The Case of the Displaced Detective

by Stephanie Osborn

  Holmes removed his arm from the chair back, leaning forward with his forearms on his thighs and staring at the screen as Skye continued advancing the frames.

  “There!” Skye exclaimed. “It did it again! I don’t get it…”

  “Back up the images again, my dear. You do not have to go far; perhaps a minute or two. Then move forward again, and watch Harris. He is over there near the top center of the screen.”

  He waved a long finger in the direction of the image onscreen. Skye did as he’d requested, watching Harris as the frames flipped across the screen.

  “Wha…now that’s weird. It’s…he’s…”

  “Barely moving,” Holmes observed with satisfaction, “and even so, moving rather…jerkily, shall we say?”

  * * *

  Skye turned her face up to look into Holmes’ knowing gaze, her own expression revealing a dawning comprehension.

  “That’s it! That segment of video is counterfeit. He overwrote the computer recording with a faked snippet. That’s when he—or Thompson—introduced the Trojan horse.”

  “That is how I read it. Very good, my dear. Would it embarrass you to know that your teacher is pleased with your discovery?”

  “It would, but it would also make me very proud.” Skye blushed, gratified.

  “Then be proud, my dear, for you have done quite well,” he murmured. He allowed his lips to curve in the slightest of smiles, unaware the grey eyes likewise shone bright.

  “I need to get this to Colonel Jones,” Skye declared. “Hand me the phone.”

  With neither question nor protest at the nigh-order, Holmes rose and fetched the telephone for his companion and lover, then repaired to the bedroom to peel off the remains of his disguise.

  * * *

  Skye dialed through the secure line to the number she’d seen Williams call earlier. Colonel Jones answered. “Nose.”

  “Nose, this is Bobcat. I have information.”

  “State it.”

  “Private video three was tampered. Time-tags denote period of interest, shortly after 13:35, lasting for approximately five minutes. Also note awkward behavior of subject of interest during time frame.”

  “Wilco. Stand by one. Queuing video.”

  “Standing by.”

  Skye sat staring at Holmes, who had emerged from the bedroom in jeans and t-shirt, while she waited for Jones to watch the section in question.

  “Sonuvabitch,” came the response several minutes later. “Nice catch, Bobcat.”

  “Thank you, Nose. Toby was pleased, too.”

  “Indeed,” Holmes murmured.

  “I need to have our people look at this,” Jones noted. “This is a hole in things.”

  “Big enough to drive a truck through. Hold one, and I’ll see if Toby has anything to report.”

  “Not as yet.” Holmes shook his head. “I shall compile a report of the day’s activities and send it in as you did last night, but so far, I only have a few indications. Nothing definitive.”

  “Did you hear that, Nose?” Skye wondered.

  “Yes,” Jones answered. “Tell him I’ll wait for his report.”

  “Wilco. Do you have anything for us?”

  “Actually, I do, but I already sent it over to Footman. He should bring it to you soon.”

  “Okay. We’ll expect it. Bobcat out.”

  “Nose out.”

  * * *

  Holmes took the opportunity, while they waited for Williams to deliver the information from Jones, to play the recording he’d made at the café. Snuggled into the couch with Holmes, Skye listened.

  “Does that strike you as strange?” she wondered, when it was over. “I mean, all these people love this guy, and he’s supposed to be so friendly and helpful, yet he charges interest on a loan to help out a friend? Offhand I dunno of any law, rule, or regulation that would require it. There might be, of course. IRS, maybe. Still, seems awful cold-blooded to me.”

  “I thought it odd myself,” Holmes agreed, reaching for a soda. “A canny businessman would do such, and we cannot hold it against him. But it also reminded me of a technique Professor Moriarty would sometimes use. He would have a home or business burgled, having already long since arranged for one of his front men to act the ‘friend,’ loaning monies for recovery to the injured party, at ‘a modest interest.’ Sometimes the loan was straightforward; but at other times, the man would be hauled into the dock for default. And then, of course, Moriarty would often arrange to have the injured party purchase their new household goods from one of his agents, as well.”

