Sherlock found Molly exactly where he knew she would be, finishing up her daily paperwork. Smiling warmly, she stood as he approached.
"I was hoping you would stop by!"
"Why?" Sherlock's glacial stare thawed as she playfully swatted him on the arm.
"Because I have something I wanted to talk to you about." Molly happily thrust a colorful brochure into his hands.
He casually turned it over. "An exhibit on human anatomy?"
"At the Natural History Museum. See, it opens on Monday, but members can get a sneak peek at the preview tomorrow night."
Sherlock looked baffled. "I have studied human anatomy extensively and would say I am expert. So are you. What could we possibly learn from this?"
Molly's brown eyes crinkled in amusement. "We wouldn't go to learn, Sherlock. We'd go because it's something we're both interested in. Afterward we could get something to eat. It would be . . . a date. Our first real, proper date."
If she didn't know him as well as she did, Molly would've sworn Sherlock looked stricken. She tried to catch his eye, but he continued to stare intently at the brochure. Unnerved by his lack of response, she bit her lower lip. "Or we could do something else. Just dinner? Um, never mind. It's OK."
Blushing furiously, Molly quickly turned her attention back to the stacks of files on her crowded desk. Perhaps Sherlock had wanted to plan their first date. She hoped she hadn't stolen his thunder.
On the contrary, the detective had no idea that Molly would want to go on a date at all or why one was even required. He understood the purpose of going out was for two people to get to know one another, but he knew Molly already. Dates also helped two people who liked one another spend time together. But he and Molly could spend time together in the morgue or at her flat on Sundays. Going to a museum and having dinner was unnecessary.
He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. She had been so happy when he had walked through the double doors of the lab, but now all he observed about her was anxiety. He then felt something strange—he desired to make her happy.
Sherlock nodded curtly. "The exhibit would be nice. Very nice indeed."
Molly positively beamed. "Really? You want to go?"
"Yes." He folded the brochure neatly and put it in his coat pocket. "But right now I need to see Maria Gibson's body."
After Molly unzipped the body bag, Sherlock slowly circled the table.
"Horrible, isn't it?" Molly was used to dead bodies, but this murder was particularly gruesome.
"Our old friend the blunt instrument did its job." Sherlock leaned forward to have a closer look. "How were you able to make an identification without dental records?"
"Fingerprints. See these abrasions on her palms and knees? I think she was struck from behind and fell before the murderer started beating her."
"Good observation, Molly," he said with a smile. "Thank you. I have seen all that I need to."
"Are you off then?" She walked briskly to keep up with him.
"I will text you about tomorrow. Right now I must tell Lestrade that his Keystone Cops have arrested the wrong man."
~s~s~s~s~
"It's an open-and-shut case, Sherlock. I don't know why you're sticking your nose in it at all." Lestrade shrugged out of his coat as Sherlock followed him into his office.
"My client believes you have arrested the wrong man, and she is quite right."
The detective inspector rolled his eyes. "Your client is Luciana De Silva, yeah? She seems determined to have her sister's husband arrested when there is no evidence."
"She contends Neil Gibson might have wanted his wife out of the way so he could pursue a new relationship," said Sherlock.
Lestrade sat down and flipped on his computer. "I looked into it. It's all over the gossip sites that Gibson had mistresses, but he has an alibi for the time of the murder. He was Skyping with investors in Shanghai."
Sherlock's patience was stretched thin. "Did you see the victim's face, or what is left of it? A common thief would not kill a woman in this manner just for a phone. This was a crime of passion."
"Brutality doesn't mean some strung-out meth head couldn't have done it. Sam Clark was as high as Big Ben when we arrested him."
"It is illogical."
"Maybe so, Spock, but I've known addicts to do all manner of illogical things when they're high. And you have, too."
Ignoring Lestrade's knowing look, Sherlock began to send a text. "Sam Clark did not commit this crime. Only someone emotionally invested would destroy a woman's face in that manner. And if she looked anything like her sister, Mrs. Gibson was a beautiful woman."
