“Here he is,” she noted, stabbing her finger at the photograph on the page. “Cadet Joseph Howard Brown.”
“You’re certain, my dear?” Holmes verified, tugging the book around for a look himself.
“One hundred percent posi-lutely. No doubt. This is the guy.”
“All right,” Williams noted, placing a sticky-flag on the page before gathering up the yearbooks. “I’ll get word out to watch for this bloke. Ryker’s lot have already been through ‘em. The other guy was older, though, and doesn’t appear to have a direct connection to the Academy. He was farther away from them, too, I gather.”
“At least we have one of our pair identified. Could you get the description of the other kidnapper from Ryker And Company? In all the excitement last night, I was unable to do so myself.”
“Already got it. Ryker called down the information this morning. Older chap, average height and build, wearing a long overcoat, a hat and eyeglasses, salt-and-pepper beard and mustache; couldn’t get eye color in the dark at that distance, even without the glasses. In other words, not a whole lot to go on that couldn’t be faked.”
“Hm.”
“Exactly. Meanwhile, I’m having my ‘assistant’ put together a full makeup kit for you two, along with a disguise wardrobe, and by tomorrow I’ll have a couple of rental cars for you.”
“Excellent. Then this afternoon, once we have donned disguises, we will venture out to see what we may find.”
“Do you think that wise, Mr. Holmes? As yet, no one knows you’re here.”
“Precisely why we should go. Although,” Holmes reconsidered, “perhaps Skye should remain here, since she is more likely to be recognised.”
“That does not make me a happy camper. I’m not some damsel in distress, Sherlock.” Skye frowned.
“I know, my dear,” he said, putting a quelling hand on her shoulder. “But Williams has a point. The longer we can maintain the illusion that you are still on the mountain, the better. And that may best be done by keeping you here for a few more days, yet.”
“But you won’t have a car. Colorado Springs is much too spread-out for you to get anywhere on foot.”
“She’s right,” Williams agreed. “But maybe I can arrange something.”
Skye shot Williams a dirty look, and Holmes laughed.
“You have not endeared yourself to Skye by that offer, Williams. Never mind, my dear Skye, all will be well.”
“It better be,” Skye grumbled, “or I’m gonna be one seriously pissed hyperspatial-dynamicist-cum-FBI-investigator-slash-detective.”
“Heaven forbid,” Holmes avowed.
* * *
Skye and Holmes had little to do but laze around until lunch, when Williams reappeared. He bore two excellent prime rib sandwiches, a small case containing a compact, well-stocked makeup kit, and two cellphones.
“These were provided by my equipment supplier in MI-5,” Williams explained of the phones. “I’m sure Dr. Chadwick will get the joke when I say we call him ‘Q.’”
Skye guffawed, and Holmes looked askance. Then he remembered a James Bond movie they had seen weeks ago, and rolled his eyes.
“I take it these aren’t your run-of-the-mill cellphones?” Skye asked once she stopped laughing.
“Mm, yes and no. Mostly they are, but they’ve been swept for bugs, and they’re automatically ciphered. Meaning they don’t broadcast in the clear, and only a mated phone can decipher the conversation. A total of five phones are mated. This is yours,” Williams handed one to Holmes, “and this is yours,” the other went to Skye. “There are four numbers programmed into speed-dial. Location one on each phone dials the other phone. Location two connects to me; location three contacts Ryker, and location four Colonel Jones. All phones in the speed-dial list have the cipher built in. Oh, and it was decided to utilise code names. Mr. Holmes, you will be ‘Toby.’ It’s an affectionate reference to both a certain literary brand of tobacco and a certain literary hound,” he noted with a grin and a wink as Holmes gave him a stern, exasperated look. “Dr. Chadwick, you are ‘Bobcat.’ Ryker is ‘Cowboy,’ Colonel Jones is ‘Nose,’ and I am ‘Footman.’ The hotel, specifically this saferoom, is ‘Base.’ Your ranch is ‘Dry Bones,’ and Schriever is ‘The Town Square.’ Got it?”
“Got it,” Skye verified.
Holmes snorted amusement, but agreed.
Williams and Skye spent a few minutes teaching Holmes to use the device, then the cellphones went into pockets.
