by Eva Chase
“Oh?” I said. “But if we’re caught…”
A flicker of disappointment and maybe a little wariness crossed the detective’s handsome face. His gaze turned downright piercing. He’d expected me to be committed enough to solving this crime to jump right in.
“If we play our cards right, we won’t be caught,” he said. “Unless you’re not willing to take that gamble to find the answers you’ve been searching for?”
The question had the feel of a test. I had to walk a fine line between hiding my true motivations and keeping his good will. He’d be even more wary if I suddenly charged ahead after my initial hesitation.
“It’s just not my usual approach,” I hedged, buying myself a little time.
John grinned at his friend, his hazel eyes lit with fondness. It wasn’t really me he was here to support—for him, this was all about his friend. “Sherlock’s methods may not be entirely conventional, but he’s never dragged me into danger we couldn’t get out of. If you’re not comfortable coming along, we can handle it between the two of us.”
I pretended to waver for a moment longer. Then I exhaled in a sigh. “No. It’s my case. If we’re taking risks for it, I should be a part of that. What exactly is your plan, Sherlock?”
The detective studied me as if judging whether to accept my involvement after all. Then he shifted his attention to John. “Do you have a flash drive on you?”
At the other man’s nod, Sherlock rubbed his hands together. “You’ll be a gentleman interested in joining the club. His long-term girlfriend has her doubts. The management will bring you into the offices to see about registering, and then an unfortunate incident will draw them out of the room to make sure nothing jeopardizes the club’s reputation in the eyes of the young lady. Simple as anything.”
Exactly what I wanted to hear. And once he had the membership file, I could hope that it would be simple enough for him to identify my mark and dredge up one crime or another to pin him with. All I needed was the guy in custody for a day or two, and that would be enough of a window to make my real move, no further tactics necessary.
John set his broad hand on the small of my back. “Just follow my lead, and we’ll be in and out in a matter of minutes,” he said, so warmly confident I expected anyone would have gone along with him, a shrouded one’s claim hanging over their heads or not.
I dragged in a breath as if from nerves. My actual nerves were tingling with exhilaration. In a matter of minutes, I might be nearly through with this mission. It’d be bye-bye to Bog without him or the men I’d used being any wiser.
Then I could get on with my real work. When I was finished with the shrouded folk, those ghostly creeps would never hurt another innocent soul like my sister again.
“All right,” I said. “Let’s do it.”
Sherlock hung back as we started across the street. John whipped a strip of hair that matched the golden-blond stuff on his head out of his jacket pocket and patted it onto the skin beneath his nose. I arched an eyebrow at him with honest amusement.
“Do you always keep a fake moustache on you?”
He turned his grin on me. “Sometimes two or three. It has to be the right one for the occasion. Shall I take your arm? We’d better look the part.”
I let him tuck his free hand around my elbow and dug into my purse so I could pop a sugar cube into my mouth. The pure sweetness dissolving over my tongue sharpened my concentration—and I wanted to be doubly sharp for this encounter.
We sauntered up the steps outside the club. Even from the door, the place stank of rich men: cigar smoke and fine scotch. The doorman held up his hand to stop us at the edge of the thick crimson carpet.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “but the lady may not enter.”
“Well, now,” John said in a snooty voice that matched the awful moustache. “I understand that she won’t be joining me on regular occasions, but I’ve come to ask about acquiring a membership, and my darling has a few questions to set her mind at ease. Surely she can’t harm anything by merely stepping over the threshold. We wished to speak to the manager—she won’t stray beyond his office.”
The doorman frowned, but he ducked inside. When he returned a moment later with a gaunt man in a full suit, presumably the manager, John pulled his considerable frame taller with a raise of his chin.
“Is this how you treat all interested parties—leaving them to catch a chill on the doorstep? My cousin owns half the newspapers in this city, you know. I’m sure he’d like to hear about—”
“Sir, sir, no need for distress,” the manager broke in, a hair shy of wringing his hands. He beckoned us in with a nervous glance around as if he thought my feminine presence in the front hall might bring the building collapsing down around our ears. “Cavalier’s is pleased that you’re considering joining our establishment. I’d be happy to address any concerns your charming partner has.”
I stroked my hand down the side of John’s arm as if in a loving caress. Whoa there. He might have looked like a sweet golden retriever of a man, but he was hiding a good bit of muscle under the softness.
He still had that pompous look pasted on his face, but I thought a glimmer of heat sparked in his eyes at my touch. An excellent start in case I did need to resort to my more complicated alternate plan.
“I just don’t see how a place like this can be anything other than backwards when you have such outdated policies about women,” I said, giving the manager a tight smile. “It’s like you must be getting up to antics you wouldn’t want us knowing about.”
The manager smiled back just as tightly. He ushered us into his office where a laptop and various papers sat on a mahogany desk, surrounded by built-in bookshelves lined with leather-bound volumes I’d have bet half my accumulated fortune he’d never even opened. We sat on leather chairs that based on their patina were only slightly less old.
