The Blind Game
"What is robbing a bank compared with founding a bank?" ~ Bertolt Brecht
It was a conspiracy against the modern man between companies and machines. Between them, they pretended at improving life and helping regular folk. Instead they added unnecessary stress and ate up precious time. It was a proving reminder that computers did not know everything and John's irritation at the machine had not dulled any, even with the trip back and forth from the flat.
It had merely cumulated with his own worries.
He inserted the PIN with a fair more amount of force than it was necessary. He took a deep breath and counted to ten when the plastic bag broke while he shoved in the shopping.
The first thing he saw was the French manicure, delicately completed with a green line. Then the jewellery that dripped from fingers and wrists, emeralds that shared their colour with the satin lining of the black velvet long coat. The silk little black dress underneath made it distractively obvious she wasn't wearing a bra. And hardly needed one. Her necklace was an entire net of emeralds crawling up her throat to be completed by long earrings.
She laughed at his appraisal and his realisation that he had been appraising her and took the task of bagging his groceries into her own hands. The lips were as pale as ever but the eyes were darkly accentuated and her hair was styled in old-fashioned curls that made it hard to see with one eye.
Her feet were covered to the knees by lace-made boots, which made him wonder how she could actually walk. She looked nothing like someone off to buy some milk. Answer to his mental question, she raised her own bag containing a bottle of wine and a pack of jerky, which was somehow worse.
"The wine says I have exquisite taste, yet the jerky says I can be happy with little" she explained with a smile. "Also I really wanted jerky"
"Of course you did" he recognized, because it was the thing to say. "Milo, why are you dressed up to do the shopping?" he asked, waiting for an answer that at least masqueraded as sane.
She gallantly grabbed some of his bags, and waited for him to pick up his and walk outside the store.
"I wasn't dressed up for that. There was a fashion show cocktail party sort of deal last night" she spotted his confused look. "You wouldn't know about it from the news. It was a con"
"Oh"
"Yes, and while the party ended at one, the rest of us stayed around and finished the champagne and tiny sandwiches to celebrate. Only I'm still bored and not at all tired, so I figured wine and jerky might make a nice breakfast snack"
"Do you often have jerky for breakfast?"
"Well, no. I have scotch most of the time" she nodded sagely and he shook his head, his medical degree amused at the fact that she was still standing and horrified by the same reason. His more immediate conclusion was that she was hungover constantly.
"How about you? You look…" she paused with a smile. "Frustrated"
"Just had some …disagreements with the shopping. And Sherlock" he admitted.
"Ah"
He balanced the bags into one hand while he removed his keys, and held the door opened for her.
"He's still upstairs in his chair, I bet" he nodded for the upper floor. "Hasn't moved all morning. Are you staying for a cuppa?"
"No, thank you. I fear Sherlock's boredom might be catchy and I have enough of my own. Hey Sherlock!" she greeted from the stairs.
"Don't worry about us. We'll manage" John told him when he sat, motionless, still in his chair. There was still no gesture, until John had asked about the laptop Sherlock was using.
Milo felt content to stay around and listening to them bicker in their odd sense of camaraderie, while muttering "Bachelors…" and beginning to remove things from the bags.
Her eyes caught a mountain of bills that Sherlock was probably too far-removed to notice and John too broke to pay. A new, deep scratch was adorning the table. Small scorch marks tainted the counters, results of what was explained as 'experiments' – terrifying in their own right. The dishes hadn't been cleaned up since they had probably moved in (and there were certainly a lot of them for bachelors) and various bottles made the place look like a mix between an alchemy shop and a meth lab.
A fool would have realized that the kitchen was far too messy and convoluted to find the place for everything, so she didn't even try. She might have been glad of that fact considering what the fridge or microwave or drawers might have hidden.
She entered the living room at the right moment for the detective to breeze by her saying "I need to go to the bank"
She looked at John. John looked at her.
They both shrugged and followed because, apparently, that was what her life had come to. It wasn't as much of a bother as she would have imagined it to be.
Sherlock hailed a cab and only looked at her properly when he got in. He frowned in question.
