“And this person would be?” Skye asked grimly.
“One David Thompson,” Ramsey told them. “Last the Bureau knew, he was a sergeant.”
* * *
Back in their office, Skye and Holmes sat at the desk, deep in thought.
“There will be another sabotage attempt,” Holmes noted. “The lieutenants’ report referred to another rodeo.”
“I know,” Skye said, subdued. “Let’s look at that sabotage menu you found. Where did you get it, anyway?”
“Ah. Perhaps it is better you do not know, my dear.” He went over to his document safe and opened it, rummaging.
“From somebody we’re already looking at?” Skye shot Holmes a knowing look.
“I suspect so.”
“Somebody with a predilection for tampering with cars?”
“Possibly.”
“Somebody whose quarters you visited on Peterson?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Okay,” Skye nodded, as Holmes extracted the document in question. “So let’s see what we’ve got here. Professor Holmes, if you would be so kind as to make sure I keep my facts straight, I’m gonna try to summarize our situation.”
“Pray proceed,” Holmes nodded, handing her the document and sitting down in his desk chair, steepling his fingers and settling back to listen.
“We have an unknown spy ring, numbering ten,” Skye dropped the document on her desk, leaned back, folded her hands behind her head, and stared at the ceiling. “Two infiltrators were killed by the ring. The ringleader is unknown. We have at least one member somewhere inside Cheyenne Mountain; one member is Thompson, and one member—our mole—is Harris.” She shot a confirming glance at Holmes.
“Excellent, so far,” he murmured, eyes closed.
“Okay,” Skye continued, wondering how he had known to respond to her when his eyes were shut. “Thompson and presumably this Cheyenne Mountain person arranged for the murders of our two infiltrators; then Thompson, with the aid of one or more moles, wrote, and arranged to infect, the tesseract computer systems with a Trojan horse virus. This resulted in a near-catastrophic malfunction and the death of one member of the tesseract team.”
Holmes nodded again.
“And according to the final report compiled by the infiltrators, there’ll be another sabotage attempt. But we don’t know when, or what, or how.”
“Correct. Well stated. There are a number of entries on this list,” he scooted his chair around until he sat beside Skye, so they could both study the sabotage menu, “that reference something called ‘C-4.’ Do you know what C-4 is?”
“Yeah. It’s a plastic explosive used by the military.” Seeing the puzzled look on Holmes’ face, she explained further. “In the earlier part of the twentieth century, techniques were developed for ‘plasticizing’ explosives. They mixed the explosive with other materials to render it soft and pliable. It’s like putty, so it can be shaped into charges for specific purposes, hand-carried, and even used to cut metal. It’s often used by espionage and terrorist groups for sabotage.”
“What is the chemical formula of the explosive?” Holmes asked, curious.
“Um…” Skye moved to her bookshelves, pulling down a weighty tome and flipping through it. “Okay, here it is. It’s cyclotrimethylene trinitramine.”
“Hm,” Holmes considered, putting his knowledge of chemistry to use. “I would assume the…‘plasticizing’ agents dilute the explosive force.”
“And you’d be right. Plastique can be used for fairly delicate work when necessary.”
Skye returned to her chair. They both resumed studying the list. After a few minutes, Skye realized Holmes was watching her expectantly. She glanced up at him, then her brows drew together anxiously.
“Did I forget something?” she murmured worriedly.
“No,” Holmes shook his head. “I merely thought you might have some idea what Thompson’s next target would be, based on your extensive knowledge of the apparatus.”
“Unfortunately, no. Anything on this list would work. It would help if I knew what they’re aiming at.”
“You mean their ultimate purpose?”
“Yeah. I’m not getting it. If they wanna destroy it, just plant a big ol’ bomb in the Chamber and have done. But if they wanna steal the plans, why sabotage it at all? I’m confused. Am I missing something, Holmes?”
“No, Skye, I do not believe so,” Holmes pondered. “Honestly, you state my own musings on the matter.”
The telephone rang, and Holmes answered it.
“Commander Holmes here.” Skye watched as he listened for several minutes. “Indeed? Yes, I believe so. No, I do not find that appealing either. No, I think not. All right. Goodbye.”