“I assure you, miss, that nothing at all inappropriate goes on within these walls,” the manager said, sinking down across from us. “Our policy is simply a tradition that we’ve found many members enjoy keeping up. A sort of bonding within our gender. I’m sure you can understand that.”
I rubbed my hand against my mouth. “I suppose. What sort of activities do you host here, then?”
“Most of our members simply stop by for a short span of relaxation—a drink, a smoke, a browse through the day’s papers. We offer all the local publications as well as several international ones.” His gaze flicked to John in memory of the comment about his supposed cousin. “We have a room for card games and another for watching sports matches. Our focus is the comfort of our clientele while they’re with us.”
“See, darling,” John said, patting my hand. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Well, all right. Why don’t you go ahead and do this registration—but I might think of more questions I want to ask.”
The manager looked both relieved and horrified at the same time. He opened up his laptop and tapped on the keyboard. “Have you already been apprised of the fees, Mr…?”
“Yes,” John said. “And it’s Eric—Eric Freeman.”
“Right. I’ll need to see some ID, and then we’ll go over the requirements. You may need to send in documentation of—”
A hoarse voice carried through the door, bellowing out a raunchy song that within its first few lines managed to describe a woman’s genitalia and the uses the singer felt they might be put to solely through nautical metaphors. It was actually rather creative.
That had to be Sherlock providing our distraction. I made myself stiffen in my seat, and the manager blanched.
“What on Earth is that?” I demanded.
The manager shot out of his chair. “I assure you that cannot be anyone who ought to be in this building. I’ll see that the disturbance is removed immediately.”
I caught John’s eye as the other man fled the room. He looked as if he was suppressing a laugh. The second the door had thumped shut behind the manager, he leapt a
round the desk so smoothly you could hardly tell he needed a cane. He whipped out a silver flash drive and plugged it in.
“Membership file… Bingo!” He beamed at me around the laptop. “You were perfect. Are you sure you haven’t done this sort of thing before?”
I let myself offer a small smirk. “Not in the line of duty I haven’t…”
He chuckled and clicked on the trackpad. The hoarse singer was still caterwauling away, but his voice was getting fainter. The club’s security must be managing to oust him. We didn’t have much more time.
“Have you got it?” I asked, with an urgency I didn’t need to feign. If we were caught, he and Sherlock might give up on this line of inquiry. He had to get that list.
“There we go. But here’s a folder of minutes from meetings of the board as well…” He dragged it over.
“John,” I protested. “We didn’t come here for that. The manager will be back any second.”
John glanced up again, his face lit up in a way I hadn’t seen before. For an instant, he had the look of a junkie who’d just shot up his favorite drug. Then it was gone, and he was his regular grinning self again.
Interesting. Despite the jangling of my nerves, I filed that moment away for future reference.
“There could be something useful in there,” he said. “I don’t want to leave until we have everything Sherlock needs to break open this case for you.”
The floor creaked on the other side of the door. John sprang up. He yanked the drive from the computer and dropped into his chair beside me a second before the manager stalked inside.
“I do apologize for the disruption,” the manager started, but John was already pushing back to his feet. I followed suit.
“I apologize too,” John said, with a respectful bob of his head. “I may have wasted your time. I have to say I’m having doubts now about whether this establishment is quite the right fit. Good day to you.”
As we hustled out, I could still see the excited light dancing in his eyes, bright as his hair.
Maybe his participation in this scheme wasn’t just about his devotion to Sherlock. Maybe Dr. John Watson got off on investigations like this in ways all his own.
Chapter Four
Jemma
I didn’t have to wait long for results. The London trio caught up with me in the hotel dining room the next morning just as I’d reached the pastry table.
“You slept well enough,” Sherlock said without preamble—not a question but a statement of fact. “Grab something quick for your breakfast. We have a lot to discuss.”
That gave me an excuse to indulge my sweet tooth. Banana muffin? Raspberry sweet roll? Cinnamon-pecan bun? Yes, yes, yes, please.
I balanced my plate in one hand and gripped my mug of coffee with the other as the detective led the way out of the dining room and into a lounge area down the hall. There, a linen loveseat and armchairs surrounded a broad oak coffee table.
Sherlock dropped a bulging file folder onto the polished table top and paced from one end of the loveseat to the other. John propped himself against the loveseat’s arm. Garrett took the nearest chair, sipping his own coffee and setting a small notepad on one knee.
I sank into one of the armchairs too, taking a bite of my raspberry roll. Fuck, that was good—the perfect balance of doughy and fruitily sweet. Would it draw unwanted attention if I ate nothing but these for every meal?
“What’s that?” I asked with a nod to the folder.
Sherlock set off on another pace back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back and his lean face solemn, though his cool blue eyes were starkly alert. “I went over the membership records for Cavalier’s as soon as I had the chance. It took barely any time at all to narrow down the list to one name. A Stefan Richter has been a member there for twenty-three years. He also recently spent a few weeks in Munich, departing on the same night as your councilor was murdered.”