"You hadn't even noticed I was there, did you? A girl could get upset over something like that. It was a fashion show, party, cocktail dinner…thing" she enumerated, quite obviously not in the least upset.
He raised an eyebrow.
She waved her hand, fidgeting with the fistful of emeralds as she removed her jewellery. "You'll read about it in the papers in a few days. So…what bank?"
It was a large bank.
It was right by the Gherkin building, proof that throwing enough money at something overruled something like class, architectural style or college humour. The entire thing was a dirty joke waiting to happen. It didn't help that St. Andrew Undershaft was under it although it might have been blasphemous.
They walked to the door of Shad Sanderson, Investment Bank. She'd never been inside, which earned it the dubious honour of being one of the few London banks she hadn't conducted a scheme in, yet.
John looked at its interior, trying to guess, most probably, why someone like Sherlock would want to go inside. It was common and modern, filled of glass and metal and all too imposing, the name of the bank being subconsciously shouted at you from every direction.
"Yes, when you said we were going to the bank…" He seemed to have no trouble following, however, no matter what the destination in a mix of curiosity and willingness to escape his own problems.
They'd gone up the stairs to the desks where Sherlock introduced himself.
The speed at which they were ushered inside betrayed a rush of a desperate employee of the bank, rather than, say, some poor idiot trying to raise capital.
Said desperate employee was a man rushing to greet the detective, in one of the upper floors.
A city boy, in short. A round face with a horribly dull and uninspired haircut that made him look like an egg with a toupee, tiny eyes deeply seeded at the root of his nose glazed with a 'better-than-thou' attitude and a weak chin. He had gotten as far as learning the proper match of checked shirt and patterned tie, which added a subtle depth of character when done properly. If done properly. He had tried.
He was a banker, thus exuded a sort of oily charm, which made people like Milo want to nick his wallet. In time, it would mature into a classier sort of snobbish arrogance but he was far too young for it.
He liked to make a good impression and generally managed it, she thought, at least through the ranks of wealthy snobs. He had the faith of his boss and just by the way he carried himself Milo could note that he liked to brag about it. He wasn't stupid however…men like that never were.
The prestige of solving whatever crisis he was having far surpassed having to ask someone for help, even if that someone was Sherlock.
"Sherlock Holmes!" he greeted, loudly, and with much more familiarity than either John or Milo had expected.
"Sebastian" Sherlock greeted with lesser enthusiasm.
If there was something to be said about bankers, as a whole, their handshakes should be mentioned. As far as Milo was concerned, it was a perfect example of a Western cultured gesture: eye-to-eye contact, perfect balance of steadiness and shake, firm grip and correct use of the left hand. The man – Sebastian Wilkes as the door mentioned – was a case study for it. A tad hasty but the familiarity allowed it.
At least she assumed it was familiarity, as a two-hander was far too much of a faux pas to be used on a stranger or mere acquaintance.
"How are you, buddy? How long - eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?"
However long it had been, Sherlock didn't seem to cherish the reunion. There was obvious distaste there for anyone who knew enough of expressions to see. There was indeed history there and it was not friendly, at least as far as the detective was concerned.
"This is my friend, John Watson" and the word friend took meaning as soon as he spoke it. Sebastian seemed to have caught on to the meaning. John had not.
"Friend?" his closed mouth grin already starting to stretch Milo's nerves.
"Colleague" the doctor rectified, shaking the man's hand.
"Right" he said, the clarification clearly amusing.
"Milo Rivers" Sherlock nodded towards her.
"How do you do?" she affected, leaning forward which involved, in a not too accidental coincidence, leaning on Sherlock. The hand was gently gripped by her fingers, thumb over knuckles and dry lips touched the back of her hand for about two seconds.
"It's a pleasure" he said in a lower tonality, while his eyes expressed the correlation between her and stocks doing a bull charge.
Her smile was sweet and candid even as she tore her hand away, the femininity of her gestures contrasting heavily with the behaviour she had only earlier that morning.
She was quite glad that she'd met John dressed as she was.
The same result simply wouldn't have been possible with her usual, comfortable clothes.
