Baker Street Irregulars

by Michael A. Ventrella

  “We should probably—” I started, but Shirley wasn’t done.

  “What about the red dragon figurine? Was it broken?”

  “Several items were broken, including their red dragon, along with the pot containing a large plant, two chairs, and several trophies. But look, this is no longer about vandalism, this is homicide, and I’m going to have to request that you refrain from further investigation into these thefts.”

  Shirley’s phone made a buzzing noise. She held it up, peered at it, then stared right at Lestrade. I caught a glance at the screen, and it was from the same number as the woman from Pratt she’d contacted a little while ago.

  “If you wish to close this case, Detective, I suggest that you see if ‘Step’ here has any association with a young man whose name is Barry Harding.”

  With that, Shirley turned and walked back toward 105th Street.

  I gave Lestrade an apologetic shrug.

  “Jesus shit,” he muttered, and went back to the scene.

  • • •

  I assumed that was the end of it, but on Wednesday night, when I got back from the hospital, Shirley invited me out to the bagel place she and I both liked on 98th and Broadway. I agreed to go along. She brought along a small hand towel and a hammer, for some reason. I considered asking her about it, but then decided that if she did pack it, she intended to use it, and figured it’d be more fun to find out why at the right time.

  We stopped at an ATM along the way and she took out a hundred bucks.

  I figured it would be just the two of us, but both Lestrade and another guy who pretty much had “cop” tattooed on his forehead were sitting at one of the bagel place’s small round tables, cups of coffee in front of each of them. The other detective was a white guy wearing a butt-ugly suit. He had short hair and one of those mustaches you only saw on cops and 1970s porn stars.

  Lestrade did the honors. “Shirley, Jack, this is Detective Toby Gregson.”

  “How do you do, Detective?” Shirley said as she sat down in one of the two remaining chairs.

  “I’m doin’ great. Been hearin’ about G’s little friend who solved the ear thing for him.”

  “She didn’t solve it for me, she assisted,” Lestrade said defensively. “And she also led us to find Barry Harding and arrest him for the murder of Fred ‘Step’ Harkner.”

  “So he did do it?” I asked.

  Lestrade smiled. “So it would seem. Ultimately, it is the ADA’s problem to prove that. Regardless, Shirley saved me considerable time and effort to find him.”

  Gregson chuckled. “She did, huh? I dunno, she don’t look like much.”

  Shirley closed her eyes, sighed, and then said, “I would say you should not be fooled by appearances, but in truth, appearances can tell you everything if you know where to look. You, for example, are very recently divorced, and you also recently quit smoking, doubtless not for the first time. You live with an Irish setter who is getting rather aged, and you were born left-handed but trained yourself to write with your right hand.”

  Gregson looked over at Lestrade. “The fuck you tell this bitch about me?”

  “Nothing,” Lestrade said. “This is merely what she does.”

  “Okay, I get how you figured out Molly—that’s the dog, by the way, not the ex. That bitch sheds like a motherfucker, it’s prob’ly all over me. But what about the rest of it?”

  “Your left ring finger is discolored where your wedding ring used to be, and you fiddle with it as if you’re not used to it not being there. You are holding the coffee stirrer as if it was a cigarette, and your teeth are yellowed, but your breath contains none of the stench of cigarette smoke, nor that of any breath mints or mouthwash that might be used to cover it, so you have not smoked recently, but you used to, and have not adjusted to quitting. You wear a watch on your right hand and drink your coffee with your left, indicating that you’re left-handed, yet the calluses on your pinky finger and the side of your right hand, as well as the ink stains in that spot, indicates that you write with your right.”

  Nodding, Gregson said, “Not bad.”

  “I also assume the divorce is recent because you have oversaturated yourself with cologne, and your mustache is ill-trimmed, indicating that you are grooming yourself more often than you used to.”

  “All right, enough, I get it. I don’t blame you for usin’ her, G, if she can pick that shit up. Fuck the bosses, long as the case is closed, who gives a fuck how it’s done?”