Oh, good work, good work—all the applause. I restrained my smile and cocked my head. “That is a pretty big coincidence. Is there any other reason to suspect he’d commit a murder?”
Garrett motioned to the file folder with the pen he was holding. “Only the stack of reports I was able to dig up through police channels.” He hadn’t relaxed into the chair but sat there tensed. Something about this situation unsettled him. “This Richter has been on a lot of people’s radar.”
I widened my eyes. “If he’s got that thick a record, why is he still walking free?”
“It’s not a real record,” Sherlock said. “No police department aware of his various exploits across Europe has ever been able to make a charge stick. I supplemented Garrett’s findings with my own private research. The man has many hobbies—women, gambling, historic art and artifacts—and he tends to take first and make amends later if someone complains. Generally with a large pay-off to ensure no one presses charges.”
Disgust colored his voice. Good to see we had similar feelings about our target.
Garrett gave Sherlock a disgruntled look as if he felt he’d been interrupted. He ran his hand—and the pen in it—through his short fawn-brown hair. “There have been investigations both here in London and in various cities abroad. He’s been under suspicion of theft and extortion, but no one’s been able to gather enough proof to really pin something on him. Evidence disappears, witnesses refuse to talk… He even sued the Paris police department once for supposed harassment to get them to back off.”
“All that said, this is a little unusual, isn’t it?” John said. “For a long-time criminal to suddenly leap from mainly property crimes to a violent act like murder?”
“Perhaps,” Sherlock said, “but from what I gathered, there are plenty of women across the continent who could testify that he has no shortage of violent urges. If he was backed into a corner, he’d lash out however he could.”
“Or he might not have committed the crime himself,” Garrett pointed out. “It could have been a lackey.”
The consulting detective made a dismissive sound. “As John pointed out so succinctly on examining the body, it was a crime of passion. A lackey with no personal stakes carrying out a premeditated murder would have used a method other than bludgeoning. Richter was provoked in some way and responded with a burst of rage. That much should be obvious to anyone.”
John’s posture pulled a little straighter at the recognition. Garrett’s grew stiffer. He scribbled something in his notepad with terse jerks of his pen.
Watching the three of them, their working dynamic came into even sharper focus. Sherlock strode ahead in the lead with his arrogant certainty, John tagged along performing for scraps of praise, and Garrett trailed behind, not fully part of the team, always knowing that when he solved one of his cases, he couldn’t take the full credit for the job well done.
The knowledge that Sherlock continually stayed a few steps ahead ate at him, didn’t it? It wasn’t enough for him to solve the crime and bring the perpetrator to justice—he wanted to have been the one with the right answers. I took that in with a stirring of uncomfortable memories.
I knew what it was like to feel every interaction with your peers was a competition. To be driven by the need to prove yourself better than all of them.
That need had nearly gotten me eaten alive.
I wet my lips. I might still find myself eaten alive if I didn’t keep this trio on track. “Whatever Richter’s reasons, is there any real chance of bringing him to justice for the murder while he’s in London? I don’t have any authorization to pursue him—and all the evidence of the murder is back in Freising.”
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively and resumed his pacing. “Richter has had his fingers in enough corrupt pies right here that there must be some angle we can use to solidify a case. Bring him in on a local charge, and then ‘discover’ his connection to your case and reach out to your department. Nothing simpler.”
“Sure,” Garrett said. “And where are you going to start this incredibly simple process?”
Sherlock cocked his head. “I’d like to have a look inside his private offices. The police may not have managed to get access, but I’m sure it can be arranged with the right approach.” He smiled like he had when he’d talked about conning Cavalier’s to get their member list.
I clasped my hands together on my lap with a nervous twitch. “Are you sure that would be worth the risk? He’s apparently killed one man who messed with him already.”
“I know how to handle myself,” Sherlock said.
“It’s not just him… It sounds like you’re talking about breaking the law.”
His breath came out in a faint huff. “I take the chances I need to. Obtaining the facts is more important than any emotional concepts of morality.”
A man after my own heart—or rather, my mind.
Sherlock cast his gaze toward Garrett. “No need for you to worry about that aspect, of course—your participation won’t be necessary.”
Garrett took a gulp of his coffee, his fingers gripping the handle tight. “I’m not completely seeing why you should be participating that far.” He glanced at me. “The murder happened hundreds of miles away. Why are we getting so wrapped up in solving this woman’s case for her?”
“Garrett,” John said in a pacifying tone, but Sherlock had already raised his chin imperiously.
“The situation goes far beyond Miss Moriarty’s case. This man has gotten away with innumerable crimes, and we have a chance to shut him down once and for all. You of all people should be concerned with that. If your police force had conducted itself more effectively, he wouldn’t have been walking around Freising ready to murder a man in the first place.”
A flush flooded Garrett’s face. He slammed his mug down on the table so hard a little of the liquid sloshed over the sides. Shoving his notepad into his pocket, he sprang to his feet.
“Then I’ll check in with you when you’re in a less needling mood,” he said, and stalked toward the doorway.
