Maxine
I stood behind Sherlock and John with a hot cup of coffee in my hands. The tea hadn't been quite enough to wake my foggy mind fully, so when I saw the coffee machine in the Scotland Yard break room, I snatched up the first cup I could find and poured myself some.
"Brian Lukis, freelance journalist. Murdered in his flat..." Sherlock was saying as he typed into the laptop on the desk. Once he found the site, he flipped it around to show it to Dimmock who sat on the other side. "...doors locked from the inside."
"You've gotta admit, it's similar," John said.
I took a noisy sip of my coffee which earned me a scowl from Dimmock. I smiled back at him and he shook his head and looked at the computer.
"Both men killed by someone who can..." John hesitated for a moment, shaking his head in slight disbelief, "...walk through walls."
"Inspector, do you seriously believe that Eddie Van Coon was just another city suicide?" Sherlock pressed.
"If he does, he's a moron," I said.
Dimmock's eyes latched onto mine again, ignited with annoyance. "I'm sorry, is that one of my mugs?"
"Amazing, you can deduce that, but you can't solve a simple crime," I muttered before taking another loud sip.
"Maddie, please," John sighed.
"You have seen the ballistics report, I suppose?" Sherlock said to Dimmock.
Dimmock gave a tight nod. "Mmm."
"And the shot that killed him: was it fired from his own gun?" Sherlock queried.
"No," Dimmock admitted reluctantly.
"No," Sherlock echoed. "So this investigation might move a bit quicker if you were to take my word as gospel."
"Or if you just get some common sense," I added.
Sherlock glanced at John. "I dunno what you were worried about, I like her like this," he said.
"Like me like what?" I asked, frowning.
"Nothing, Maddie, just-just drink your coffee," John said.
Sherlock turned his attention back to Dimmock and leaned over the desk to hover his face in the Detective Inspector's. "I've just handed you a murder enquiry," he said in a quiet, but intense voice. He nodded toward the laptop where a picture of Lukis was still displayed. "Five minutes in his flat."
Lukis' flat turned out to be on the fourth floor of his building. Inside the living room laid an open, empty suitcase on the floor and sitting close to it was a neat little black origami flower—just like the one Sherlock found inside Van Coon's mouth. There were books everywhere; the desk, the bookshelves, even scattered about the floor. Several open newspapers were accompanying them on the carpet.
Sherlock strode into the kitchen area and peered through the window at the nearby rooftops of the lower buildings. He pushed back the net curtain for a better look and smirked.
"Four floors up. That's why they think they're safe. Put a chain across the door and bolt it shut; think they're impregnable," he said before striding back into the living room. "They don't reckon for one second that there's another way in." The detective then turned his back to the stairs we climbed to get here and stared up at the skylight above the landing.
"I don't understand," Dimmock said.
"You rarely do," I told him.
He shot me a glare. "I'm sorry, did I do something to you? Or are you just naturally this bitter to everyone?"
"Only after she's been up for four days," John said.
"His idiocy has nothing to do with my sleep deprivation," I said with a shake of my head. I looked up at the skylight. "It matches up with the bank and with Van Coon. Both of those places were high up and had balconies. The killer can climb."
"Exactly, Max," Sherlock breathed as stepped out onto the landing and grabbed a nearby step stool. He hopped up onto it in order to get a closer view of the skylight. It was high up on the angled room, but not out of reach for Sherlock's long arms.
"What are you doing?" Dimmock demanded.
"He clings to the walls like an insect," Sherlock said. He then unhooked the latch on the window and pushed it upwards.
It opened freely.
"That's how he got in," Sherlock said softly.
"What?!" Dimmock exclaimed.
"Climbed up the side of the walls, ran along the roof, dropped in through this skylight," Sherlock summarized.
"You're not serious! Like Spiderman?!" Dimmock was clearly both agitated and bewildered.
"He scaled six floors of a Docklands apartment building, jumped the balcony to kill Van Coon," Sherlock said.
Dimmock began laughing in disbelief. "Oh, ho-hold on!"
"And, of course, that's how he got into the bank. He ran along the window ledge and onto the terrace." Sherlock stepped down and pushed the stool back in its place with his foot while still staring up at the skylight. "We have to find out what connects these two men."
"After another coffee," I mumbled, leaning on the doorframe.
"What you need is sleep," John said.