Holmes hung up and stared into space with an air of indecision.
“What’s wrong, Holmes?”
“Thompson has been seen at Spice. For the last three nights running. He arranged some sort of meeting for tonight, according to Smith’s man.” He roused himself and picked up the sabotage menu, returning it to the safe and locking it in. “I believe it will be necessary to make an appearance at this strip club.”
“Aw, shit,” Skye grumbled. “Okay. Do you want me to go as a woman, or try to disguise myself as a man? What time is the meeting, or do we know? ‘Cause I’m gonna have to get myself mentally prepared for this one.”
“No,” Holmes said quietly. “All you need do in preparation is assist me in developing a suitable character for such a place. I have no intention of subjecting you to such an…indignity.”
“Are you sure, Holmes? I’ll go if you need me, no hesitation.” Skye stared at him.
“I know you would. But even as you would not abandon me, I will not drag you through such a disreputable environ. I will be fine.”
She studied his face, seeing the firmness of a mind made up, but also seeing distress deep in the grey eyes. At first she thought he was uncomfortable about the prospect of entering such a place without his liaison, but as he met her eyes, she saw something else there, and understood.
This isn’t about him. It’s about treating me with respect. He really doesn’t want to take me into a place like that. He’s protecting me, and he’s concerned I’ll argue. And she knew, if she pressed the issue, he might allow it, though it was unlikely. But concern for her sensibilities—and possibly her safety—would distract him from his objective if he did. He’ll get more information if I let him do it his way. After all, he’s been in seedy places before. He’s right. He’ll be fine. Offended as hell, but fine.
“Okay,” Skye agreed, watching as Holmes subtly relaxed. “Let’s go by a thrift shop for some clothes, and you can try out different dialects on me until I hear one that’s suitable. Then we’ll need to scout out a place for me to wait. Spice is outside the Springs and across the county line, off by itself, and there aren’t any back alleys to park the car in.”
* * *
That evening, one Adam McDonald showed up in Spice. He was tall, pot-bellied and red-headed, with a bushy, unkempt mustache and piercing grey eyes. He wore blown-out athletic shoes, ratty, threadbare jeans with one knee ripped out, and a plain white t-shirt hanging loose around his hips. A short gold chain dangled around his neck, and he spoke with a nondescript Midwestern accent.
McDonald took a seat toward the back left corner of the darkened club, facing the brightly-lit stage. He ordered a Jack on the rocks and settled in. The grey eyes calmly, apparently uninterestedly, scanned the crowd. He spotted Thompson across the room, allowing his eyes to slide past.
As the waitress brought his drink, movement out of the corner of his eye drew his attention. Harris was taking a seat at the table with Thompson. Holmes—for Holmes it was, of course—picked up his glass and sipped, letting his peripheral vision take in the two men. He was not surprised; based on the experience he and Skye had had at The Low Buzz, he had expected Harris would be here. There seemed to be a pattern to their meetings, and if
Thompson was regularly in attendance, Harris was unlikely to be far behind. From his position he could see both men’s faces reasonably readily, and he began to read lips, memorizing what was being said.
The conversation started twenty minutes before the stage show was scheduled to commence, and it continued right up until the curtain. As showtime approached, however, the two men’s talk degenerated into chitchat. Holmes noted the converse stopped as soon as the emcee appeared on stage. Holmes kept one eye upon the two men, but finding himself curious, allowed part of his attention to turn to the show.
Soon the Victorian-era detective was tremendously thankful he had not brought Skye. In Holmes’ opinion, he saw little to recommend the so-called entertainment save its appeal to the baser, hormone-driven sensibilities. Given his preference, he would have gotten up and walked out; but both Thompson and Harris were still there. Neither was speaking, except to let out loud whistles and the occasional catcall or “Whoa, baby!” but the detective could not risk missing anything.
Holmes mentally shook himself, realizing his disgust with the show had allowed his façade to slip: He was much quieter than the other men were. Not, he thought wryly, that anyone is paying me much mind, thank heaven. Still, it is best to maintain appearances. He drew a deep, settling breath, slapped a leer on his face, put his fingers to his lips and let out what he hoped was an enthusiastic whistle, followed a few minutes later by a whoop.