“Very good. Ring when you’re ready to go out, Mr. Holmes,” Williams noted, and left them to eat in privacy.
* * *
After lunch, Holmes transferred the makeup kit to the large, well-lit bathroom. There, he opened the kit, spreading its contents across the capacious vanity; extracted appropriate clothing from his duffel, and “Charlie” the cowboy began to emerge. There was little Skye could do except watch and occasionally hand Holmes some item, so she sat on the counter and fumed.
“Sherlock, can’t I come along?”
“No.”
“Please?”
“No.”
“Do you not trust me, or am I just not good enough?” she snapped.
* * *
The thin hand skillfully wielding a makeup brush paused, as Holmes came to a full understanding of how much this disturbed her. He turned and met her frustrated, hurt, angry gaze.
“Neither, Skye, and you should know that by now. The fact that they tried to kidnap, not kill you, last night speaks volumes, my dear. You may not have paused to consider the situation, but I have. It is still a question whether they have concluded you were responsible for killing their saboteur; in fact, I suspect not. No, they are interested in what is in your mind, Skye—they want the creator of the project in their power. And that is something I cannot permit, either professionally—or personally,” Holmes added, allowing a flash of pain to flit through the grey eyes. “Therefore, it is my intent to keep you as safe as in me lies. No, no, you will not be cooped up in here indefinitely,” he put up a restraining hand as Skye started to protest. “If matters go well, I will shortly require your assistance. But they will have expected us to flee, after their failed attempt. So my plan is to keep you hidden long enough for them to believe we have not fled.”
“Because of Captain Ryker and his people carrying out a subterfuge at the ranch?”
“Precisely,” Holmes nodded, resuming his makeup work, creating the deeply suntanned, weather-beaten skin of a cowboy in his early forties. “And after the thorough thwarting of their first kidnapping attempt, they are not likely to risk it again, having lost the element of surprise. No, they will watch from a distance, and continue with their contingency plans, believing you to be duly entrenched on the ranch. Once that has had a chance to be ingrained into their consideration, and sufficient time elapsed to be sure they are proceeding with Plan B, we will bring you back into the cloak-and-dagger work. Be patient. Matters are accelerating. I anticipate by tomorrow—the next day, at the latest—you will be at work, provided your disguise is sufficient.”
“Oh,” Skye said, seeming mollified. “I take it you’re going back to the Low Buzz?”
“I am. I intend to see what I can see. Since it was used as a standard meeting place, perhaps I will note familiar faces. Do not worry,” he added, seeing a flicker of concern on Skye’s reflection in the mirror, “my revolver will come along with me, and I packed both bulletproof vests in my rucksack.”
But when Williams showed up unexpectedly a few minutes later, Holmes’ plans were put on temporary hold.
* * *
“Forgive my interruption,” the operative apologized, “but I have some news.”
“Then let us hear it.” Holmes put down his makeup brush and turned to Williams.
“Well, first of all, we found the cadet that tried to kidnap you, Dr. Chadwick. He showed up at oh-dark-thirty this morning in the ER at Memorial Hospital on Pikes Peak Avenue, with a bullet hole in his shoulder. Nine-millimeter,
if that helps.”
Holmes and Skye exchanged knowing glances.
“I take it, it helps,” Williams smirked. “His initial story was pretty lame; something about cleaning his gun when it went off. When the doctor pressed him, he came up with a decent fish story about spending the night with a friend when the friend started horsing around with his handgun and it went off.”
Skye snorted her disgust, and Holmes laughed in that silent way he had.
“Not precisely a friend, eh, my dear Skye? What has happened to him since then?”
“They dug the bullet out, patched him up, and sent him home to his CQ—er, cadet quarters,” Williams elaborated for Holmes. “Colonel Jones is working on getting a clandestine eye on him.”
“Why the hell wasn’t he in trouble with his superiors?” Skye demanded to know. “He should’ve been on the Academy grounds at least, if not in his quarters, overnight.”
“Seems his uncle is on the faculty,” Williams grimaced. “Nepotism strikes again.”
“So Uncle Big-Shot signed him out, huh?” Skye noted with scorn. “How convenient.”
