“I’m so glad your concern isn’t at all misplaced. Who’s this?” I waved a photograph of a short man with rosy-red cheeks, a ponytail, and a Star Wars t-shirt. He reminded me of Comic Book Guy from the Simpsons except with a beautiful smile and kind eyes.
“That’s Dave Danvers, Kate’s husband,” said Sherlock. “He was the first person I looked into, but by all accounts, he was a loving and devoted husband, and he has no ties to Moriarty’s criminal underworld.”
“Kate did seem to still like him,” Morrie mused. “She got this goofy look in her eyes when she talked about him. I think she said she was doing thisforhim, so maybe they had money troubles. She did ask me to make certain he’d receive her life insurance after she was gone.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s innocent.” I turned to Sherlock. “Does he have an alibi for the murder?”
“How should I know?” Sherlock scoffed. “The murder isn’t the important part – the fact that this murder was staged to frame Moriarty is the focus of my investigation.”
“You mean,ourinvestigation. Morrie and I are in this. This is his life and liberty at stake.”
Sherlock frowned. Dark curls flopped over his forehead.He’d be so fucking hot if he wasn’t here to steal my boyfriend.“I work alone.”
I snorted. “No, you don’t. I’ve read your books. You bring along Dr. John Watson for every adventure.”
“You, my dear, are no Watson. You’ll be returning to your world today, leaving Moriarty in the safety of my care.”
My blood boiled. “I’m not yourdearanything. I’ve successfully solved no less than four murdersandrecovered a stolen Christmas tree. And I’m not leaving Morrie here with you.”
“You have to, gorgeous.” Morrie’s eyes pleaded. “Sherlock’s right. If you stay missing, they’re going to assume I facilitated this whole thing to kidnap you. That will make things a hundred times worse for me. If you go back with a different story, we can control the narrative and give Sherlock and I time to figure out what’s really going on.”
I glared at him. “You don’t want my help?”
Morrie reached up and slid a piece of my hair between his fingers. “Whoever has done this is trying to topple me from my criminal network. These are brutal people – nothing like the small town hack murderers we usually come up against. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
I can’t believe I’m hearing this.“If you need to go into hiding, that’s even more reason why I should be helping. How much sleuthing do you think you’re going to get done trapped in a smelly bothy?”
Sherlock crossed the room in two long strides and held the candle up to a wall, illuminating crime scene photographs, newspaper articles, and scribbled Post-it notes, all connected with lengths of string. “Plenty. I’ve made a thorough study of all the evidence available.”
I peered at the wall, noticing two things. First, Sherlock used the exact same methods he employed in Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s stories. His information consisted of drawings from the crime scene, photographs, and studies of bootprints and bark rubbings. Second was that over three-quarters of his wall was not dedicated to the case at all, but to Morrie. There were Polaroids of him leaving the shop, sitting on the tube in London, and shaking hands with a guy in a snappy suit I could only assume was his banker or some kind of crime overlord.
I tried not to let it bother me that in just two months Sherlock had learned more about my boyfriend than he’d ever revealed to me.Morrie has this whole secret life I’m not a part of. And it might have got him in deep trouble.
“Who’s that?” I pointed to a photograph of Morrie facing off against a sharp-looking man with a handlebar mustache and a white suit. Several pieces of string converged on the man’s head.
“Aidan McFarlane. According to my deductions, the current only possible suspect.”
“McFarlane’s a big name in the criminal underworld. He used to be my right-hand man, but he’s been looking to do away with me for years and take over my territory. He’s been trying to undermine me for months, accusing me of going soft just because I’ve been shutting down certain operations,” Morrie added. “Plus, he has a sinister-looking mustache. He must be our villain.”
Hearing James Moriarty call another man a villain was so absurd, I burst out laughing. I turned to Sherlock. “So what makes you so certain this is the guy?”
He frowned. “My methods are my own.”
“You’re not going to consider other options? What about the husband, or someone else on this leadership retreat? It could be whoever or whatever she was trying to escape from caught up with her and—”
“I’ve ruled them all out. No one in her life has any connection to Moriarty. As I have said,” Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth, “the victim isn’t important here. She was a means to an end. The killer has a grudge against Moriarty – he is the key.”
“I think we should at least consider—”
“No offense to your thoughts, Mina, which I’m sure don’t seem trifling. You should let the professionals handle this.”
“You’re not a professional, either,” I shot back.
“Fifty-six short stories, four popular novels, and an enduring pop culture legacy would suggest otherwise.” Sherlock elbowed me aside as he swept the photographs into his palm and replaced them in the box.
We’re going around in circles.“You’re a product of the Victorian justice system. Technologyandsociety have moved on since then. We should be sharing information and working together.”
“I do not work with my intellectual inferiors.”