I shook my head. "Nah. Just a small break, like this. It's fine—I'm fine."
Sherlock suddenly hopped down a few stairs where some more books were piled. There was one that had fallen open at its front page and displayed that it had been borrowed from West Kensington Library. I spotted the text just before Sherlock snapped it shut and picked it up before heading down the stairs.
"Now what?" John groaned.
"The library," I said with a small smile. Most libraries had cafes.
The scent of books had always soothed me. I breathed deeply as I followed Sherlock and John through the aisles. Yes; ink and paper, there truly was no better combination. Sherlock quickly found where the book from Lukis' flat came from.
"Date stamped on the book is the same day he died," the detective said.
He checked the reference number on the book's spine and found the correct place on the shelves. He began to pull some books out and examined them. John did the same behind him across the aisle. I, meanwhile, was still annoyed that I didn't have any coffee. I really was on my last leg; my next volume's draft was due the end of this week and I didn't have nearly enough panels done. My editor was going to kill me.
"You could help, Maddie," John said.
"Like me helping would make a difference," I grumbled. "What, you think I'll just happen to pull the right books off the shelf?" I turned and gripped a handful of them by the spine. "Here, look, I'm helping." I pulled then down and blinked in astonishment at what I saw behind the books and against the back of the shelf was yellow paint.
"Sherlock..." John said weakly, gesturing toward my incredibly lucky discovery.
Sherlock turned and spotted what I'd found. He took one long step across the aisle and reached over me to grab a handful of books. His fingers were so long he was able to easily grip enough to cover the width of a man's head. Awkwardly trapped between Sherlock and the bookshelf, I elected to just take the books he passed down to me and then pass them to John who set them on the floor.
The detective finally paused with his book pulling. My nose was a millimeter from his chest and If I leaned forward just a tiny bit, I could give his collarbone butterfly kisses.
"For the record, I could have just stepped aside," I said.
Sherlock seemed to just notice our position. He blinked and then gripped my shoulders, lifted me up, and placed me to the side.
"There," he said, then gestured to what he'd uncovered. "Now look at what you stumbled upon."
John was shaking his head at us; I just counted it lucky he wasn't upset about that encounter. I looked at the bookshelf. On the wood behind the books were the same two symbols we saw in Sir William Shad's office.
"Same paint," I noted, reaching up and running a finger across the surface as Sherlock pulled out his mobile to take a photograph. "Mm, zinc. Dunno the brand though. One thing we know—our artist isn't out for quality. Just wants something that won't corrode metal and get the, uh, message across."
"So zinc paint is cheap," John clarified.
"Yeah," I said with a small nod.
"Mm..." Sherlock took a few more pictures and then pocketed his phone. "We got what we need here. C'mon."
I began to follow the detective as he made to leave.
"Guys!" John called. "The books? That you left? On the floor?"
Sherlock glanced back. "That's what the librarian is for."
John let out an exacerbated sigh and stooped to start collecting the books. "It's called common curtesy."
"It's called the librarian's job," Sherlock corrected, though after a moment he squatted down and began gathering books.
I closed my eyes for a moment, reveling in just how damned tired I was, then crouched and grabbed a couple of books to help. "I'm not putting them in order," I grumbled.
Back at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock printed out the photos he took at the library and added them to the mirror. He had Van Coon's photo and the graffiti from the bank up there as well. Sherlock and John stared at the pictures while I put another kettle of tea on the stove, blinking my eyes blearily.
"So, the killer goes to the bank, leaves a threatening cipher for Van Coon; Van Coon panics, returns to his apartment, locks himself in. Hours later, he dies," Sherlock summarized.
"The killer finds Lukis at the library; he writes the cipher on the shelf he knows it'll be seen. Lukis goes home," John said.
"Late that night, he dies too," Sherlock murmured.
"Why did they die, Sherlock?" John breathed.
Sherlock ran a finger over the line painted across Sir William's eyes. "Only the cipher can tell us." He began to tap the photo and as I turned to look at him, I noticed his green eyes sharpen in the mirror.
"Idea?" I guessed.
"Idea," he confirmed.
"We're going out again, aren't we?" I sighed.
Sherlock responded with grabbing his coat off the back of his chair and heading for the door. John glanced at me.
"You could stay here," he offered. "Take a nap."