  “So is this Jenkins a good guy, or a bad guy?” Skye shook her head.

  “We do not have sufficient evidence, either way,” Holmes observed, sipping his soft drink. “We need more data. But he bears watching, certainly. It may be,” the grey eyes lit up, “that the Academy is an important connection here. It would be worth some effort to ascertain how many of our suspects and our known spies have Air Force Academy connections. Did your surveillance yesterday not indicate this Colonel Jenkins knew so many people precisely because he had been an instructor there?”

  “Yep. You’ve got a point, Sherlock. But geez, I don’t even know where to start on that. We could look through the yearbooks, I suppose, but we’re talking about several decades’ worth. It would be a monumental effort.”

  “Well, let us keep it in mind. Perhaps our friends under Colonel Jones, or Agent Smith, or Mr. Williams, may provide assistance in that task.”

  “Good point.”

  “I think I heard my name taken in vain,” William’s voice came from the doorway as he eased into the saferoom.

  Skye giggled, and Holmes said, “No, no, my good man, never in vain. We hoped you could help us. We have a task which needs accomplishing, but it will be somewhat tedious, I fear.”

  “What?”

  “We need our list of suspects checked for Air Force Academy connections,” Skye told him, as Holmes pulled away from her now that the other man was in the room. “For that matter, we also need our deceased spy ring members checked. Though I doubt Thompson was an Academy student, and I never heard Harris mention anything about military service. Ooo, but the lieutenants who were infiltrating were, weren’t they?”

  “Yes, they had been upper-classman roommates there, as I recollect,” Holmes agreed. “But merely because Thompson was not a graduate of the Academy does not argue against having some sort of connection.”

  “True,” Williams agreed. “I’ll see what I can get done.” He pulled a folder from his jacket. “Here, Colonel Jones sent this. It’s his latest coordination report.”

  * * *

  Holmes took it and scanned it, Skye leaning over his shoulder to read along.

  “Nothing untoward as yet with respect to our two contractors, Ralph Perkins and Harry Parker. The unknown telephone inside Cheyenne Mountain belongs to one Captain Ben Andrews. Records are being obtained on all of them. Jones and Smith are coordinating surveillance on all three. All is progressing well, so far.” Holmes nodded to himself.

  “What’s the plan for tomorrow?” Williams asked.

  “I think it will be safe for Skye to return to the Baked Bean to keep an eye on our retired friend, while I make my way to the Academy,” Holmes considered. “I see no evidence she would be in imminent danger—provided she exercises appropriate caution.” He shot a stern glance at her, and she nodded. “I shall leave the matter of Perkins, Parker, and Andrews to Jones and Smith. My dear Skye, do you object to our son being sent to the Academy for his schooling?”

  “Wha?” Skye’s jaw dropped in shock.

  “On the morrow, I fully intend to see about the possibility of enrolling our son in the Air Force Academy. I shall ask for a complete tour of the grounds. It strikes me that a Royal Air Force officer, married to an American woman and stationed in the area, might like to have his son attend the Academy, don’t you think?” Holmes let the twinkle show in his eyes.

  Williams smirked in amusement, and Sky
e wearily smeared her hand across her face.

  “Sure, Sherlock,” she muttered sardonically, “why not? Works for me.”

  “Very good.”

  “I’ll go start arrangements,” Williams offered. “Your ‘superior officer’ will need to set up an appointment for you with the dean of admissions. This would be Wing Commander Sigerson requesting the visit, right?”

  “Very good,” Holmes nodded. “I suppose you shall be needing all of the family names, eh?”

  “It would probably be good,” Williams agreed. “What’s Sigerson’s first name, for starters?”

  “Mm, let me think. It would not do to use the name I had originally planned, when I had thought to flee Moriarty; Sven is too un-English,” Holmes chuckled. “Perhaps my Uncle Horace might serve. Or better yet, my old friend Watson. Yes, I think that will do it. John Horace Sigerson will do nicely.”

  “John Horace it is, then,” Williams grinned, jotting notes into his pad. “And your lovely wife and devoted son?”

