Thirteen Authors With New Takes on Sherlock Holmes Read online

  Our corporate sponsors at Apple would be thrilled that he name-checked their product.

  • • •

  “Counsel, I need to speak with you about Danielle Carter immediately.”

  If anyone in the world other than Sherlock had walked into Mrs. Vallejo’s office without an appointment and interrupted this attorney’s work, she probably would have had that person thrown out of the building. But because ’Locked brought in so much revenue to the town, Sherlock could get away with just about anything.

  “I know who you are,” the woman at the desk said, “but I am simply unable to help you. Attorney/client privilege extends beyond death.”

  “Certainly, my fair lady. I apologize for the interruption.”

  Sherlock made a dignified exit from the office. For once, even I was mystified. I knew he believed he had figured something out, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what. The simple solution was to ask him.

  “Are we abandoning this lead?”

  “Quite the contrary, my dear Watson. We are following it to the very end.”

  “I don’t understand. She didn’t tell you anything.”

  “Actually, she told me everything. That is why we are headed back to the victim’s house.”

  I was quite tempted to strangle the man for his vague response, but I was certain he would explain if I feigned a look of complete confusion.

  “I can see from the look on your face that you don’t follow. It is actually quite elementary. Despite the fact that I didn’t make an appointment and simply walked into her office, Mrs. Vallejo was not surprised to see me. Thus I was able to deduce that she saw me on camera before I entered the building. And since the only cameras in the area belong to the London Savings & Loans across the street, she must have an agreement with the bank to monitor their cameras.”

  I steeled my features carefully to avoid laughing in his face. Somehow he managed to ignore the fact that Mrs. Vallejo could have easily heard the ruckus of a small production team walking into the waiting area of her office suite.

  Sherlock had paused in his explanation. I took the obvious cue. “How does that help us?”

  “Simple. Mrs. Vallejo would only have such an agreement if she also uses the bank to store important evidence for her clients. Therefore, we must simply search Danielle’s residence for the key to a safe deposit box.”

  “That could be hiding anywhere in her home,” I objected.

  “Ah, my dear Watson, you forget that Miss Carter is a woman. I am quite certain that the key will be found hiding in her makeup case.”

  Amazingly, his mild misogyny actually polled at an 88 percent approval rating among female viewers. The primary reason that fans gave for the positive response was that he was too perfect otherwise.

  I couldn’t stand it, but I was actually a bit grateful for it at that moment. A makeup box was a very easy place to hide a key. In fact, his explanation would have been perfect except for one small problem. Danielle Carter had a safe deposit box at Suncrest Bank, not at London Savings & Loans.

  Fortunately, we had long ago worked out a solution to problems like this. The show had rented a number of safe deposit boxes at banks throughout the town. All I needed to do was send a text to Mary to tell her which bank Sherlock had stated and where he claimed the key was hidden. By the time we arrived back at the house, there would be a key waiting for us.

  • • •

  Using slightly exaggerated movements, specifically for the sake of the camera, I carried the box from the wall to the table. Both the cameraman and Sherlock stood on the opposite side of the table from me. This was planned. I had instructed them that I intended to use a surprise reveal for this evidence.

  Ostensibly, the surprise reveal was to increase suspense and to offer an opportunity for a commercial break. The truth was that I needed to palm a key into the box and I couldn’t do that with two sets of eyes and a camera staring at me.

  The sleight of hand went off without a hitch. After a moment of stunned silence, I turned the box around toward the camera and Sherlock.

  “I don’t understand, Holmes. What does it mean?”

  Holmes reached into the box and pulled out the Suncrest Bank safe deposit box.

  “It means, my old friend, that the late Miss Carter was a very cautious woman. The villain responsible for this foul deed is even more dangerous than I first thought.”

  Twenty minutes later, I unlocked another safe deposit box at a bank halfway across town, this time in full view of the camera. The box was half-full with financial documents. Mentally crossing my fingers, I stepped aside so Sherlock could examine them.

