A/N: Chapter three! Whoo! Here it is already. I fear I may be neglecting my other fanfics, but I'm just having so much fun writing this, I keep using up all my spare time on it instead of the others. Oh well, my readers can always wait... or send me a bomb, either one. Anyway, I'm glad everyone likes Rhodes so far. I was afraid I'd make him too overbearing or something. Which he is, but he's still a good guy. Enough about our Southern friend, though; what does everyone think of his Boswell, Ms. Bridges? I'm afraid she may have been modeled a little after me, with the sarcasm and whatnot, but I guess that's inevitable, since her words are coming from my brain. So there it is. Anyway, enough of my meaningless blathering. Read on, friends!

Disclaimer: Although I am the sole owner and proprietor of my pride and joy, Rhodes and Bridges(Rhodes being the "pride"), the credit for the original idea belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.



A Perfect World
a Sherlock Holmes pastiche
by Wakizashi

Chapter Three: Untangling the Web





Rhodes' arm immediately dropped to his side, and he stared at Agent Solomon with an expression of horror and disbelief. "He's dead?" he repeated. "What time was his body discovered?"

"Approximately ten-fifteen this morning," the agent replied, whipping out a battered leather notebook to consult. It was a quarter to twelve now. "One of the janitors in the high-rise where Chan lived was taking some garbage down to the Dumpsters in the alley. At first he thought someone had thrown in a dismembered mannequin. Scared the living hell out of him when he found out what it was."

Throughout Solomon's narrative, Rhodes had become increasingly disconcerted, and now he was pacing across the living room restlessly, shaking his head. I watched, completely baffled by the entire situation. "This kind of audacity goes against any of my preconceived notions of the assassins," he muttered to himself. He spun around to face Solomon. "Where is the body now?" he demanded.

"Morgue," was the agent's blunt response. My friend instantly donned his grey overcoat once again and yanked open the front door. He was halfway onto the stoop, following closely at Solomon's heels, when I cleared my throat. Reminded of my presence, he turned and looked at me, his green eyes showing a decidedly sheepish embarrassment.

"I hope you'll forgive me, Bridges," he said, offering a guilty smile. "This is a matter of extreme importance, you see, and I have to get to the morgue to examine this body as quickly as possible. I doubt whether you would have any desire to accompany me on such a macabre outing, but the offer stands."

I returned his gaze, debating if I really wanted to visit a morgue on my weekend off. But despite my disinclination, there was still that dominant part of me that craved to know what Rhodes was involved with. Was he FBI? Some sort of private investigator, maybe? I knew so little about him, after all, and by going with him, there was a good chance my knowledge would be considerably increased.

"All right, I'll go with you," I told him. "On the condition that you tell me what's going on."

Rhodes smiled. "A reasonable prerequisite."


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


I have often found that, if one is in a great hurry, it is far better to take the streetcar to one's destination rather than rely on one's own car. The traffic in San Francisco was bad enough on work days, but on this particular Saturday, when couples and families were waiting impatiently at intersections along with tourists who had no comprehension whatsoever of the city's traffic laws - that is, move over or get rear-ended - the logic of taking Agent Solomon's black BMW to the morgue somehow eluded me.

Fortunately I was denied the thrill of sitting next to the dumpy FBI agent, and as I climbed into the back seat and promptly sank into the leather, I was absurdly pleased when Rhodes opened the door and slid in next to me. He buckled his seatbelt with an amusing primness, and then proceeded to indulge in that nasty slouching habit of his which always made me want to slap him with a ruler like an irate teacher.

"So?" I asked once he had gotten himself into a position that would surely make a chiropractor - or an masseuse-in-training such as myself - cringe in disapproval. "Are you going to tell me what all this is about? Or am I forever doomed to follow you around without the foggiest notion of what's going on?"

"Don't be so melodramatic." Resting his chin on the heel of his palm, Rhodes frowned in irritation out the window as we drove down the street at an achingly slow pace. "I suppose I should start at the beginning," he said with a sigh. "Last week, a middle-aged Chinese man came to my door with a very disturbing problem. That was the client I was meeting, Bridges, when I met you. He introduced himself as Martin Chan, and without preamble, informed me that there were men who were seeking to kill him.