  Shirley stared at him. “I would think it would matter a great deal if you wish to get a conviction.”

  “Yeah, if it actually gets anywhere near a fuckin’ courtroom. Most’a the time they plea out anyhow, so if they’re gonna skip past steps inna system, why shouldn’t we?”

  I was seriously worried that they were gonna go down a rabbit hole of the philosophy of policing, but we were saved by an African-American woman who approached the table.

  “’Scuse me, you Shirley Holmes?”

  “Yes. You must be Matilda Sandeford.”

  “Yeah. I brought the thing.” She dug around in her purse and pulled out something wrapped in tissue paper.

  When she unwrapped it, we all saw the sixth red dragon.

  Lestrade shook his head and chuckled. “That is what this is about? Shirley, we have closed a murder. Of what relevance are a few petty thefts?”

  “Petty thefts?” Sandeford asked.

  “Ignore him, please.” Shirley pulled out her wallet. “I believe the agreed-upon sum was a hundred dollars?”

  “Uh, yeah.” Sandeford hesitated. “Uh, look, lady, I gotta tell you—I only paid twenty-five for this thing. I mean, I like it and all, but I feel bad takin’ so much.”

  “Nonetheless, that is the sum we agreed upon.”

  “Hey, I’ll take the seventy-five, I just want you to know what you’re getting yourself into. It ain’t that nice a dragon.”

  “Perhaps, but the sum is worth it to me.”

  Shirley handed over the cash she’d gotten out of the ATM, and Sandeford handed over the red dragon.

  A server came outside and took our order. Sandeford said goodbye and left, and Shirley ordered some Assam tea while I ordered a coffee and a blueberry muffin.

  Once the server left, Gregson said, “What the fuck is all this?”

  Shirley set the figurine down on the table. “Barry Harding was a student at the Pratt Institute on a scholarship. He worked for much of the spring semester of last year as an intern to Liese Gelder, the sculptor who creates these figurines. She does them in resin, the molds for which deteriorate after two dozen casts, so she makes only twenty-four of each type, though every six casts, she changes the color of the resin she uses. Mr. Harding was arrested for assault and battery last March, pled guilty, and achieved parole after one year.”

  “We are aware of all this,” Lestrade said.

  “I wasn’t,” Gregson said. “Don’t know why anybody gives a fuck, though.”

  “There is reason for you to care, Detective Gregson, which I will explain shortly. It is my theory that, before he was arrested, Barry needed to hide an object where no one could find it, and so he placed it inside the red dragon that was being cast at the time. When he was released on parole, he went to Ms. Gelder’s workshop and operated her computer, likely obtaining sales records. He then sought out the red dragons, attempting to find the object he’d hidden. With no method of determining which of the six red ones he hid the object in, he stole each one and broke it, hoping to find the object inside. That was why he went down the street from Dr. Barnicot’s brownstone—the nearest street light on 89th Street was not functioning, and he needed light to perform his task.”

  “Still not seein’ the point’a this,” Gregson said.

  “Here is where we come to you, Detective, because—while he offered no testimony—the victim in Detective Lestrade’s case, ‘Step,’ was a witness to Mr. Harding’s assault, which took place around the corner from the Mehu Gallery. The victim of
Mr. Harding’s assault, to which he pled guilty, was a security guard who worked for the company that provided security to the Mehu Gallery—at least, up until the theft of the Borgatti Pearl, at which point the gallery dispensed with their services.”

  Gregson snorted. “Don’t blame ’em. Still not sure why I’m here, ’less this has to do with the theft of the pearl.”

  Shirley pulled the towel and hammer out her bag. She picked up the red dragon and wrapped the towel around it, then put it back down on the table. “Now that Ms. Sandeford is well away…”

  After pulling the hammer out of the bag, she started smashing the figurine. The two detectives flinched. I smiled inwardly—I knew there was gonna be something entertaining with the hammer.

  She unwrapped the towel to reveal a whole bunch of resin shards—and in the middle of them, a little black jewel.