  A few minutes passed before he spoke. “Watson, I have solved the case. Call Sheriff Lestrade and have him pick up Mrs. Joan Vallejo, Mr. Theodore Ramsey, and Mrs. Jenna Moriarty. I’ll meet them all at the Carter residence and reveal the identity of the killer.”

  • • •

  “George,” I said, as gave the sheriff a strong handshake.

  He responded with a broad grin. “Jack. Always a pleasure to see you. The suspects are waiting in the kitchen with one of my deputies. I hope that is acceptable,” he said, giving a meaningful look to the cameras.

  George’s words were directed at me, but Sherlock responded anyway. “Quite fine, Sheriff. Let’s not keep them waiting.”

  I followed Sherlock as he walked into the kitchen. Curiously, the sliding door that opened to the back yard had been left open, but that wasn’t likely to affect the scenario, so I didn’t worry about it.

  Sherlock was in his element. He pulled out his e-cigarette and vaped for a few moments in order to heighten the tension. By the time he spoke, all eyes were upon him.

  “You are probably wondering why I have assembled you here. The answer is quite simple. The three of you are the main suspects in the case,” he said, gesturing to Vallejo, Ramsey, and Moriarty. All three attempted to protest, but Sherlock cut them off.

  “Enough with that. I said you were all suspects, but only one of you is guilty.”

  The sheriff had been involved with enough episodes to know that Sherlock wanted someone to ask who at this point in his speech. Usually I asked the question, but George spoke up today.

  “Excellent question, Sheriff. Let’s consider all three suspects.

  “First, there is Mr. Theodore Ramsey. He is the brother-in-law of the deceased. Public records show that he also owns a .22 caliber pistol, which is the exact caliber of the bullet that killed the victim. Finally, financial records show that Miss Carter recently purchased an expensive luxury minivan for her brother-in-law.

  “Second, there is Mrs. Jenna Moriarty. She is the recently widowed wife of James Moriarty, the man that Miss Carter stole nearly a hundred thousand dollars from. Her late husband also has a .22 caliber pistol registered in his name.

  “Finally, there is Mrs. Joan Vallejo. She is a lawyer who specializes in paternity law. Financial records indicate that she received a retainer for five thousand dollars from Miss Carter before the death of Mr. Moriarty. Then, a day later, Suncrest Bank stopped payment on the check. In the past week, Miss Carter’s cell phone shows that she and Mrs. Vallejo called each other at least eight times. And finally, Eric Scott, the personal secretary of Mrs. Vallejo, has a .22 caliber pistol registered in his name.”

  The three suspects objected forcefully. Mrs. Vallejo was the loudest and most ardent in her objections. But there was something about the way that all three objected that made it obvious to me they were playing up to the camera. After years of filming this show, most of London’s residents considered it a point of pride to be named a suspect and then exonerated. Luckily, none of them were badly overacting, so the scene wouldn’t require much editing.

  Sherlock allowed the objections to peter out and then once again took control of the scene. “Please bear with me. Shortly I will exonerate two of you.”

  He took another long drag of his e-cigarette.

  “First, Mrs. Vallejo. You were rightf
ully angry that Miss Carter reneged on her agreed-upon retainer. But you have a thriving law practice and the money wasn’t that important. Furthermore, public records also show that you had already negotiated a deal to avoid a civil suit. I am quite certain the phone calls were simply further negotiations regarding payment of that deal.”

  Mrs. Vallejo looked quite satisfied.

  “Next, Mr. Ramsey. While you would have been legitimately concerned about losing your new minivan if Miss Carter’s crime came to light, you also took custody of her child after her death. Since she had no inheritance to speak of, money obviously wasn’t a motivating factor in that decision.”

  Jenna Moriarty didn’t even wait for Sherlock to begin his accusation. She sprinted out of the kitchen, just as she had been instructed to do by one of the producers. Making sure to block the path of George, I ran after her.