"Naturally, I asked him what had so convinced him of this. He told me he had recieved three threatening notes, each one with the sign of the Triads on it. When I asked him why the crime ring would want to kill him, he explained that he had been a member of the gang in New York, but because he married and wanted no harm to come to his wife, he moved to California and cut off all contact with the Triads." Rhodes shook his head, his unruly black hair flopping into his eyes. "He thought that was the most plausible explanation for the threats, but for some reason, it doesn't satisfy me."

"And now he's dead," I said, understanding why he was so upset.

He groaned and leaned back in the seat, his long legs pushing against the driver's seat in front of him. Solomon turned around briefly to glare at him over his shoulder, then resumed his maneuvering through the urban swarms.

"Yes, now he's dead," said Rhodes wearily. "And I have no evidence. No footprints, thanks to the police and the Feds," - with a meaningful look at the agent in the front seat - "no scene of the murder, no suspects, nothing." I noticed that when Rhodes became emotional his accent was much more pronounced. "So that's what I'm going on. Nothing. I failed him, Bridges. He came to me, trusting that I would protect him, and I failed him."

And then he confirmed what I had been suspecting all along: "Some detective I am."

"So you're a detective," I murmured. It certainly explained the visits from FBI agents, the clients, even the uncanny ability to read people simply by looking at them. "Rhodes! Why didn't you tell me before?"

"You never asked," he replied, shrugging.

"That's no excuse," I said illogically. "I didn't hide the fact that I was a waitress from you."

He blinked. "We- we met at the coffee house."

That closed my mouth for an instant... but only an instant. "Okay, you're right," I admitted. "But there's still a lot I don't know about you. You weren't going to just wait for me to figure it out by myself, were you? You have to understand, Rhodes. I don't have the brilliant mind that you do."

"All right, I get it," he said, smiling for the first time since we had gotten into the car. "I'm sorry, Bridges. From now on, I will answer any question you may have about me with the utmost honesty." He patted my hand to emphasize the point.

*Do questions about your sister count?* I thought to myself, but did not dare bring up the sensitive topic.

Solomon suddenly shifted in his seat, causing both passengers in the back to look up sharply. "Hey, you two make a great couple and all," he said uneasily, as if unsure whether he should continue. "But do you always call each other by your last names?"

Rhodes and I stared at each other, and I could tell that I was not the only one who had forgotten our little charade. He bit his lip to keep from laughing, and I cleared my throat. "Well, you see, when we first met, we didn't get along that well," I explained, which wasn't at all false. "In fact, I believe I called him a rich, arrogant little brat."

"And a delusional psychopath," my friend added, smiling sweetly.

Kicking him discreetly in the shin, I allowed myself a casual laugh. "So we started calling each other by our last names - Rhodes and Bridges, isn't that a coincidence? - and I guess it just stuck. Wouldn't you say that was how it happened, honey?"

"Exactly how it happened, *darling*," he replied, reaching over to give my arm a hard pinch.


~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~


I was always afraid of death, and going through the doors of the city morgue was like walking into my worst phobia fully realized. The place smelled like a mixture of formaldehyde and bug spray, poorly masked with a floral-scented air freshener. The click of my heels echoed through the expansive hallways, and though I was wearing a coat, I became aware that I was shivering like it was twenty below.

Rhodes must have noticed my anxiety, because halfway through our happy little expedition to the freezer - or as Solomon liked to call it, "the meat locker" - he silently took my hand in his and squeezed it reassuringly.

At this time, I would like to point out that I maintained my composure for quite a while. When we arrived at the heavy metal doors; when we opened them and stepped inside the icy, cavernous room; even when I saw the countless rows of cold, gleaming drawers... Even though my breathing became heavier and my heart rate quickened, I remained reasonably calm. It was not until Agent Solomon laid his hand on the handle of one of the drawers and began to pull that I lost it.

That glimpse of red...

"Okay, I can't do this," I blurted, turning around and squeezing my eyes shut. My heart was now slamming against my ribcage, and my throat constricted. I tried to take deep breaths, but I overcompensated and began hyperventilating. Through the pounding of my ears, I heard Solomon groan in annoyance, but Rhodes was instantly by my side with both hands on my shoulders. That was when I realized how rubbery my legs were.

