alt.sherlock.holmes

by Gini Koch

  I had no time to be shocked that she’d let her gun be taken away. I was too busy being shocked by who was in front of me.

  There was no time to think, really. He wasn’t going to grandstand. He was going to shoot Holmes dead with her own gun, wipe it, and then still rape and murder Alisa. So I didn’t think. I did what I’d done before, in Afghanistan. I emptied the clip into him.

  “NICELY DONE, WATSON, thank you,” Holmes said a little breathlessly, as I reached them and she shoved her gun away from his hand and then retrieved it. “Can you please check on Alisa? I don’t think he had time to drug her, but he did have time to hit her.”

  “I’m okay,” Alisa said, sounding shaky, as she joined us. “I thought...”

  “That you were the next Campus Queen contestant,” Holmes said. “Yes, I know. You’ve had that invitation for a week, haven’t you?”

  Alisa nodded. “I got it last Friday.”

  “And you managed not to tell anyone, because if you had, it was goodbye to your shot on Campus Queen. It was brilliant, really. A tour de force example of utilizing all the elements available to you.”

  “He’s a murdering rapist,” Alisa snapped.

  “Always appreciate intelligence, young lady. It will help you, in your later life. Which you’re lucky to be able to look forward to having. And strictly speaking, he was a murdering rapist; now, he’s a dead monster.”

  I flipped the man over, to be sure. I stared, still shocked. David Corey’s glassy eyes stared back at me. “David? But... why? And how?”

  Holmes was on her phone. “Yes. Yes, the pharmaceuticals rep. Right, the dump. Yes, thank you, the sooner the better.” She hung up. “Lee’s on his way. Why is simple, Watson. I already told you. He was doing this to hurt you.”

  “Why me?”

  “You had what he wanted. A medical degree from an extremely impressive university, a job with all those lovely single ladies—none of whom were giving him the time of day, other than when they were waiting to see you—and a hero’s reputation.”

  “But... he was my friend. He wanted to room together.”

  “No, he was a psychopath who’d created a dangerous and unnatural fixation on you. He wanted to ensure you didn’t somehow take a roommate before he could complete his killing spree and frame-up, because you having an alibi would ruin his plans. Per Mrs. Hudson, Mr. Corey had applied for the position you ended up filling, but since his degree in medicine was from an unaccredited college, New London refused his application.”

  “He always visited me the day of my hazardous wastes pickup.”

  “Yes, and always took the time to speak to Howard, who is a nice man, though not a very observant one. The used condoms were therefore tossed into a hazardous waste bin, meaning they weren’t going to be found.”

  “Did he bring all the girls to the dump to attack them?”

  “Most likely. Because of Campus Queen, all the girls were prepared to get bizarre and highly suspicious invitations to go someplace remarkably dangerous alone and, also because of the show’s secrecy policy, without telling a single living soul about it. In other words, he had an open field of choices and an easy way to fool them. Rape and murder her at the dump on a clean tarp, wrap her in heavy duty plastic when done, dispose of the tarp somewhere at the next dump area, transport the girl’s dead body to a random site, and move on to the next.”

  “So forensics would only find the tarp traces, nothing else. What about the steroids?”

  “That was done to implicate you and LaBonte both, just in case you had a clear alibi. LaBonte wants to win, and all the girls know it. It wouldn’t take a lot to suspect he’d had them juicing, or used it as a way to get them to a secluded place alone. Corey here had access to drugs.” She shrugged. “And for all we know, framing LaBonte was his backup plan. I’m sure he had one. At least one.”

  “This car, it isn’t his.”

  “He only came to New London in his company car. This one is his personal car that he kept in a garage nowhere near his house. A garage that doesn’t require a code for entry, by the way, just a key. And has no video surveillance.”

  “How did you find all this out? You’d had to have had suspicions earlier than today.”

  “I knew he was the killer when I met you,” Holmes said. “Howard was a possibility, of course. Only those two were here only at the day and time when one of the murdered girls visited you. You pointed that out to me,” she said to Alisa, as the sound of police sirens reached us. “So thank you.”