I narrowed my eyes at my brother as I shut off the stove and moved the kettle to a cold spot on its surface.
"Right, dunno what I was thinking," he said with a defeated shake of his head.
We ended up heading to Trafalgar Square. Sherlock led us through its center toward the National Gallery. I had another hot coffee in my hands and the caffeine was actually working quite well. My stride was swift as I made my way across the pavement, Sherlock on my left and John to my right.
"The world's run on codes and ciphers, Watsons," Sherlock said. "From the million-pound security system at the bank, to the PIN machine John took exception to, cryptography inhabits our every waking moment."
"Yes, okay, but..." John prompted.
"...but it's all computer-generated," Sherlock finished. "Electronic codes, electronic ciphering methods. This is different. It's an ancient device. Modern code-breaking methods won't unravel it."
I found myself wondering if Miyako would be able to help with our current situation. With her background, I wouldn't be surprised if cracking this "ancient" code would be child's play for her. Part of me wanted to email her, but I already knew that Sherlock would want to know who Miyako was; and then he'd want to know more.
"Where are we headed?" John queried.
Sherlock grimaced. "I need to ask some advice."
I nearly choked while I sipped my coffee.
"What?! Sorry?!" John exclaimed, smiling in disbelief at the detective.
Sherlock shot him a dark glare. "You heard me perfectly. I'm not saying it again."
"You need advice?" John pressed.
"On painting, yes. I need to talk to an expert," Sherlock confessed.
I slowly began to raise my hand but Sherlock waved me off.
"Don't get sulky," he said. "This isn't you're area."
We neared the entrance to the National Gallery and I expected to start scaling the stares to head inside, but Sherlock walked straight on by it and led us around to the rear corner of the building. There was a young man standing before a large metal door and there was a spray can in his hand and a duffle bag full of many more at his feet. On the door an image was already stenciled: a policeman holding a rifle in his hands with a pig's snout for a nose and beneath it was a clear tag that said RAZ.
The man—Raz, I guessed—didn't even pause in adding the finishing touches to his piece as we approached. When we paused beside him, he glanced toward Sherlock.
"Part of a new exhibition," he declared, gesturing to his work.
"Interesting," Sherlock said without any actual hint of interest.
"I call it Urban Bloodlust Frenzy," Raz said with a chuckle.
"Catchy!" John said with a humorless smile.
"Unoriginal," I muttered before I could stop myself.
Raz's eyes narrowed toward me. "Sorry?"
"Maxine," John said sharply.
"Er..." I took a sip of my coffee as I shrugged. When I swallowed my mouthful, I gestured weakly toward the art. "Police. Pigs. Sorry, just... uh, I've seen it before. Maybe something more punchy?"
"Punchy?" Raz repeated with a small level of bewilderment. He shook his head and went back to spraying. To Sherlock, he said, "I've got two minutes before a Community Support Office comes round that corner. Can we do this while I'm workin'?"
Sherlock took out his mobile after shooting me a warning glance that told me to stop talking for the rest of this exchange. When the detective offered it to Raz, the graffiti artist tossed John his spray can at John, who instinctively caught it. Raz took Sherlock's phone and began to scroll through the photographs of the yellow paint.
"Know the author?" Sherlock prompted.
"Recognize the paint," Raz said. "It's like Michigan; hardcore propellant. I'd say zinc."
I grinned slightly with triumph. At least I'd caught on to something.
"What about the symbols: d'you recognize them?" Sherlock asked.
Raz squinted at the pictures. "Not even sure it's a proper language."
"Two men have been murdered, Raz. Deciphering this is the key to finding out who killed them," Sherlock said.
"No pressure," I added.
Sherlock locked me in another glare and I raised my hands in surrender to show him I'd shut up.
"What, and this is all you've got to go on?" Raz asked. "It's hardly much, now, is it?"
"Are you gonna help us or not?" Sherlock's green eyes went back to Raz.
"I'll ask round," Raz vowed.
"Oi!"
Startled, we all looked down the street to see two Community Support Officers running toward them. A hand suddenly clasped around mine and yanked me along. I dropped my coffee; it's contents spilt out across the pavement as I managed to get my feet under me and began to run properly. I turned my head, expecting to see John pulling me down the street, but to my surprise, it was Sherlock.