I opened my eyes to see two chips of emerald looking back at me. "Bridges, calm down," he said, his voice soft and soothing. "It's all right. You don't have to be here. Nobody's forcing you."

Swallowing hard, I made myself control my breathing. Now that my head was clearing I felt like an idiot. "I'm sorry, Rhodes. I just... I can't look at a mutilated body today."

"I understand completely," he replied, though I'm not sure, with his iron stomach, that he really did. "Do you need me to walk you out?"

I shook my head fiercely. "No. No, I'll just wait outside until you're done doing... whatever."

He nodded almost imperceptibly, his hands dropping to his sides. Trying to maintain what little dignity I had left, I walked past him out the doors, fully aware that Solomon was looking at me in derision. After the door had hissed shut, I sat down on one of the white plastic chairs in the hallway and waited. And waited.

It was exactly thirty-six minutes later that the heavy doors swung open, almost coming off their hinges, and a very livid Ethan Rhodes walked past me, his face clouded with rage. Solomon soon followed, puffing like an angry bull. I quickly rose from my chair and ran to catch up with them.

As I matched Rhodes' stride, I could hear him muttering furiously to himself. I tugged lightly on his sleeve, and he slowed a fraction and looked at me. "What's wrong?" I asked.

"Nothing's wrong," he replied angrily, which told me that was obviously a lie. "Unless, of course, you count Agent Solomon's blatant inability to acknowledge anything of importance."

I looked over my shoulder at Solomon, whose shiny head was sweating with the exertion of keeping up with the young detective. "I fail to see," he said, exasperated, "what was so important about a stupid Chinese character carved onto the victim's forehead."

At that Rhodes whirled around to face the agent, causing him to skid to a stop. "The significance of the Chinese character on the victim's forehead," he said slowly, as if he was explaining it to a child, "is that it is the Chinese character for 'revenge'."

Solomon blinked, letting this new development sink in. Turning around once again, Rhodes continued walking. "You do have Chan's personal effects, don't you?"

"Yeah, the bag's in my coat pocket," the agent answered, finally recovering his professionalism as he walked beside us. "There's not much. Wallet, reading glasses, a couple rings—"

"Let me see them."

With growing irritation, Solomon dug inside his disreputable jacket and pulled out a clear plastic bag. He handed it to Rhodes, who instead of looking at it, passed it to me. "What can you see, Bridges?" he asked me.

Surprised that he wanted my opinion, I raised the bag to my face and looked through the plastic. I saw a black eelskin wallet that had been stitched and re-stitched many times, a small brown glasses-case, a white handkerchief with a red and yellow dragon embroidered on the corner, and two gold rings. I felt a pang, recognizing that these seemingly meaningless possessions had belonged to a man with a family, and people who loved him. The humanity of the situation was sobering.

Looking at the rings again, I frowned. "That's weird."

"What?" asked Rhodes.

"One of these rings is a woman's ring," I said, bringing the bag closer to my face. "It's all scratched and worn, too. There's no telling how old it is, but I'm betting it didn't belong to Chan."








A/N: Ooooh... Such strange goings-on, no? In case you haven't figured it out already, which I'm sure you have, this story is a modern version of 'A Study in Scarlet'. Duh. But obviously, I didn't want to reproduce the original plot *exactly*, so I changed the society the victim was involved with to something a little more up-to-date. Sooo, you like so far? Think Bridges is a wuss for freaking out in the morgue? Well, I don't. I wouldn't particularly want to see a naked dismembered person, and I'm sure I'm not alone. But enough about that. So we finally know what it is that Rhodes does. He's not FBI, but he's an ally to them when they're not sure what to do next. And QDramaStr, you were right about the Lestrade parallel in Solomon. Though the agent isn't as ferrety as the good inspector, neither of them put a lot of faith in their detective rivals. Sad but true. Anyway, everyone tell me what you think of the latest chapter, and meanwhile I'll be working on the next one. Ta!

-Wakizashi
tricksparrow@hotmail.com