  “Oh, my God; no, thank you.” Alisa heaved a shuddering sigh. “So, I’m not a Campus Queen candidate after all, am I?”

  “You will be,” Holmes said. “I’ve already arranged it. Under the circumstances, I can guarantee that Mister Jackson will have you.”

  “You have? Why?” Alisa sounded as shocked as I felt.

  Holmes shrugged. “I’m something of a reality TV addict. You gave me the one clue I needed. I’d like to both thank you for that, and have someone I know personally to root for.”

  Alisa gaped, then flung her arms around Holmes. “You’re so awesome!”

  As they hugged, Holmes caught my eye. She was once again trying not to laugh. “Happier about landing a spot on the show than being alive. Ah, Southern California.”

  The police arrived before I could comment.

  “NOW WHAT?” I asked Holmes, once we were done briefing Straude and a rather disappointed Saunders on what had happened. “I mean, when are you going back to New York or London?”

  She looked around. “I rather like it here. Lee’s convinced his superiors that I’m an asset the L.A.P.D. should be holding onto, and they’ve offered a very generous retainer while also allowing me to pursue cases on my own, which is better than the arrangement I had in New York. Did you know that Mrs. Hudson owns a duplex in Santa Monica? She lives in one half and rents the other. Each side has two bedrooms and two bathrooms, with shared kitchen, dining, and living rooms. On Baker Street. Nice little neighborhood, close to everything, but still private.”

  “No, I didn’t. Santa Monica is rent-controlled. The waiting list must be extreme.”

  Holmes shrugged. “It depends on who you are. I quite like her, and she appears to have taken a shine to me, just as she has to you.” She looked at me. “I can afford to rent it by myself, but I don’t enjoy living alone. I lived with my brother in London, which is why I moved to New York. My... roommate in New York didn’t work out, for a variety of reasons. However, I’ve never actually tried living with a friend. That’s how most people do it, isn’t it?”

  “If I’m understanding your insinuation correctly, you realize I don’t have a job anymore, don’t you? I can’t possibly stay here, not after all of this. The moment it comes out that David was doing this to harm me, I’ll be asked to leave for the safety of the girls, just in case another lunatic fixates on me. I’ll be the scapegoat to make New London safe for its students again. And the notoriety isn’t going to help me land another position any time soon.”

  “That depends on what position you’re looking for. And I think you’re selling a campus that gleefully welcomed a reality TV show short.” She shrugged. “However, you’re open to leaving without a fight because you don’t love medicine, Watson. People who love medicine don’t keep files on murders and try to solve them, nor do they enthusiastically participate in the pursuit and capture of a dangerous serial killer.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “However, there are people who do that on a regular basis. We call them detectives.” She smiled. It looked good on her. “And I’d like to offer you the position of partner. From what Lee tells me, I’m going to be very busy here. Your military and medical background will be most helpful to me. And... it’s always good to have someone I can trust watching my back. Plus, it’s just such a relief to hear someone, anyone, who doesn’t murder the Queen’s English every other sentence.”

  I couldn’t help myself, I grinned. “Then, I’m your man.”


  “And, as you’ll learn, Watson, I always get my man.”

  a study

  in starlets

  MY FRIEND AND roommate, Sherlock Holmes, looked out our front window and heaved a sigh. “The mail’s here,” she said in a voice of total doom. “Can you fetch it, Watson?”

  “What are you expecting that’s got you so depressed?” I asked, standing to accommodate her request.

  “Nothing. Not one single solitary thing of interest.”

  “Ah. Well, perhaps you’re wrong this time.”

  “When, truly, am I ever wrong?”

  She had a point. We hadn’t known each other all that long, but in the time we had, Sherlock had never been mistaken. If I didn’t admire her so, it would have been extremely annoying.