The detective's eyes were alight with mischief and he was hastily pocketing his mobile; I guessed he snatched it back from Raz. I looked over my shoulder to see John was still standing next to the graffiti and the officers appeared to have cornered him.
"Wait!" I cried, trying to slow our pace. "We left John!"
"Did we?" Sherlock glanced back and grimaced. "Oh. He'll be cross about that later."
"We gotta go back!" I insisted.
"Too late, sorry," Sherlock said, pulling me along. "He'll forgive us eventually."
"Sherlock!" I protested.
"Us going back there will do nothing but just get us in trouble as well," Sherlock said. "No point."
I groaned and hastened my pace to match his again. "All right, fine! But we have to stop by the market."
The slamming door was what marked John's return home. It startled me from my nap and I jerked my head up from where it had been resting on a cushion. I was curled on the sofa and my bones creaked with protest as I sat up. Sherlock was standing near the mirror above the fireplace which was now almost completely covered. He'd added sheets of various ciphers and pictograms on them.
The detective was peering down at a book in his hand and didn't bother looking up when John stormed into the room.
"You've been a while," Sherlock noted.
John stomped fully into the living room. His shoulders were rigid and his fists were clenched as he blinked rapidly, most likely doing his damnedest to hold in the rage that was boiling inside him.
"Yeah, well, you know how it is. Custody sergeants don't really like to be hurried, do they?" John said in a clipped tone. He began to pace with a tight smile on his lips. "Just the formalities: fingerprints, charge sheer; and I've gotta be in Magistrates Court on Tuesday."
Sherlock was still staring into his book. "What?" he asked offhandedly; clearly, he hadn't heard a word.
"Me, Sherlock, in court- on Tuesday," John barked. "They're givin' me an ASBO!"
"Good. Fine," was all Sherlock responded with.
John looked like he was going to pop.
I pushed myself off the couch. "John, I can go in and testify it wasn't you."
John set his irascible glare on me. "Oh yes, sure, they'll believe that coming from my sister. When they ask why you weren't there when they showed you can say to decided to just abandon me instead!"
I went across the room with a sigh and a shake of my head. "I thought you were behind us," I said honestly.
"Well, I wasn't," John retorted.
"Clearly," I muttered.
I got to the table and reached into the bag I left on it. Inside, my hand closed around a round object. When I produced it I tossed it to my brother and he caught it reflexively. He peered at it for a moment before he realized what it was.
"A ch—no-no, you can't just make this up with sweets," he stammered.
"Chocolate orange," I said, leaning back against the table. "Imported."
"How much did this cost?" John said.
My brow twitched. "Am I not allowed to spend money on you even when it's an apology?" I said tightly. "If I tell you Sherlock bought it, would that make it okay?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" John demanded.
"It means you're a paradox, John," I pressed. "You refuse to let me help you financially, but you let Sherlock! Then you say I need to date but get all irate whenever I'm near a man, even our own flatmate!"
John shook his head. "You need more sleep; you never argue like this."
It was true. I normally fled from any form of verbal conflict. I'd been known to turn and walk out a room while the other person was mid-sentence. I did everything and anything I could to avoid an argument, but at the same time, I never admitted I was wrong unless it was proved such.
"I'm just trying to understand," I groaned, rubbing my brow. "I'm family, why can't you just let me help—?"
"Because you're the little sister!" John suddenly erupted. "I'm supposed to be supporting you. It's-it's humiliating having you take care of me in any way. Maxine—I'm eleven years older than you! You're practically a kid!"
I blinked several times as his words sunk into my diaphragm. Even Sherlock glanced up from his book, suddenly paying attention to the conversation.
"Are you kidding?" I breathed.
John lowered his gaze and his expression softened as the weight of his words hit him. He cleared his throat and he ran his fingers over each other habitually.
"Maddie... I didn't..." he began.
I shook my head and turned around to walk toward the stairs. I thought about going up to my room but I was already frustrated with my lack of progress on my work, so instead I trotted downstairs and snatched my coat and scarf on my way out.
John
I screwed up.
As I listened to Maxine slam the door behind her on her way out, I slumped against the wall and let out a defeated sigh. I hadn't meant to say it like that to her; I hadn't meant to call her a kid, but I just couldn't shake the idea that her helping me financially was... was like admitting I was useless. I pushed off the wall and headed for the door.