  This chase was supposed to end in the master bedroom, where I would corner her, but she apparently forgot her instructions and raced through the front door. Cursing lightly under my breath, I continued the chase. Once she was outside, she seemed to realize she was in the wrong place. Looking panicked, she ran toward the back yard. I followed, hoping I could salvage this situation.

  The yard was completely fenced in. Jenna looked around in confusion and then appeared to notice the open door to the kitchen. I could only assume she planned to run back into the house and follow the original instructions.

  It was actually a rather astute plan, except for one flaw. Sherlock stepped out of the house just as she was about to run through the kitchen door. She quite literally fell into his arms.

  The situation was a disaster. I was supposed to catch her, search her, and find the murder weapon on her. In actuality I was going to plant the murder weapon on her, but with camera behind me that would be easy enough to do.

  Instead, Sherlock searched her while I ran up to them. There was absolutely no way I could slip the murder weapon on her after he searched her. Besides the fact that either he would notice or the camera would catch the subterfuge, it would make him look bad on camera.

  It was the most important episode of the season, possibly ever, and it was about to end anticlimactically.

  “My dear Watson, I believe our Mrs. Moriarty here threw something into the bushes as she ran past. Would you be a good fellow and see what it was?”

  For a few moments I simply stood frozen. There was no way Sherlock could have seen such an action and I was reasonably certain that he knew no such thing had happened. But, with that one statement, he had saved the climactic scene of the show.

  Shaking off my stupor before it ruined the scene, I walked over to the bush. Making a big deal of searching diligently, I triumphantly revealed a .22 caliber pistol.

  Sherlock gave me a knowing wink. A wink that changed our entire relationship forever. A wink that he carefully hid from the camera.

  Turning back to look at both the cameras, he donned his 88-percent audience-approved smug smile and pointed at Mrs. Moriarty.

  “You’ve been ’locked.”

  Identity:

  An Adventure of Shirley Holmes and Jack Watson

  BY

  Keith R. A. DeCandido

  I hated oncology rotation. I never told anybody this, because nobody gave a damn. I was a fourth-year med student. It was December. Everybody who mattered at the hospital—basically, a mess of people, none of whom were me—got the first shot at vacation, including all the oncologists at New York Presbyterian, which meant I pinch-hit for whoever they told me to. This week it was Dr. Antropov.

  Mostly, it just meant seeing people who had regular treatments who were on a strict schedule. Anything that needed more than your basic babysitting wasn’t gonna happen until Antropov got back, which meant I was gonna spend my week supervising ongoing chemotherapy and radiation treatments.

  Monday morning, my first appointment was Martha Hudson, in for her weekly chemo. She was a white lady in her forties, looking haggard, like most chemo patients. Her chart told me that she was most of the way through month number two of chemo for endometrial cancer, and that four months ago she had a hysterectomy. Her appearance told me she was well off, since she wore elegant name-brand clothes, fancy jewelry, and a nicely styled butch haircut—she had the money to pay someone to style what little hair she had left.

  “Ms. Hudson, I’m Jack Watson—I’m filling in for Dr. Antropov this week.”

  “I know, Dmitri told me he was flying home to visit his family for the holidays.”

  That was more than he’d told me. Then again, he didn’t let me call him Dmitri, either. “How you feeling, Ms. Hudson?”

  “Please, call me Martha. And I feel like hammered shit.”

  I smiled. “Hammered shit?”

  “Yes. It’s where you take regular shit and pound it repeatedly with a hammer, wham-wham-wham!” She used her right fist as a hammer and pounded it into her left palm.

  “So pretty shitty, then?”

  “Yes. I’m taking naps all the time, and the techs are finding it harder and harder to find a good vein.”

  Looking down at her right arm, I noticed bruising around the bandage from where the IV was inserted. “Yeah, that’s gonna happen sometimes. They may need to switch arms before this is over.”

  “Really? Dmitri told me not to worry and that it was all in my head.”

  “No, it’s all in your arm, and it’s gonna hurt like a son of a bitch.” I didn’t usually use foul language with patients, but Martha started it with “hammered shit.”