This performance—on stage and off—continued for what seemed to Holmes an eternity, but in reality was only about forty-five minutes as various strippers took to the dais. Holmes even got the opportunity to witness a lap dance, much to his distaste; fortunately he was seated in the back of the club and a good deal of the detail was lost behind the intervening audience. He was just deciding he needed to take a shower at home when the finale began, and Holmes froze in shock.
The woman on stage wasn’t as tall, or as shapely; she was older, and her hair color obviously came from a bottle. But the resemblance to Skye was still enough to take Holmes’ breath away. He managed to avoid gaping visibly, silently thanking Providence and all the powers of heaven that Skye sat behind a barn down the road, safely ensconced in her little black car. The stripper began her dance, and Holmes could do little but watch in awkward bewilderment.
She was good, as such things went, he supposed. She wasn’t brazen, as some of the previous performers had been, wasn’t crude. Instead she was provocative, suggestive without being blatant—at least initially. Holmes found it hard to consider nothing but a g-string merely “suggestive,” by the time it got to that point.
And by the time it did reach that point, he realized his respiration was entirely too rapid. From time to time and without warning, his mind’s eye replaced the exotic dancer with a lithe, younger, more muscular body, one clad in a bubble-gum pink bikini…except the bikini sometimes wasn’t there. And he was horrified to discover that, for all his intellect, he was not immune to “hormone-driven sensibilities.”
Disturbed, Holmes dropped his gaze, deciding instead to focus on his drink. There were only a couple of ice-diluted swallows left, and he downed the remainder, then signaled the waitress, who brought him another.
“You okay, there, hotshot?” she asked him. “You look kinda bothered all of a sudden.”
“Oh,” Holmes thought fast, “she…the dancer reminds me of my…sister.”
“Ew,” the waitress screwed up her face. “Yeah, that’d be about like me watchin’ a Chippendales that looked like my kid brother. That’ll mess with your head, all right.”
“Yeah,” Holmes agreed. He took a stiff swallow of his drink, then glanced at Harris and Thompson. They were intent on the dance, but just then Harris leaned over to Thompson with a leer and made a remark, jerking a thumb at the dancer on stage.
Holmes automatically read Harris’ lips: She looks like the scientist chick, Chadwick. But Chadwick’s a lot hotter. Harris smirked, then slid his hands through the air in that universal hourglass shape depicting the female form. What I wouldn’t give to bang her. Thompson laughed as Harris’ hand dipped suggestively below the table.
Grey eyes narrowed, blazing. Holmes found his jaw clenching, and his fingers fisted around his glass. He took another small sip of his drink, avoiding the temptation to knock it back in his anger.
By this time the show had ended, to the detective’s immense relief. Holmes nursed his drink while keeping a surreptitious eye on Thompson and Harris, but they evidently had little more to discuss for the time. He watched as Thompson said, Well, I guess I’ll see you there.
You don’t need me. Harris shrugged.
No, Thompson said. But He’ll expect it anyway.
True, Harris agreed. Okay. Later.
They paid their tabs and left separately.
Holmes waited around awhile longer, occasionally sipping his drink and allowing his agitated emotions to settle. Then he called for his check, dropped sufficient cash on it, and departed.
* * *
That night, Holmes dreamed.
Skye stood in her bikini, dancing on a stage, while in the very front of the audience Harris leered and grabbed his crotch, whistling and shouting requests for a lap dance. Enraged, Holmes lunged for the man, but an entire crowd of Thompsons clutched at him, blocking his way. Skye reached for the fastening of her bikini top, letting it drop to the floor…
Holmes woke with a start. No, strip clubs definitely do not agree with me. He got up, cracked open his window, then packed and lit his pipe, puffing on it until the fragrant smoke soothed his offended regard.
Then he tapped out the ashes and returned to bed.
* * *
The next morning Holmes sat at Skye’s desk with paper and pen and wrote what he had seen. Skye came up behind him and glanced over his shoulder.