"John..." Sherlock said slowly as he got to his feet. "I think it might be best if you give her some space."
"She's all in a tiff and Maxine is useless around people like that," I said. "She'll get herself in trouble—"
"She survived two years in Japan without anyone else," Sherlock pointed out. "If she managed to not get in a row with someone within two years, that's impressive."
"No, you don't get it," I pressed. "Sherlock, you're clever, we all know it, but you don't know Maxine. She avoids verbal conflict at all costs—you see what she just did. If anyone says something she doesn't want to hear and it bugs her enough to cause a normal person to protest, she just walks away. After a while, that kind of thing bottles up; and she's had next to no sleep for four days AND she's behind in her work. The young woman that just walked out of this flat is a ticking time bomb."
Sherlock shook his head. "John—"
"I know my sister!" I barked. "I need to go after her and—"
"Seeing you after that is only going to exasperate things," Sherlock said. "I'll go after her. Need to go see Van Coon's P.A. anyway. I want you to go to the police station."
"Oh, Jesus!" I exclaimed. "I was just there! You wanna tell your little pal he's welcome to go and own up any time."
"I need you to ask about the journalist," Sherlock went on, completely ignoring my comment. "His personal effects will have been impounded. Get hold of his diary, or something that will tell us his movements. If we retrace their steps, somewhere they'll coincide."
I shook my head and ran my fingers against my thumb. I knew Sherlock was right about Maxine probably not wanting to see me, but at the same time, I was incredibly worried about him going after her. Maxine was better around people when she was in a decent mood, but when she got like this, she was just as bad as the detective—possibly worse. I already saw visions of her getting arrested for foul-mouthing an officer or something. Was Sherlock Holmes really the best influence for her mind at the moment?
However, I did realize with some astonishment that I did trust Sherlock with my sister. I knew he wouldn't let anything happen to her and ensure she got back here safely. After all, when they first met Sherlock, he'd risked his life to go and save Maxine from Jeff Hope. He hadn't even known her then and now they had a bond of friendship to encourage him to protect her.
"Fine," I conceded. "Just remember, the worse danger to her is herself—and she likes milk when she's upset."
"Milk?" Sherlock perked a brow.
"A whole pint will do her fine," I assured as I began to head toward the door. Sherlock followed after me.
"Has she always been like this?" he asked. "The walking away from arguments; the strange disassociation with other people?"
"Yeah, why?" I said as we stepped out into the street.
"Because that means this is a product of nature, not nurture," Sherlock murmured as he pulled out his mobile. "I'll find her. Go on."
I nodded and raised my hand to hail a taxi, hoping Sherlock had this covered and that Maxine would forgive what I said.
Maxine
My phone was buzzing.
I paused in my irate stride down Baker Street and pulled out my mobile, expecting John's number to be glaring at me. However, to my surprise, it was Sherlock's. I frowned and tilted my head; he never called—he always texted. I hit the accept button and put it to my ear.
"You don't call," I told him.
"I've never seen you storm off like that, drastic measures were necessary," Sherlock replied calmly. "Where are you?"
"Is John with you?" I asked tightly.
"Sent him on an errand," Sherlock assured. "I have one for us as well. I'd like company."
"Or John sent you," I accused.
"John wanted to come by himself—I convinced him to send me instead," Sherlock said. "You can thank me later."
"What if I don't want company?" I countered.
"Mm, sorry, can't do that," Sherlock replied. "I need to go back to the bank and I want to flaunt our relationship in Sebastian's face."
I was astonished by the amused grin that forced its way on my face.
"As far as the case goes, I want to talk to Van Coon's P.A. to get some more information," Sherlock went on. He sounded oddly out of breath. "Who knows—it might lead to something fun."
"Are you jogging?" I asked.
"What? No, not at all," Sherlock said, still breathless.
I glanced around me with a sudden jolt of realization. I was down near the Chinese restaurant and there was a worker outside offering samples. He called out to passerby with a distinct accent.
"Don't bother hanging up, I already see you," Sherlock said. "That ginger hair of yours makes you quite easy to find in a crowd."
The sound of thudding feet steadily approached and I turned around to see Sherlock pocketing his mobile as he ran toward me. When he came to a halt in front of me, he grinned widely and nodded as he caught his breath.