She liked the attention of men who would otherwise only view her as a street rat. She saw them as pretty little dolls or puppies: something amusing to laugh about while she drank too much and entertain her, equally plebeian companions. It was possibly how most men saw her as well.
Sebastian Wilkes scratched the back of his head and headed for his office.
"Grab a pew. Do you need anything, coffee, water?"
The three discreetly shook their head. John, clearly disliking the man far more once he had opened his mouth, was attentive enough to read Milo's expression.
'Sit down' it said, as she positioned herself behind the detective with the same Mona Lisa smile.
"No? We're all sorted here, thanks" Sebastian told his young assistant, who disappeared around the corner. She supposed it was much too early to start drinking, in some people's eyes.
"So you're doing well. You've been abroad a lot" Sherlock started in an attempt at small talk.
"Well, so?" the banker asked with transparent self-satisfaction.
"Flying all the way around the world twice in a month?" he asked with the tone that Milo was starting to know as 'casual superiority'. She'd only noted the names on some of the papers on his desk and the annotations on his notepad.
The grin started to betray irritation and there was the steepled hand gesture…
'I'm better than you' as if the different sides of the table or size of the chair showed some sort of worth or character. "Right. You're doing that thing" His eyes met hers, then John's as he explained. "We were at uni together and this guy here had a trick he used to do"
"It's not a trick" was Sherlock's only reply.
Sebastian continued undeterred. "He could look at you and tell you your whole life story"
"Yes, I've seen him do it" John contributed, lacking the mockery or humour. He disliked being there, that much had been obvious.
"Put the wind up everybody. We hated it. We'd come down to breakfast in the formal hall and this freak would know who you'd been shagging the previous night"
Even from her viewpoint of only seeing his curls, Milo could tell by head gestures that Sherlock definitely felt – and looked – younger and much less surgically removed from the background.
She'd been thankfully saved from such teenage year horrors.
Milo had never been around school long enough to figure out the complex society trapped in between those walls, had never shared much space with either teachers or students and quite definitely hadn't breached through the line of bullies and the bullied. (In broad terms, if you can face the Mafia hitters, you have no issues with acne-covered children with parental issues and both characters have fragile hand bones).
She appeased the random authority figures of her life by going there from time to time but she'd never even gotten a diploma or taken the final exams. If she were to think that far back, she'd place herself in Istanbul, banking on the NATO summit.
That had been a good if convoluted grift.
Whatever drama Sherlock had been through in uni or any other scholarly institutions was as foreign to her as paying taxes. It didn't mean she did not consider them to be life-altering moments, however and even if sympathising, it was still fascinating to watch.
"I merely observed" he replied. She wondered how often he'd said that in the course of his years.
"Go on, enlighten me" he nearly dared. He had nothing to lose, which was probably his favourite gamble: if Sherlock could not point it out, he could still make jokes about that. If he could, his point was proven. "Two trips a month, flying all the way around the world, you're quite right. How could you tell?" he cut Sherlock off. "Are you going to tell me there's a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan?"
John smiled to the side, attracting Sebastian's attention in thinking he'd found an ally.
"No, I…"
"Is it the mud on my shoes?"
He didn't have mud on his shoes.
She smiled because if Sherlock was anything like his brother, he'd pick option number three…
"I was just chatting with your secretary outside" And there it was. "She told me"
John looked at him oddly.
The man was far too expressive, she thought. If he weren't broke, she'd have invited him to a game of poker.
Sebastian started laughing loudly and in a fake manner as if he were a part of the joke, instead of the butt of it, clapping once at the end. At least he was clever enough to know he was being played, which was certainly something. Milo wasn't sure what, but it was something and with the characters she'd met along the years, it was better than nothing. And knowing better, he changed the subject, steepling his hands again; a fascinating gesture to be sure and one of the only ones who betrayed their user so completely.
"I'm glad you could make it over. We've had a break-in"
"A break-in? How thrilling" Milo chirped in the most stereotypically feminine way possible. She received a smouldering little smirk before he took the lead. John raised an eyebrow at her before following.
She sneaked her hands in the crook of Sherlock's arm to raise herself to his ear. "Is it just me, or is his face perfectly shaped to cradle a human fist?" she whispered. He smiled amusedly for a second before John turned around and she removed her arms.