“Why don’t you type it out on my computer?” she offered.
“Because I prefer not to have an electronic record. This way, the only copy will be here, and in my head.” Holmes glanced up.
“Okay. Fair enough. What about my head?”
“Oh,” he shrugged, distracted. “If you like.”
“Um, okay,” Skye murmured, surprised. “I just thought—”
* * *
“I would ask you please, do not disturb me for at least an hour,” Holmes interrupted sharply, trying to return his attention to the conversation he was attempting to reproduce. He was finding Skye’s presence brought back far too many memories of a certain dancer—or rather, of his mind’s strivings to replace that dancer with another woman of his close acquaintance. “I must concentrate to ensure I properly recall the conversation.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, cringing at his tone. “I’ll get out and let you alone.” Skye pulled back, face falling.
“Thank you,” Holmes replied curtly. Intent on his work, he never looked up.
Skye left the room, pulling the door closed behind her.
* * *
A dejected Skye wandered aimlessly out of the house, ending up at the barn. Holmes’ brusque dismissal had disturbed her on several levels. Most fundamental was the fact she loved him and felt rejected. Closely related was the realization she still wanted her hero to be proud of her, despite his request to take him less seriously, and what he had done felt like a rebuke of some sort.
I guess in a way, I’m lucky, though, she thought wryly, puttering around the barn and ending up in the tack room. She took a look at one of her saddles and got out the leather cleaning equipment, starting to work. He did see the devotion, but he interpreted it purely as hero worship, thank God. If he’d figured out how I really feel about him, I’d’ve been in an ocean full of hot water. It’s not like he’s ever gonna be interested, and if he finds out, he’ll be out of here so fast they’ll be registering a tornado on radar from his wake.
But you know, she mused, massaging the saddle soap over the leather with a damp sponge, I’m beginning to think I was wrong about all this training. I thought I was doing wel
l and he was proud of my progress. But last night he didn’t want me going with him, and today he doesn’t seem to want me working with him. Maybe I’m not doing as well as I thought I was. Maybe he’s just been training me so I’ll be halfway acceptable, and he thinks this case is beyond my capability now.
Skye sighed, feeling defeated. Everything’s going down the tubes. My project’s gonna die, I’d lay money on it. That’s gonna take my career down with it, if it hasn’t tanked already. I’m head over heels for a man whose only reaction to my femininity seems to be discomfort. And oh yeah, I’m blessed to be someone who regularly gets to see family and friends horribly smashed and shredded to bits. She paused, closing her eyes and swallowing hard, driving away gruesome memories. I’m tired. Just really, really tired. I don’t wanna fight anymore.
Reaching for the leather conditioner, she began working it into the saddle.
* * *
An hour and a half later, Holmes emerged from the study. Skye was nowhere to be seen. It was lunchtime, so he shrugged and went to the kitchen to prepare something to eat, figuring she would turn up soon enough.
Truthfully, he was glad to be done transcribing the conversation between Thompson and Harris. The process had perforce brought to mind the experience of sitting in the sordid strip club, and the extreme discomfort of seeing the exotic dancer who had reminded him too much of Skye. And it had been worse when Skye had actually been in the study with him. All in all, it was disturbing, a collection of memories he intended to forget as promptly as it was prudent to do so.
It was a hot day in early June, and rather than cook, he opted for sandwiches and a salad. Holmes slapped several layers of lunchmeat and cheese between slices of bread liberally spread with brown mustard, tossed a bag of salad lettuce in a bowl with crumbled blue cheese, walnuts, strawberries, and balsamic vinaigrette, then wondered what had become of Skye.
It was apparent from the first that she wasn’t in the house; it was too quiet inside. Skye was not noisy by any means, but there was usually some small auditory evidence of her presence, be it the tapping of a pencil, humming, the flip of a book’s pages, or the faint whir of her laptop. Holmes was about to go outside looking for footprints to trace her, when he espied the blonde head through the kitchen window, coming around the corner of the barn. Holmes shoved open the window and bellowed, “Skye! Lunch!”
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 37