"Figured you might come this way," he said. "Just had to call and see if I hear Lee to make sure." He gestured toward the Chinese man calling out to passerby.
I pushed my mobile into my pocket and began to worry my scarf's yellow fabric in my fingers. "I don't want to be around anyone right now."
"So where were you planning to go in the city of London to be alone?" Sherlock raised a brow.
"I dunno—an alley maybe." I shrugged.
"An alley." Sherlock stared down at me disbelievingly.
"Someone might try to mug me," I said.
Sherlock's expression cracked into one of bewildered amusement and he laughed. "Ah, Maxine Watson, I'm still trying to understand how a young woman like you can exist. C'mon, let's go to the bank."
He turned and began to walk toward the street to hail a cab. I remained where I was and folded my arms. As a taxi pulled over and Sherlock opened the door, he finally realized I wasn't with him. He looked back at me and frowned.
"Max," he called.
"If I go with you, I have a condition," I said.
Sherlock's brows shot up. He leaned into the cab and murmured something to the cabbie; most likely asking him to wait a moment. He then trotted back to me and peered down into my face.
"A condition?" he repeated.
I nodded. "After this case is over, you're going to let me draw you."
Sherlock grimaced. "Max..."
"That's the condition," I told him. "And if you go back on it, I will annoy the hell out of you for two weeks straight."
"A crude saleswoman," Sherlock muttered.
I shrugged pitilessly.
"Fine," Sherlock conceded. "C'mon, let's go."
The cab ride was a lot more comfortable without three of us squished into the backseat. I didn't even have to stretch out when we got to the bank. The moment we hit the escalator, Sherlock's demeanor toward me altered. He stood on the same step as me and rested his hand over mine on the handrail. His skin was warm and I could feel some callouses on his palm; Lord knew what they were from considering how many things Sherlock was proficient with.
"Should we try pet names?" I teased. "I could call you Sherly."
"I could call you Maddie," Sherlock countered instantly.
I pressed my lips into a tight line and he smiled victoriously at me; his face a mere inch from mine.
When we reached the top of the escalator, we saw Sebastian near the reception desk. Hearing our approach, he turned around and immediately grimaced.
"Sherlock," he greeted, attempting to force a smile. "Do you have any answers for me?"
"Just need to do some more research," Sherlock said. He casually wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me into his side as if he did it every day. "Is Van Coon's P.A. in?"
Sebastian was momentarily too distracted by Sherlock's hand on my hip to respond. He finally took a breath and lifted his eyes back up to the detective. "Yeah- Amanda. She's over by his office; the desk just outside it."
"Cheers," Sherlock said with a brief smile.
He let his arm drop from me, but his hand slid across my back slowly as if he was reluctant to let me go. Sherlock led the way toward Van Coon's office and I followed after him, not bothering to acknowledge Sebastian. I was too irate to entertain the notion of normal social behavior.
Sherlock spotted Amanda's desk and the P.A. herself appeared to be sitting behind it. She looked up from her computer at our approach. Her blond hair was pulled back into a neat bun and she wore a white blouse. Her face was smooth and rather pretty with a delicate nose and big eyes of blue.
"Hello, how can I help you?" she asked.
"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock introduced. "This is my... partner, Maxine Watson."
Partner, huh? Was Sherlock too dedicated to our dating ruse that he wanted to say something heavier than "friend" but nothing as solid as "girlfriend?" Interesting. I couldn't help but wonder how Sherlock would act if he was dating someone. He'd told John he was married to his work when there was the confusion about John asking him about his dating life, but what if whoever was with him was doing the work too?
It was an odd thought; one I wasn't certain of the origin.
"I was hoping you could assist us with looking at Van Coon's schedule and files," Sherlock said. "We're investigating his death."
"Ah, yes, the office got a memo about you," Amanda replied. "Mr. Wilkes already gave us the go ahead to help you with anything you need. I'll get into his computer for you."
Amanda logged into her computer and pulled up Van Coon's online calendar.
"Flew back from Dalian Friday," she said. "Looks like he had back-to-back meetings with the sales team."
"Can you print me a copy?" Sherlock asked.
"Sure," Amanda agreed.
"What about the day he died?" Sherlock pressed. "Can you tell me where he was?"
Amanda peered at the screen with a frown. "Sorry. Bit of a gap."
I leaned over to see the calendar showed no entires for Monday at all. Sherlock adverted his eyes with a small touch of frustration.