  Sherlock was a consultant for the L.A.P.D. From the way she was acting, you’d have thought the entire Los Angeles basin had given up crime. On the contrary, business, in that sense, was booming.

  But the cases weren’t challenging for her. For the police and the rest of us, yes, they were complex. For a mind like Sherlock’s they were mundane, and quickly solved. So she’d been bored, but at least occupied. But this week we hadn’t had a single case that needed her—not even an easy one.

  Some people would straighten the house, go shopping, get caught up on their reading, even just lounge about. Sherlock was a reality TV addict—emphasis on addict. She watched reality TV the same way cokeheads snorted down lines. She recorded every show on every channel, even the ones with no budgets or sets of any kind. She even watched all the commercials; a different sort of madness, in my opinion.

  I found every single show appalling in some way, and the less said about the commercials the better, but she said they showed her a tremendous amount about human nature as well as theatrical artifice. And she found the commercials entertaining.

  So she’d spent these quiet days in front of the TV watching what felt like every single reality show in existence, muttering about the lack of mental stimulation and cursing the criminal classes all the while. No one was hoping for an interesting case to turn up—of any kind—more than I was.

  I went down the walk to the mailbox, doing my best to both take my time and observe all that was going on around me. We shared a duplex with our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, who worked at New London, an all-girls’ college. I’d worked at New London, too, as the school’s physician, until the case where Sherlock and I had met.

  Baker Street was a nice, quiet, tree-lined street in Santa Monica. Sherlock enjoyed living here, most of the time, but sometimes I wondered if she missed London and New York, simply because they were so much more manic. She thrived on levels of stimulation that would make others go mad, and this part of Santa Monica tended to be serene. I loved it, but then again, after combat, serenity was a blessing.

  As predicted, there was nothing in our mail other than bills and promotional flyers. As a courtesy, I always brought Mrs. Hudson’s mail up to her screen door. She told me she appreciated not having to take the extra steps down to the mailbox after a long day of listening to the Dean complain about the student body and the student body complain about everything, particularly how far away from young men they were.

  I perused Mrs. Hudson’s mail, just in case. Nothing of note there, either. Sherlock was going to go into a sulk for certain.

  I tucked Mrs. Hudson’s mail into the wrought iron on her screen door, right in between the 221 and A, then took one last look around before I went inside 221B and faced the whining.

  As I did so, something caught my eye. A car. Not that cars were a rarity in Southern California—I was the rarity, in that I didn’t possess one. But this car didn’t fit our street. We rarely saw limousines on Baker Street.

  The limo pulled up in front of our duplex, filling the curb space in between the two driveways. The driver got out—he was dressed as I’d seen limo drivers on TV dressed, complete with cap. I’d taken a few limos from the airport now, thanks to working with Sherlock, and none of those drivers wore caps or three piece suits. Either the person in the back had money or they wanted everyone to think they did.

  The driver opened the curbside door and the passenger stuck a leg out—a slim, pale, incredibly attractive leg wearing a black platform stiletto. The rest of the body that followed it was also quite attractive.

  The woman was a brunette, with her hair piled up in a way that looked casual but which I knew took time to do. She was in a red and gold short-sleeved kimono dress that went to mid-thigh and had slits on each side. She wore bracelets on both wrists that glittered in the sun and carried a black clutch.

  She was, quite frankly, possibly the most attractive woman I’d ever seen.

  She sashayed up our walk. “Mister Sherlock Holmes?” Her voice was like honey.

  “Ah, no. No, I’m sorry, I’m not. I’m Doctor John Watson. I work with Sherlock.” She had perfect features. She was also vaguely familiar. Maybe I’d seen her in a dream.

  “Ah.” She smiled. “Is he in?”

  “What? Oh, yes.” I opened the door and ushered her inside. “However, he is—”

  “Not a ‘he,’” Sherlock said. She was leaning against the frame where the hallway opened up into our living room. She was a tall woman and, even around the house, she tended to wear shoes that made her just a bit taller. “Which I’m certain you already knew.”