  “Skye, what is your middle name, my dear?” Holmes queried, realizing with a conscience-stricken start that he had never thought to ask, nor had he ever seen any other name, or even an initial, on paperwork.

  “Actually, Skye is my middle name, Sherlock,” Skye admitted shyly. “My first name is Violet.”

  “Violet?” he whispered, shocked. “Skye, you…you are quite serious?”

  “Why?” She nodded, anxious. “What’s wrong? You don’t…you don’t like it?”

  “No, my dear, it is a…a lovely name. My…mother’s name was Violet,” Holmes confessed in a murmur, deeply moved by the strange coincidence. He turned to Williams, and in a slightly uneven voice, noted, “My wife is Violet Sigerson, and my son…” His voice cracked, and he stopped, unable to continue.

  “Our son’s name is David,” Skye said, and Holmes glanced at her. “It was my father’s name.”

  “Our son’s name is David,” Holmes nodded confirmation, voice hoarse.

  * * *

  “Okay, I have it,” Williams said softly, realizing he had been privileged to bear witness to an intimate moment, when the mask of the great detective slipped, briefly revealing his deeper, private side. Sensing the couple’s need for a few moments’ solitude, he rose. “I’ll get this taken care of right away, and bring you the appointment information with dinner.”

  * * *

  “Very good, my boy,” Holmes approved, his voice pitched higher than normal as he struggled to control it. “I shall have my report of the day’s events ready by then.”

  But when Williams left, instead of working on the report, Holmes drew Skye into his side and sat staring into space. Skye understood, and held her beloved detective, her heart aching for all he had lost.

  * * *

  Some time later, Skye managed to convince Holmes to stretch out with her on the couch. He pressed her between himself and the back of the couch, where she continued to hold him.

  “You miss her, don’t you? Your mother?”

  Holmes only sighed.

  “Was she still…?”

  “She died several years before…before Reichenbach. Watson did me the honour of attending her funeral with me.”

  “Did you get to see her before she died?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about your father?”

  “He…did not long survive my mother. And once again, Watson was…there.”

  “He loved her a lot—your father.” Skye’s arms tightened around him.

  “Yes. Outwardly, they had a traditional Victorian marriage, which is to say,” Holmes remarked with a touch of affectionate whimsy, “very prim, proper, and distant. But in private, it was…quite different.”

  “Like ours?”

  “Much like ours.”

  “Good,” Skye smiled tenderly. “I’m glad to know the parents of…how should I put this?” she grinned mischievously, “’The Man I Love’…created him in love.”

  A smile lit Holmes’ eyes, though it did not shape his lips, and his arms tightened about his companion.

  “Skye? If I might ask, do you know how your parents came to name you? It is an appealing and intriguing name, ‘Violet Skye.’ Not to mention its…personal significance, to me.”

  Skye smiled again, letting the blue eyes go distant with memory.

  “Actually, I do know, Sherlock. Mom said I was born at twilight, right after sunset. She and Dad were cuddling me, when Dad glanced out the hospital window and remarked on the beautiful sky, and how glad he was even the heavens welcomed my arrival. Mom decided on the spot that it was the perfect name for me, especially given her maiden name was MacDonald.”

  “Ah. Indeed. It would seem your own artistic blood—if ever we can find it—must run through your father.” He chuckled gently, a tender sound, then sobered. “If we ever…had a son…I should think David would be a fine name.”

  “I think Dad would like that,” a deeply affected Skye agreed with a smile, snuggling into Holmes’ chest.

  * * *

  The next day, Holmes made up Skye as an elderly woman and sent her off to the Baked Bean to keep an eye on Jenkins. To Skye’s relief, Williams and Smith had coordinated evening surveillance of their suspects between their teams; it seemed few of the suspects ventured out at night in recent days, so it was merely a matter of watching houses and apartments to ensure nothing untoward occurred. While Skye was now much more energetic since her surgeries, she hadn’t relished the idea of having to keep watch around the clock.

  * * *

  Holmes himself donned the disguise of RAF Wing Commander Sigerson and headed for the U.S. Air Force Academy. The Director of Admissions, Colonel Adam Sheffield, met “Sigerson” at the door of the administration building.