"I have all his receipts," Amanda suddenly offered.
"That sounds useful," I said.
A few minutes later, Amanda had Van Coon's schedule and receipts printed out for us. As she spread them out across the desk, Sherlock peered at her desk with a critical eye.
"What kind of boss was he, Amanda?" the detective asked. "Appreciative?"
Amanda considered. "Um, no. That's not the word I'd use. The only things Eddie appreciated had a big price tag."
Sherlock kneeled down on the floor to better look at the receipts. As he pulled off his gloves, his green eyes locked onto something on the desk. Following his gaze, I saw it was a pump-action bottle of luxury lotion sitting toward the back.
"Like that hand cream," Sherlock said. "He bought it for you, didn't he?"
Amanda fiddled with a pin in her hair anxiously as she shot Sherlock a surprised look. I perked a brow as I scanned the desk, wondering how Sherlock deduced that one. The detective merely continued to shuffle through the paperwork. He picked out one of the receipts: one from a licensed taxi dated 3/22/2010 and timed at 10:35. The cost listed was £18.50.
"Look at this one," he prompted. "Got a taxi from home on the day he died. Eighteen pounds fifty."
"That would get him to the office," Amanda noted.
"But why would he be coming here at that time?" I asked.
"Not rush hour," Sherlock murmured. "Mid-morning. Eighteen would get him as far as..."
"The West End," Amanda said. "I remember him saying."
Sherlock pulled out the next receipt of a London Underground ticket with the same date on it. "Underground. Printed at one in Piccadilly," he said.
"So he took a taxi into town and took the Tube back?" I frowned. "Seems odd."
"He was delivering something heavy," Sherlock said. "Didn't want to lug a package up the escalator."
"The space in his suitcase," I murmured and Sherlock nodded.
"Delivering?" Amanda repeated.
"To somewhere near Piccadilly Station," Sherlock explained. "Dropped the package, delivered it and then..." He pulled out another receipt with the same date as the other two. "...stopped on his way. He got peckish."
I saw the newest receipt was for Pizza Express Bar Italiano.
"So we need to figure out where the cab dropped him off," I said. "It has to be close to the pizza place."
"Yes," Sherlock agreed. "Yes, that's right—let's see if we can figure out anything more. Max, go on, take a look too."
I obliged and we scoured over a few more things for the next fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, we couldn't find anything of substantial use besides what we'd already uncovered. So, with that we bid Amanda farewell and headed out of the bank to head for the pizza place.
We found it with relative ease and as we walked by its front, Sherlock spoke, but it seemed more like he was talking to himself.
"So you bought your lunch from here en route to the station, but where were you headed from? Where did the taxi drop you...?" The detective rotated as he moved, staring at all of our surroundings with his expression pinched in concentration.
I paused and stared across the street when something bright red caught my attention. There was a shop standing at the front of Chinatown; the majority of its front decor was scarlet banners with golden lettering. It looked like a tourist shop: the kind that sold little charms, tea sets, and the cats with waving paws. A bold sign above the door declared the shop as The Lucky Cat.
"Van Coon was the head of the Hong Kong side of things at the bank," I breathed. "Sherlock!"
As I turned around, I accidentally bumped right into the detective who had still been spinning around, but not only him: a third bystander collided with us and all three of us stepped back to blink at one another.
The third person was none other than my brother, John. He blinked rapidly, clearly surprised to see us. There was a book in his hand and I guessed his nose was in it when he bumped into us. Once John recovered from the initial shock, he pursed his lips and his gaze toward me grew a bit more awkward.
All at once I recalled what he said to be back at the flat.
"Right," John said with a tight nod.
"Eddie Van Coon brought a package here the day he died—whatever was hidden inside that case," Sherlock said quickly; he seemed to have recovered from the surprise fast as well and didn't sense the strain between my brother and I in his excitement. "I've managed to piece together a picture using scraps of information."
"Sherlock," John tried, but Sherlock was too caught up in his own words.
"Credit card bills, receipts. He flew back from China, then he came here."
"Sherlock," John pressed again.
"Somewhere in this street; somewhere near. I don't know where, but..." Sherlock said enthusiastically.
At the exact same time, John and I pointed across the street to the red-decorated shop, and said, "That shop over there."