  Sherlock was dressed in all grey, as was her fashion. She never admitted it, but I knew it was to bring out her eyes, which were a piercing grey, through which her great intellect blazed.

  Under normal circumstances. Right now, all I saw blazing was disdain and dislike. And I had no idea why.

  The woman’s lips quirked. “No, I didn’t.”

  “You don’t lie exceptionally well. Somewhat a problem in your profession, isn’t it?”

  The woman laughed, one of those tinkling laughs that we men tended to like. I certainly did. “I only lie onscreen, Missus Holmes.”

  “Miz. And you are?”

  I had the distinct impression Sherlock already knew who the woman was. I didn’t, however, though the word ‘onscreen’ was a clue. I made a mental note to find all of her films.

  “Miss Irene Adler.” She smiled at me. “I’m very single and not afraid to admit it.”

  “Can’t imagine why.” I felt myself flush—I hadn’t intended to speak aloud.

  She tinkled another laugh. “Aren’t you charming? Please, call me Irene.”

  Sherlock rolled her eyes. “So, what can we do for you, Miss Adler?”

  “I’ve lost something quite valuable. Excuse me, but would it be alright if we sat down somewhere? Or do you do all your consultations in your hallway?”

  “The ones I’m uninterested in, yes.”

  Irene’s eyes opened wider. “But... you haven’t heard what I’ve lost. And I’m willing to pay you very well.”

  “I’m sure you are, at least based on your grand entrance. However, I’m not interested in anything you have to say.”

  Irene’s lower lip trembled. “They said you were the best. And I need the best.”

  “How nice of ‘them.’ They’re right, and I’m sure you feel you do. Since you’re not able to go to the police, a standard private investigator should be able to help you find whatever you’ve lost.”

  Irene gaped at her. “How did you know I don’t want police involvement?”

  “Because you said ‘they’ referred you to me. Had you gone to the police, you’d have led with that, not a vague pronoun. Good day, Miss Adler. John, please escort the lady back to her limousine. I’m sure the rental is costing her a fortune.”

  Irene stood there for a moment. Then her demeanor changed. The grand airs were gone—the woman standing there, while still beautiful, suddenly appeared far less ethereal and far more real. “Look... I need your help. Please. I borrowed... something and it’s been stolen. I can’t afford to pay for it, and I’m going to lose everything if it’s not returned.”

  “Especia
lly since you’ll be assumed to have stolen it, since you had it at your home, and your home shows no signs of forced entry. Again, hire a private investigator.”

  “How did you know that?” Irene asked. I was curious myself.

  Sherlock rolled her eyes. “You haven’t gone to the police. If there was a break-in or a robbery, then you wouldn’t be bothering me, you’d be batting your eyelashes at someone in uniform. That you’re here, speaking about something ‘lost,’ indicates that there’s no evidence of theft, meaning you’ll be accused.”

  “But how did you know I had it at my home?”

  “Because anywhere else would mean other potential perpetrators. You’re single, as you made quite clear. There’s no one but you to look to as the likely thief of whatever ‘it’ is.”

  “That’s right, all of it.”

  “What a surprise. I know. Again, a private investigator would be, I’m sure, thrilled to have your case.”

  “Why won’t you help me?” Irene asked rather pitifully.

  Sherlock shot her an icy look. “I don’t work for people I don’t like.”

  “That was the show! I was supposed to be the villain! I’m not like that in real life.”

  “Ah, I hate to sound uninformed,” I interjected, before Sherlock could give the scathing reply I could literally see forming, “but what show is this?”

  “Campus Queen: Tulane,” Irene replied.

  “The first season of the show,” Sherlock added. “Miss Adler there spent much of her time sneaking around destroying other contestants’ clothes. She also went so far as to steal someone’s invitation.”

  “They asked me to,” Irene said, somewhat desperately. “The show wasn’t working, there wasn’t enough drama. Cliff came to me and said that I had the most onscreen personality. He begged me to do all that. It helped, too.”