  “Hello, Commander Sigerson,” he exclaimed enthusiastically, offering his hand. “Glad to meet you. I must say, I was pleased to get the call from your commanding officer yesterday. It’s quite an honor to have you visit us. I’m happy you chose to look into us, as well as your own country’s excellent schools.”

  “Well, it only seemed reasonable,” Holmes said, shaking the man’s hand. “My dear Violet was born and reared in your country, and our boy was born here, as well. So far, we’ve not made him declare a citizenship, as he isn’t of age quite yet, anyway.”

  “Oh, of course,” Sheffield agreed. “Perfectly understandable. If I might ask, are you a Tornado pilot?”

  “I was,” Holmes said, “and after that I was a flight instructor, but I was recently assigned as a liaison to a…program…at Schriever. I spend a good deal of time in conference rooms instead of cockpits, now.”

  “Well, there’s a school of thought that says cockpits are best left to the young guys, but I never agreed, myself. They might have the energy, and the nearly instant reaction times, but us older guys are wilier. At least, that’s the way I’ve always looked at it.” Sheffield chuckled.

  “I tend to agree, but there it is,” Holmes tossed off casually.

  “Yeah, no sense crying over rules and regulations, I guess,” Sheffield agreed. “C’mon, let’s give you the two-buck tour.”

  And they were off.

  * * *

  Skye spent most of the day as an elderly woman at the Baked Bean, sitting in the corner with a book and a cup of coffee, occasionally pretending to fall asleep in her chair. The fact no one knew her was no particular disadvantage; while the café had its regulars, it also had a steady influx of tourists, being located right down the street from several attractions, and along what Skye thought of as “boutique row.” She’d worked out an arrangement with her backup that day, so around mid-afternoon, a “family member” would come fetch “Grandma” to go back to the hotel. And so Skye sat and watched events, a voice-activated recorder secreted in a pocket.

  As usual, Jenkins came, ate lunch, and went. And as usual, the alternate backup trailed him to his house, ensuring he did in fact go home. Skye sighed, disappointed that so little was being uncovered, but aware t
hat patience was a hallmark of a good investigator.

  Around two-thirty in the afternoon, a young woman in her mid-twenties came into the café. She paused, looking around; spotted Skye and came straight to her.

  “Grandma! There you are! We’re ready to go. Mom sent me to find you. Did you have a good day?”

  “Yes, dear,” Skye croaked, taking the woman’s hand and rising shakily to her feet. “The coffee here is very good. Nice and hot. Are we going back to the hotel?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” The young woman offered her arm, and Skye took it, leaning heavily on the other woman. “C’mon, Grandma, let’s go. Grandpa will be waiting.”

  “Oh, good,” Skye beamed. “I missed him today.”

  “I know you did, honey,” the woman said, signaling the waitress, who scurried over with the tab. The younger woman paid it patiently, then led the doddering old lady out the door and down the sidewalk.

  Soon Skye and her backup were in the car, on the way back to the hotel.

  * * *

  “…And I’d like to introduce you to the head of our physics department, Professor Bartholomew Haines, Ph.D., Cornell University,” Sheffield said with pride. “Professor Haines, this is Commander Sigerson of the RAF. His wife and son are American, and they’re looking at sending the boy here next year.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Haines said genially, shaking Holmes’ hand vigorously. “I can assure you, sending your son here is an excellent decision.”

  Holmes sized the man up cautiously. Haines was tall, with the erect carriage of a military man. He was, perhaps, a few years older than Holmes, but was already going bald, with a significantly receded hairline above a high forehead, and patches of grey at the temples. His dark eyes were deep set and piercing. Here is a man of whom to be wary, Holmes decided instantly.

  Holmes had deliberately maneuvered himself into the department, concerned to see what might be there, given its presence on Skye’s list of suspicious phone numbers. Recalling that the cadet who tried to abduct Skye had an uncle on the faculty, Holmes decided a fishing expedition might be in order.

  All of these thoughts passed through the detective’s mind in the span of fractions of a second. So he answered Haines smoothly.