?”

  “Sherlock and I will meet him inside. It could take him a while.” My fingers were already texting. “We could take a cab home or—”

  “Don’t be silly! Of course, we’ll wait.”

  “Thank you.” I wished they wouldn’t.

  “Which museum?” said Ralph, as if giving his OK. And he was driving.

  “The Fordham Fashion Museum,” I said.

  “Why there?” Lois said, somewhat accusatory.

  Having read Sherlock’s magazine article, I lied, to gauge Lois’s reaction. “Father mentioned it a couple of times. James and I have always used it as our secret meeting place, a place no one would think to look for us.”

  “Hmm,” she said.

  “Are you okay with that, Sherlock?” Ralph asked.

  “It wouldn’t be my first choice,” Sherlock said. “But I’m game.”

  The front seat laughed at that.

  Ralph dropped us in front of the Fordham Fashion Museum with its stately gray granite edifice, Corinthian columns, and a black rubber welcome mat carrying its name.

  The museum’s lobby rose three stories to a set of spectacular chandeliers. On the walls hung framed dresses and uniforms, outfits of every kind. Signs marked exhibit halls. Rope lines were in pl
ace to keep things organized, but they seemed optimistic. Even on a Saturday, it wasn’t crowded.

  The tickets were expensive. Sherlock made me pay. Once inside, I pulled him onto a bench.

  “Whatever are you doing?” Sherlock asked, resisting.

  “Waiting for James and looking to see if anyone’s following us.”

  “I can’t imagine we were followed from that conference room at Interpol headquarters.”

  “How did you find that article?” I asked.

  “It was something the librarian said about your family’s generosity. You know the saying, ‘The best place to hide something is out in the open?’ It was that, too. And your mentioning the society pages to Colander. That did it for me. If your father didn’t have the necklace locked away somewhere—which in fact, he might—then why not place it somewhere for safekeeping?”

  “But this, of all places?” I said.

  “I tried to put myself into your father’s shoes.”

  “Don’t ever do that. Don’t ever say something like that again.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “But, listen, a house can burn down. A safe deposit box only has two keys and a person must be an adult and a signature is kept on file.”

  “Lowry,” I said.

  “Perhaps, but a lawyer is not family. The necklace is part of your family’s legacy. A man like your father”—I glared at him—“might, just might leave it where his children could get it without much fuss. He could leave a document allowing privileges for you, or any future Moriartys, for that matter.”

  It bothered me that Sherlock could come up with such stuff so quickly. We’d both just read the article. It referenced a 1978 major renovation to the Fordham Fashion Museum funded by our family foundation. In 1986 we had financed a show of Russian gowns from the tsars. But it was a “personal bequest” exactly seven years earlier that had me reading each word carefully. It was said to be “a significant collection of personal jewelry, contemporary ball gowns, and swimming/yachting attire.”

  Mother had left the family seven years earlier.

  “It’s my mother’s stuff,” I said. “Her jewelry.” I could barely speak the words.