The three of us all paused and stared at one another in turn, all surprised for different reasons.
"Even in the heat of an argument, you two still do that," Sherlock muttered. "How can you tell?"
"Lukis' diary," John explained, holding up the book. "He was here too. He wrote down the address."
"And you?" Sherlock shot his green eyes at me.
"Van Coon had just come back from China, he's the head of the Hong Kong side at the bank, and there's a shop that sells Chinese goods across the street from the place he stopped by for food," I said. "I dunno, seems obvious?"
Sherlock's brow furrowed and his jaw slackened a bit. He looked between me and the shop.
"It is obvious," he muttered irritably. "Why didn't I see that?"
I began to head across the street, not wanting to give John a chance to try and talk to me. He and Sherlock followed after me silently.
The interior of the shop was stuffy and the shelves holding goods were claustrophobically close to one another. I gingerly stepped through the aisles, fearing one wrong step would send everything toppling. The shelves held a wide array of trinkets and decorations. I saw a whole row of those waving cats.
"Hello," John greeted the shopkeeper politely.
The woman behind the counter smiled toward him and lifted one of the waving cats off the desk.
"You want lucky cat?" she prompted.
"No, thanks. No," John replied with an awkward smile.
Sherlock smirked toward him.
"Ten pound. Ten pound!" the shop keeper urged.
"No," John repeated.
"I think your wife, she will like!" The woman gestured toward me.
"Oh—no, no—that's my sister," John said quickly. "Er, really, no thank you."
The shop keeper finally backed down; either from John's continued refusal or the venomous look I shot toward him when he tried to smile at me. The three of us began to poke around the items in the shop. Sherlock examined some clay statues while I peered at some of the mobile phone charms. John found the tea sets and picked up one of the small, handle-less cups. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his hand began to tremble.
"Sherlock, Maddie," he murmured.
Both of us headed over to him. My anger toward him was momentarily forgotten when I saw the price tag pressed to the bottom of the cup. It looked eerily like the strange 8 symbol we'd seen in the bank and library.
"The label there," John said.
"Yes, I see it," Sherlock replied.
"Exactly the same as the cipher," John breathed.
Spotting the shop keeper peering at us, John cleared his throat nervously and put the cup back. Sherlock lifted his head up, his pale green eyes staring off into the distance with abrupt realization.
"We're done here," he said softly. "C'mon."
The detective weaved through the aisles and out of the shop. John nodded apologetically to the shop keeper as the two of us followed after him. Back out in the street, we caught up to Sherlock who was striding down the walkway with purpose.
"It's an ancient number system! Hangzhou," he explained. "These days, only the street traders use it. Those were numbers written on the wall at the bank and at the library."
Sherlock walked to a greengrocer's which had some of its wares on display outside the shop. The various boxes had handwritten signs on them giving the names of the vegetables in both Chinese and English. Beneath that was the cost of the item in both the Hangzhou Sherlock spoke of and English. Sherlock picked over the signs, peering closely at the symbols.
"Numbers written in an ancient Chinese dialect," he said.
My mind began churning. Numbers... why numbers? If this was a code, then perhaps each number meant something.
"It's a fifteen!" John suddenly exclaimed. He gestured to the symbol on the sign closest to him. It bore the strange 8 and the horizontal slash above it. "The artist's tag—it's a number fifteen."
"And the blindfold—the horizontal line? That was a number as well," Sherlock said. He held up a price tag he'd found that had the same dash across it and the English equivalent claiming it to be one pound beneath it. Sherlock smiled triumphantly. "The Chinese number one, Watsons."
"We've found it!" John beamed.
Sherlock replaced the price tag and began to lead the way away from the shop. A long exhale loosed from my lips and I frowned. Sure, we knew what the symbols meant, but what good did numbers do us? As I followed after Sherlock and John, I spotted a woman wearing black clothing and dark sunglasses raising a camera to her face with the lens facing toward us. I frowned and glanced back to see if there was something of interest a tourist would take a picture of; but all that was there was the grocer's. Looking back, I saw the woman was gone.
It was probably nothing, but I couldn't help but remember Miyako's first words of warning to me.
"Not everyone is as they seem; you must look deeper and expect the worst if you want to survive."
"Max, let's go!" Sherlock called over his shoulder for me.
"Right," I mumbled, and headed after him and my brother.