"Where exactly was the break-in?" she asked. Her first thoughts were directed to the server room. A bank's mainframe was one of the most interesting things inside except perhaps the safe.
They were not heading for the elevator, however.
"Sir William's office – the bank's former chairman" Sebastian explained, occasionally looking back. "The room's been left here like a sort of memorial. Someone broke in late last night"
The three hurried down to the office, while Milo stood behind, looking at her environment. It was odd to be in a bank during daylight hours and without wearing a tight black outfit, a starchy grey suit or a technician's outfit. Of course, it was just as boring for the employees who hadn't even raised their heads when they passed. Wage-slaves, she and others like her called them.
Not just employees. The world would have been a worse place where no one could get a job. No, what made them wage-slaves was their utter dedication even in the face of an entire world waiting for them, just getting that extra five pounds in. They'd been swallowed by the great money-maker and were having a truly hard time letting go. They thought in straight lines.
It was lunch hour. Why weren't they out for lunch?
"What did they steal?" John asked.
"Nothing. Just left a little message" he answered. It was probably only that and their reputation that had kept the police away. It was more and more obvious as to why Sherlock was called.
A magnetic card unlocked the door to the office, where there was nothing to steal. An uninspired lion roaring, placed right on the desk, betrayed more about its former owner than he might have liked. Old furniture, woefully inappropriate to the modern surroundings, boxes left for whatever reason and of course, a hideous portrait, filled the room.
If she would have been one of the employees at that bank, on that floor, she would have blotted out the painting's eyes too. Even with the line of garish yellow, it still seemed like it followed you about. Added to the chairman's death and it made for a wonderfully creepy ghost story.
"If you'll come back to my office, I'll show you the CCTV footage" Sebastian said, opening the door for them. It locked behind them with a click.
"We've been meaning to discuss security with a New York bank to implement changes in the safe and server room. They have a heuristic algorithm or some such to lock the place out" he looked at her as if his words were for her benefit. "That is an …adaptive program. They have reportedly no break-ins and the program is state of the art"
"Is that the Morton and Bain bank on Fifth Avenue?" she asked, fidgeting with her hair like a little girl asking for a pony.
"Yes, it is. How did you know?" he looked back.
"Because I designed that system specifically for them, on the offices and outer bullpen. It's not for sale" she answered in a definitive manner and enjoyed the surprise that showed on his face for a split second.
"Right" he laughed. "Well, it was too expensive to implement on the entire building. It might have worked for a small place like Morton and Bain, but here…" he gestured around as if the large space was proof enough. "Besides why would anyone break into the offices and bullpen?"
"Well, to leave a message, perhaps" Sherlock suggested.
Sebastian made a sour face before entering his office and gesturing for his computer. "You can see the CCTV footage here" he typed the appropriate hostname and moved to the side to allow them to see.
"60 seconds apart" he pressed the arrow keys, showing the difference. "So, someone came up here in the middle of the night, splashed paint around and left within a minute"
"How many ways into that office?" Sherlock asked.
"Well, that's where this gets really interesting" he showed to the door again. It was almost as if he relished the secrecy and moving them around like a Cluedo routine.
Milo had picked the shoes because, at a fashion show where people sat down, shoes were important. Despite being pretty – and they were very much so – they were not at all comfortable. Her feet had frozen and gone numb at least three hours before.
She hopped right up on the receptions desk, to the delight of every man watching her legs.
Sebastian took over the computer next to her and opened a numbered file. He picked through the building plans until he reached the proper floor and opened it.
"Here it is. You see, every door that opens in the bank, it gets logged right here. Every walk-in cupboard, every toilet" he closed the window and started fixing his jacket.
"That door didn't open last night?" Sherlock asked, without much need for an answer. If it had, there wouldn't have been a mystery, just someone to fire.
"There's a hole in our security. Find it and we'll pay you. Five figures. This is an advance" he fluttered a check gotten from an inner pocket. "Tell me how he got in, there's a bigger one on its way" he offered the piece of paper to the detective who hadn't so much as looked at it.