  “Sweet goddamn holy motherfuck,” Gregson said.

  “Jesus shit,” Lestrade muttered.

  Shirley reached down and used a paper napkin to pick up the jewel. “Detective Gregson, I believe that this is the Borgatti Pearl.”

  Reaching into his suit jacket pocket, Gregson pulled out an evidence bag. “I do not fucking believe this. Over a year on this with a task force and the fuckin’ FBI, and it’s closed by some skinny chick.”

  “Hey,” I said with a grin, “Shirley ain’t just any skinny chick. She found the only one of the six dragons that hadn’t been smashed yet, and bought it off the owner so y’all could get your stone back.”

  As he gingerly put the pearl in the evidence bag, Gregson said, “I don’t care if she’s Ivanka fuckin’ Trump. I’m gonna need statements from both’a you—but first, G, I need to talk to your suspect.”

  “We both do.” Lestrade gulped down the rest of his coffee. “Forgive us, Shirley, Jack, but we must follow up on this new evidence immediately.”

  I helped the detectives gather up the shards of the red dragon statue in the towel and put it all in the evidence bag with the pearl. Chain of custody was a mess, since Shirley went and shattered it, but Lestrade seemed to think that just having the pearl in-hand would lead to a confession.

  Didn’t matter to me either way. All I really noticed was the last thing Gregson said before he and Lestrade headed back to the two-four:

  “I owe you one, kid.”

  The server finally came with my coffee and muffin and Shirley’s tea.

  After she put the food and drinks down, she said, “Um, are the two gentlemen coming back?”

  “They didn’t pay, did they?” I asked.

  “No.” The server sounded upset.

  Shirley waved a hand back and forth. “I will pay for all four orders.”

  I took a sip of my coffee and chuckled. “Guess they owe you more than one now.”

  “I believe the price of two cups of coffee is more than sufficient for the satisfaction of a job well done, Jack.”

  “Well, that, and a hundred bucks for a statue you don’t even get to keep.”

  “That is hardly an issue, as I find the figurines to be hideous. Nonetheless, the problem is solved.”

  I held up my coffee. “To solving two cases at once.”

  Shirley nodded and held up her own tea.

  After she took a sip, she actually smiled.

  It was kinda funny looking—her face didn’t look right, and I was hoping she’d stop soon.

  But then, being forced to look at her smile was a small price to pay for getting her to smile in the first place.

  The Adventure of the Diode Detective

  BY

  Jody Lynn Nye

  Tanisha Tero-Lomitz patted the household security activator with an affectionate hand as she prepared to exit the apartment.

  “Be good and take care of everything!” she said. “Seal up after me, will you?”

  Sure-Lock Home’s red eyelight beside the apartment’s main door warmed up to a glow.

  “Of course, mistress. Your transport is at the bottom of the motivator ramp.”

  Tanisha’s generous mouth twitched up at the corners.

  “All you had to do was say the cab was here, goofy.”

  “Precision prevents confusion,” Sure-Lock replied, imperturbably. “Please be careful.”

  “I am!”

  The security computer scanned her, ensuring that her deep brown skin and curly black hair had been sprayed with an environmental protectant. The pollution index reported high levels of toxic fumigens in the lower atmosphere. Tanisha’s clothing, a floating dress that hugged her curves to the upper hip and matching high-soled sandals in electric blue, was studded with tiny lights. They added to the appeal of the garment, but also provided proximity warnings in case objects approached her too rapidly. Her shoes contained a variety of security devices to move her out of harm’s way or approved minor armaments to defend her if necessary. She had, however, a tendency to kick off the footwear when she was dancing, a practice Sure-Lock had been at pains to train her to cease. One item on its internal check list turned red.

  “Where is your laser-proof camisole?” Sure-Lock asked.

  “Will you stop scanning my underwear?” Tanisha demanded, lowering her brows at the red light. “I’m only going to a club!”

  A rectangular blue light illuminated on the doorpost, accompanied by a blaring noise: the taxi’s warning signal. She had ninety seconds to meet it or it would drive off, the carriage contract cancelled.