“It strikes me we should find out more about this uncle,” Holmes considered. “Perhaps Ryker’s command could look through any photographs of the faculty. They might find something.”
“Good idea. I’ll let ‘em know. They’re working on a composite sketch of the other man from last night, by the way—both as they saw him, and without beard, et cetera, just in case.” Williams produced a folded sheaf of papers. “And Colonel Jones sent this over, too.”
“What is it?” Holmes wondered, reaching for the papers.
“The top couple pages are phone numbers and corresponding information from Harris’ cellphone. The last two pages contain the same from Thompson’s cell. Jones wanted to get it to you immediately. He’s got people cross-referencing the two, I think, but you should do that yourselves, too. He thought Dr. Chadwick might recognise some of the names on Harris’ phone, and it could help the sorting.”
“Excellent. Skye, would you look at this? It might give us a direction for our explorations.”
“Okay. It’ll give me something to do while you’re gone, and it oughta be easy. Other than their spy work, those two didn’t move in the same circles. Any common ground at all is automatically suspect.”
“Precisely. And if at all possible, locating addresses for the common entries would be capital.”
“Some of the entries already had addresses,” Williams noted. “A couple were suspicious because they hadn’t either names or addresses.”
“Ooo,” Skye commented. “I’ll jump right on those, even if they don’t cross-reference.”
“Excellent,” Holmes decided, turning back to the mirror to resume applying his makeup. “Now, Williams, if you would be so kind as to procure me some form of transportation—preferably suited to a cowboy—I shall be ready to sally forth in about ten minutes.”
“Already on it, Mr. Holmes. Your chariot awaits.”
“As long as it is not pulled by George’s Penny, I shall accept it,” Holmes observed with amusement.
“I…beg your pardon?” Williams stared, confused. Holmes shot an innocent glance at Skye, who snickered.
“Never mind, Mr. Williams,” she said. “Inside joke.”
“I…see,” Williams remarked, in a tone that plainly said he didn’t see at all. “Shall I wait, or come back in fifteen?”
“Whatever suits you best, my good man,” Holmes said, concentrating on applying fine lines around his eyes with a tiny brush.
* * *
While Holmes was gone, Skye sat down on the couch in the sitting room to cross-reference the two phone lists. In addition to one unidentified number on Thompson’s list—the prefix for which, Skye recognized as originating within Cheyenne Mountain, likely the one Jones had mentioned some time back—there were two mysterious numbers on Harris’ list as well. Those, she decided, were in the area of, if not actually on, Air Force Academy grounds. Hm. Need to get this to Colonel Jones quick, so he can track ‘em. Let me see what else I can dig out first, though.
An hour later, Skye had a list of five phone numbers with cryptic identifiers, belonging to the unknown Carl, Kristen, Ralph, Pete, and Harry. “Now, if I had computer access, I could do a reverse look-up and figure out who these people are and where they live. Hm. Maybe Williams can help me.”
She leaned over, lifted the phone off the hook, and pressed the red button. “Williams? Dr. Chadwick. I could use some help here…”
* * *
Holmes showed up at the Low Buzz around midafternoon. The waitress recognized “Charlie,” greeting him cheerfully and showing him to a corner table. Holmes ordered a Coors and sat back to people-watch, but saw no familiar faces save the staff and one or two men he knew to be cowboys, hence uninvolved with his case. When the waitress came back with his beer, Holmes queried her, in his thickest ranch-hand lingo.
“Hey, whatever happened t’ that Air Force sergeant usedta be in alla time? You know, kinda tall fella, looked like he’d been throwin’ around fence posts awhile, thick dark hair an’ brown eyes…”
“Oh yeah, I know the one ya mean. Sergeant Thompson. He was one of our regulars, but I can’t say I ever cared for him much. He was a strange sort, that one.” She dropped her voice and said, “I heard he got into serious trouble on base. Some sorta fight. Dependin’ who you listen to, he’s either in the brig or he’s dead, killed in the fight.”
“Wow,” Holmes remarked, playing wide-eyed and innocent. “Ya don’t say? That’s serious shit.”