"I don't need an incentive, Sebastian" he answered and dismissed him, walking towards the elevator. John made an incredulous face.
"He's er…he's kidding you, obviously. Shall I look after that for him?"
Sebastian handed it over with a smug smile, unbuttoning his jacket.
"Thank you. I'll er…be right back. Excuse me"
It was clear, even as he headed in the direction of the bathroom that he had never seen that large an amount written even on a check. To most, employees or dependents, accustomed to a salary, a large amount lost its meaning. It simply became 'a lot' which could be referenced as what they could make in months or even years.
The fact that she wasn't impressed by it only added an extra point to the impression she made on the banker, who offered a hand. She gave him a virginal smile and took it, jumping off the table.
"Thank you"
He nodded, the hand formerly holding hers moving to the small of her back. "Tell me, how does someone like him…get someone like you?"
"That is...the right question" she offered a brilliant smile with a rosy blush that accentuated her eyes. "But in the wrong order. How did someone like me, get someone like him? He's brilliant, articulate…a girl could get lost in his eyes. I simply got lucky" she shrugged in a resigned fashion, appearing utterly taken with the man and walked ahead, rolling her eyes as soon as she left him behind.
She wanted to see her face but was not willing to turn back just for that. It would have added the wrong subtext.
Sherlock wouldn't have been the type to even consider flaunting a girl and wouldn't have appreciated what she'd done, but Milo considered it amusing.
At least Sherlock's former classmates would have something to gossip about.
She caught up with said man by the office of Sir William, where he was looking at the locking system by the door.
"I find it ironic that his office is right by the Security room, don't you?" she started finding it more tragic than anything.
"Hm? Oh. Yes" he stopped and looked right at her. "What do you think?"
"About?" she frowned.
He leaned over suspiciously close. "You're the professional thief" he straightened, entering the office.
She snorted. "Well, the entire '60 second' apart frame is the security hole if you ask me. It might as well have been an hour. Most thieves would kill for that much time to do whatever they want to do. I mean really, it's not like they have to buy a lot of fucking VCR tape these days, do they? Or CDs. PCs have terabyte sized hard drives but no…they just take screenshots of the camera as if they're trying to do a bloody collage! It's disgraceful! How's an honest thief supposed to derive some pride out of this?"
She cleared her throat seeing the expression on Sherlock's face, irritated but strangely interested in her outburst. Had he lacked a case, he would have enjoyed taking advantage of that strange window into her moral mind frame.
She continued, much more professionally. "I can find two…no, three ways of actually doing this whole charade. The first assumes manipulation of the computer data" she jumped on Old Will's desk staying out of the way as he took pictures and dangled her legs childishly "But that opens an entirely different can of worms so I wouldn't start with that. Besides, it requires prepping and security holes that would give you headaches. The second part…" she dragged a finger over the table. "involves a boring yet reliable method. Either pretend to be part of the cleaning staff or find a way to keep the door open after they leave or, as a last resort, just trick the sensor. Considering how clean this place is, the schedule is regular. Then, you hide in a camera blind spot, do whatever you need and either hide back or get out some other way"
He frowned in thought, looking around when his eyes caught the window.
"That would be the other way and my third way inside" she completed. "Windows are the structural weakness of all buildings. Necessary but…" she made a face. "They make things so easy. And I bet there are no sensors here, either"
She watched him look down and joined him. "This is the fortieth floor?" she leaned backwards until she was half-way hanging over the banister. "Harder has been done"
He turned abruptly and went to the other side of the trading area.
Alone, with her thoughts, Milo felt like the covered eyes were watching her again. As if the damn portrait knew she disliked bankers. She could taste the old cologne…and for a split second the air breezing by sounded like heavy breathing right behind her…
"Sherlock!" she said, following out the door.
His head popped out from behind some offices before popping back down. Then he went one office row behind and went back down.
"What is he doing?" John asked, coming up from the elevator direction.
"An impressive interpretative rendition of Swan Lake?" she hinted. He ducked and twirled behind a pillar. "And…en dedans…" she muttered like a director anticipating the script. He moved closer to the door and ripped out the name of the one who owned the administrative office.