  “Oh, it does, believe me. But I’d rather stay with the right arm in any case. I’m left-handed, you see, and if my left arm becomes as useless as my right, I won’t be able to draw.”

  “You’re an artist?” The chart didn’t list her occupation.

  She chuckled. “Hardly. I simply enjoy drawing. It relaxes me, and I need all the relaxing I can get right now.”

  “Thought you said you were taking a lot of naps. Sounds like you’re already pretty relaxed.” I grinned to let her know I was just teasing.

  Sure enough, she chuckled again. “You’re very droll, Dr. Watson.”

  “It’s Jack, and I don’t get to be called that until May.”

  “Ah, that explains it. If you’re still a med student, then you’re allowed to have a bedside manner. I understand they have that removed when they give you the doctorate.”

  “Actually, that’s elective surgery.”

  “In any case, Jack, my need for relaxation is mental rather than physical. My home situation has become more…challenging since the cancer diagnosis.”

  She didn’t go any further, and I didn’t ask. Her home life wasn’t my problem, especially since she wasn’t even really my patient. I checked the chart over, but nothing leaped out. “Is there anything else you want to ask or talk about?”

  “No, I’m fine. I mean, I’m not fine, I’m undergoing chemo, but the alternative is far worse. I just wish—” She cut herself off. “Never mind. Are you attending Columbia’s med school?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I did two and a half years at Hopkins, then I joined the Army. Once I got back from Afghanistan, I enrolled in Columbia to finish off.”

  “So you’re from Baltimore?”

  “Originally. After I got home I needed a fresh start. And I heard this was a helluva town.”

  She smiled. “Oh, it very much is, Jack. In fact, the Bronx is up and the Battery is down.”

  “Yeah, and I get to ride in a hole in the ground every day.”

  I’d left my smartphone on the desk, and it buzzed, vibrating an inch to the left.

  “Excuse me,” I said as I grabbed it. I’d learned the hard way to make sure I checked my text messages soon as I got them, otherwise the docs who needed me to run some errand or other right now this second would get all pissed.

  But it turned out not to be a doctor. “Dammit.”

  “What’s wrong?” Martha asked.

  I shook my head and put the phone back dow
n. “Sorry, just found out I didn’t get the apartment I was shooting for.” She looked at me funny, and I added, “I’m rooming with a guy who has a place on 84th. It’s rent-controlled, two-bedroom, and we’re both grad students, so we’re never home to get in each other’s way. Unfortunately, it’s going co-op in the new year, and my roomie decided to just take campus housing at Columbia.”

  “You’re not doing that?”

  “Hate dorms. Too much like the barracks.”

  “That makes sense.” She put a finger to her chin, and then let out a long breath. “I’m sorry, Jack, I’m starting to fade. Is there anything else?”

  I looked at the chart again, but that was just to make it look good. “No, we’re done for now. Next week is your week off, and Dr. Antropov’ll be back in the new year, so he’ll take care of you then.”

  She nodded and slowly got to her feet. “Ooooh. Not good.”

  “You okay to get home?”

  “I have a car service. It’s not far, in any case. I’m right over on Riverside Drive.” She looked at me. “You’re a very good listener, Jack. Might I be so forward as to make you an offer? One that will solve your housing problem?”

  I frowned. “I guess?”

  “I have a niece. She’s—well, difficult, and she needs a companion, someone who listens well, and can engage her without asking what she deems to be stupid questions. That was me until a few months ago, but—you know.”

  With a nod, I said, “Right.”

  “She is also a student at Columbia, and she has rejected every person she’s interviewed. She might reject you as well, of course, but it’s gotten to the point where I just took down the Craigslist ad. I’m rather desperate.”

  I hesitated. This was totally out of left field, and I’d only just met the woman.

  She then said, “You would have an entire floor of a Riverside Drive townhouse to yourself, rent free.”

  That got my attention. “Okay. What do I have to do?”

  “Talk to my niece. Are you free this evening?”