  “That’s it,” she said. “I have to go.” She moved decidedly toward the portal. Sure-Lock allowed the autosensors to open the door and close it securely behind her.

  “It irks me that she goes out without taking us along,” Sure-Lock said, one of its multiple camera eyes following the young woman’s progress down the moving ramp to the pickup level. Brooklyn historically had a reputation as a reasonably safe neighborhood, but it would never do to lower one’s guard. The stubby yellow autovehicle’s transmitted designation matched the reservation number. Sure-Lock watched to make certain that no strange human or other device was within range of Tanisha during the moment she walked unprotected from the doorway to the car.

  “Eh?” asked Dr. What’s-On?, its computerized consciousness surfacing from a perusal of the weekend entertainment offerings on Earth, the Moon, Mars, and the asteroid belt. “I reserved her transport up and back, and a place in the nightclub. She is in good health and good spirits, eminently suitable for an evening out at her chosen activity. I chose this club because it has exclusive activities planned that fit her interests and social group. What else does she need?”

  “She will not necessarily be protected adequately,” Sure-Lock replied, its circuits heating. “We are available as apps to accompany her on her personal communication device. We should notify her parent as to her noncompliance.”

  “She’s of full adult age as of last week,” What’s-On? said, attempting to calm its fellow home-service robot. “It is her choice to forego all the security measures.”

  “I do not like it,” Sure-Lock replied. “To acquire adulthood is to take responsibility for one’s own safety.”

  “Or to forego it,” What’s-On? said indulgently. “She is young and has a prominent public profile. Still, she has her autoprotective devices on her, and the club is well-known to have superior security. Any attempt at assault or abduction will cause roboguards to move in to defuse the situation. She will be safe.”

  Sure-Lock did not argue further with its fellow program. Instead, it checked and rechecked every feature of the luxury apartment and incorporated its findings with the apartment building’s master firmware. Tanisha had done an excellent job of programming the interface. No obstructions prevented Sure-Lock from inspecting every circuit, every appliance, every feature, wired or wireless throughout its domain. The young human’s talents were admirable, for an ephemeral. From Sure-Lock’s scans, emails, and photo-contacts that she received every day, her work put her in demand worldwide. Sure-Lock was an adaptation of an existing home-security
application by the same name, refined far beyond the millions of others in use system-wide. Knowing that made it all the more illogical that Tanisha herself would not install it and What’s-On? onto her personal device. It would only discover that she had fallen into danger when her body alarms were triggered.

  Dr. What’s-On?, programmed to be expansive and social, attempted to appease its colleague by offering to show it social listings for the next evening and ask its opinion. Sure-Lock, utterly disinterested in human events, pulled back all its functions to its small CPU, a tiny black rectangle, the size of an old-time matchbox, embedded in the sitting room ceiling.

  Its companion was probably correct. Tanisha had issued forth from her apartment and returned many times without incident. Sure-Lock could not help but brood over the many scenarios that would require its intervention, how it would remedy them, and how frustrating it was to have to rely upon other programs to fulfill its responsibility on the outside.

  “I’m home!” Tanisha called from the foyer, needlessly of course, as Sure-Lock had already surmised this fact from the arrival of the yellow robocab at the curb. The house software prepared to answer back as it had been programmed to do, but further input caused the response not to be issued. Tanisha was not alone.

  In the foyer, a young man, not much taller than her petite height of 154.9 centimeters, had her pressed against the inside wall, his hands searching her body as his mouth explored the smooth flesh visible above the neckline of her blouse. Her hands gripped the door frame tightly, and her head rolled from side to side.

  Escort? Sure-Lock sent to What’s-On? in silent mode.

  Not registered as one, the entertainment program replied. Hmm.

  What is wrong?

  My facial recognition software does not place him in the database. Nor is anyone with an appearance within fifteen percent of variable on the pending list. I would say, however, What’s-On? mused after a few moments of Tanisha moaning in pleasure, that he has had the requisite training or its equivalent.