"Good. He found what he was looking for. Let's go while the curse of the…blind banker over there isn't yet upon us" she told John who frowned in confusion.
"The what?"
"Nothing. Can't believe I spent almost five hours in a bank and have yet to make a profit" she crossed her arms and grinned as an afterthought.
"What is it?" he asked, catching her malicious expression.
"I would have been offered six figures to break inside once and I wouldn't have had to write a report. He gets paid five figures for something that benefits the bank in the long run and has to explain himself to unimaginative toadies. I knew I was into the right line of work, I just couldn't prove it" the two followed as Sherlock passed by.
"You'd get six figures just to break into a man's office?" John asked disbelievingly.
"Talent is hard to come by. Besides, half the challenge is getting around the security system. There are thieves hired to test security systems for legit firms, you know. It's a lucrative business, though really tiresome"
"Right. I'm not sure I would trust a thief to test security…" he looked at her as a side thought. "No offence"
"None taken. Ever heard of 'using a thief to catch a thief'?" they entered the elevator.
"Yes…although I never thought of it as something that actually happened"
"You shouldn't. It's insulting" she watched as the floors numbered down. "I know plenty of people who got burned that way, but people just keep trying"
"Speaking from experience? Is that how you got a job doing the security system for a bank?" John pried.
"Oh no. Bain was an old…friend of mine. I did that one for fun" she stuffed her hands into her pockets, saying no more on the subject.
John shook his head.
If he had seen the largest amount of money in his life written on that check, it seemed fairly natural for him not to believe her.
It seemed like years since she'd been offered a legitimate business deal and they never failed in making her feel like a dilettante in her own profession or worse, indulge her paranoia to dangerously escalating levels.
She felt like they were some of the most dangerous affairs of her life. You can expect a crook to try to cheat you, it's what he did. Regular, law-abiding people however, were not that simple and a double-cross was harder to predict and much harder to avoid. Worse, they'd see it as completely normal because you were a criminal and they were honest.
And there was a time, in 2007, right in London, when she nearly had been…
"Two trips around the world this month" John addressed Sherlock, who looked back, sensing himself included in the conversation. "You didn't ask his secretary. You said that just to irritate him"
Sherlock grinned for a second with a child-like face.
"How did you know?"
"Did you see his watch?"
Breitling watch. The cost of one was from two hundred pounds dollars to thirty-five hundred, depending on different editions. The trick was to loosen it while shaking hands (easier on metallic wristbands than leather), then sweep your hand over the wrist…
There was a particularly decent watch fence living in St. Georges Fields…
"His watch?"
"The time was right, but the date was wrong. It said two days ago. Crossed the date line twice and he didn't alter it" he took the stairs down.
"Within the month. How did you get that?"
"New Breitling. It only came out this February"
Such sentences opened up interesting and terrifying windows into Sherlock's world in which he was scouring the Internet for new fashion accessories only to see what came out and when…
John smiled, nodding. It seemed so simple when explained. "Ok. So do you think we should sniff around here for a bit longer?"
"Got everything I need to know already, thanks. That graffiti was a message. Someone at the bank working on the trading floors. We find the intended recipient and…" he let the sentence hang.
"They'll lead us to the person who sent it?" John followed.
"Obvious"
"Well…there's three hundred people up there, who was it meant for?"
"Pillars"
"What?"
"Pillars and the screens" he described the room, explaining his ballet. "Very few places you could see that graffiti from. That narrows the field considerably. And, of course, the message was left at 11:34 last night. That tells us a lot"
"Does it?"
"If you two are going to be walking that fast, then I invite you to switch shoes with me!" Milo huffed from a considerable distance behind.
"Four inch fucking stilettos. What the hell was I thinking? It's like doing en Pointe dancing again…" she muttered to herself as she caught up to the men who had waited for her at the door.
"Thank you. Please continue" she sighed.
Sherlock did. "The time. Traders come to work at all hours. Some trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. That message was intended for somebody who came in at midnight. Not many Van Coons in the phone book" he showed the paper that had been on the door and then jumped in the middle of the street.
"Taxi!"