“Ain’t it the truth? Him an’ some’a his friends used to come in here alla time. Three other guys. Two nice young Air Force bucks and a smart-ass contractor type. But you know what? I ain’t seen a one of ‘em in weeks.”
“Izzat so? Mebbe it’s f’r the best, if they’re that sort.”
“Yeah. I don’t want no fights breakin’ out here. I’d have a heart attack. Why’d you wanna know, cowboy?”
“Aw,” Holmes grimaced, shaping his face into a rueful expression, “my girlfriend an’ me, we’re still sorta rocky, an’ she thought the guy was cute. I jus’ wondered…”
“Aha. Say no more, hotshot. I ain’t seen her in here with him or anybody else. You’re pretty struck on her, ain’tcha?”
“Yeah,” Holmes admitted dolefully. “Shows ‘at bad, huh?”
The waitress sobered, looking at him kindly.
“When you’re in here without her, cowpoke, you look like you lost your whole world. Listen, if you’re treatin’ her right, maybe you just ain’t lettin’ ‘er know how you feel. You strike me as the strong, silent type. Us women, we like to hear every once in awhile what we mean to our men. How we gonna know otherwise, ya know? Maybe what you need to do is sit her down someplace nice and romantic—hell, in front of the fireplace’ll do—and just tell her.”
“Mebbe so. Mebbe I’ll try an’ talk to ‘er tonight.” Holmes thought on that piece of advice more than the waitress could have imagined.
“You do that, cowboy. An’ if she still ain’t cooperatin’, you come on back here. I’ll appreciate ya, even if she won’t.”
“Thankee, Sally, but I kinda got my heart set. If she don’t cooperate…I jus’ dunno.” Holmes sighed.
“Well, I hope things work out for ya there, Charlie.” Sally patted his arm.
Holmes nodded, and the waitress moved on. He returned his attention to the bar denizens, but in over two hours of nursing as many beers, he still saw no one who made a likely suspect.
When he’d finished his last drink, he dropped enough cash on the table to pay for the beer and tip Sally generously, then wandered out.
* * *
Holmes slipped into the saferoom to find Williams and Skye huddled together on the couch, their heads almost touching. His eyes narrowed in displeasure, until he heard their conversation and spotted the laptop.
* * *
“Okay, that looks like our Pete,” Skye observed
, pointing to the screen. “Peter Jenkins, Colonel, Retired, 106 Peakview Boulevard, Manitou Springs.”
“I’d say so,” Williams noted. “Dr. Chadwick, you’re quite good at this. I’d no idea, or I’d not have bothered staying here to assist.”
“Well, I appreciate the loan of the laptop, and showing me how to get set up in here so everything stays under wraps, security-wise, was a big help. But yeah, I did this stuff all the time when I was a reserve investigator. This, I can do with my eyes closed.” Skye grinned.
“Very good. I shall leave you to it. I have a few duties to the hotel I need to attend, anyway. Please let me know when Mr. Holmes—oh, he’s back already,” he observed, glancing up and seeing the detective. “Mr. Holmes, I may understand much better now why you and Dr. Chadwick developed a relationship. She’s very good at this.” He gestured at the laptop with a grin.
* * *
“Yes, she is,” Holmes agreed, perching himself on the arm of the sofa—well inside Skye’s personal space—with one arm propped on the sofa back, leaning over her, laptop and all. In so doing, Holmes effectively enveloped Skye without ever touching her, subtly separating her from the rest of the room. He ensured Williams had a full view of how close he was, then gave the operative a deliberate glance. Holmes was reticent enough to avoid blatant displays of affection when there was an audience, but he knew Skye could become very focused when working. Although he was confident enough in her affections to trust her, a subtle play for her attentions might be missed in the circumstances. He didn’t want the other man thinking he could take advantage of the fact; Williams had been sitting closer than Holmes deemed appropriate.
Williams frowned, apparently puzzled at the pointed act; Holmes watched as comprehension dawned, and the operative looked abashed and apologetic. Both men shot surreptitious glances at Skye, who was, as Holmes suspected, absorbed in her computer search. Then Williams looked directly into Holmes’ grey eyes and shook his head. Holmes read the other man’s sincere expression, and nodded acceptance.
* * *
The Case of the Displaced Detective Page 54