"You notice that kind of thing now?" Lestrade raised his eyebrows, earning him a scowl. "Yes, Mrs. Gibson was beautiful. She and your client were twins."
Sherlock considered this information. He hadn't known the two women were twins. "What other evidence do you have?"
"None. No witnesses, no physical evidence—"
"That Anderson observed, you mean," Sherlock said snidely.
Lestrade pointed to the door. "All right then, Sherlock. Goodbye. Have a nice afternoon. Leave!"
~s~s~s~s~
Neil Gibson's mother always said her youngest son was cold, manipulative, and highly intelligent the minute he was born. With an insurance salesman for a father and a nurse for a mother, Neil was determined to leave his Midwestern America roots behind to accomplish great things. Tests conducted at a young age showed he had a very high IQ, but when he was bored, Neil didn't bother to go to school. However, if a subject interested him, he was at the top of his class. It all depended on what he wanted at the moment.
Thoroughly fed up by the time the boy finished high school, Neil's father reached his breaking point when Neil chose, of all impractical things, geology for a major. A huge blowout led to Mr. Gibson screaming that Neil would never amount to anything. That was all the incentive Neil needed to leave home and never look back.
He spent his early twenties crisscrossing the country, working different jobs. When he turned twenty-nine, Neil met Brazilian mining executive Juan De Silva on a plane to Bogota. Depending on who told the story, Juan asked for Neil's help in improving his company's operations. That was Neil's version at least. But there was no doubt that within several years of Neil coming on board, business boomed. Neil became known as the "Gold King," not because he struck a rich vein of ore, but because he helped develop a new process to separate gold from other minerals.
Juan's daughters, Maria and Luciana, had just turned sixteen when Neil stormed into town. He had known his share of lovely women, but these girls were something special. Even at their young age, he could tell they would become remarkably beautiful women. Maria, the more outgoing of the two, always paid attention to what he had to say and showed great interest in his work. It was easy enough to marry her when she came of age, which helped smoothed things over when he bought out her father's shares in the company.
The business grew exponentially, mainly due to Neil's ruthlessness in making deals and stepping over people. He expanded beyond mining to other industries and relocated the company and his small family to London when he did a hostile takeover of a telecommunications company. Gibson Consolidated now occupied the bottom four floors of Gibson Plaza in the heart of London's financial district. Unlike other companies that demanded the top floors of a building, Gibson preferred to be closer to the ground. He wanted visitors to his building to know whose world they were entering.
It was just after lunch on Thursday when Sherlock pushed through the revolving doors of the glass-and-chrome tower and strode across the sleek, black lobby. John stood waiting for him near a modern bronze sculpture in front of the bank of elevators.
"I got your text."
"Clearly."
"How did you get an appointment with him on such short notice?"
"Mycroft threatened to hold up some merger or another if Gibson refused to see me. My brother can be useful at times," Sherlock admitted grudgingly.
The elevator directly in front of them opened with a ding.
"Hold the lift! Wait!" A small, nervous-looking man squeezed through the closing doors as Sherlock pushed the button for the fourth floor.
"You are Sherlock Holmes," the man said, agitated.
"I am."
"My name is Martin Bates. I'm an accountant here. I recognized you from Dr. Watson's blog. I also overheard Mr. Gibson's secretary saying how angry he was that he has been forced to talk to you." The man pushed the pause button and the elevator came to a stop.
Alarmed, John quickly was on the defensive, but Sherlock remained calm and collected. "I am due in his office in three minutes."
"Then I'll be brief. Gibson is evil."
"That is strong language, Mr. Bates."
"Don't be fooled by his PR spin. He can put on a good show and tell you about his charities, but the truth is that he will use anyone, do anything, and lie to get his way."
"I am not easily fooled," Sherlock snapped.
"Why are you telling us this?" John demanded.
Bates pushed the start button and the elevator hummed upward. "I met his wife a few times. We all liked her and felt for her and hated him for how he treated her. I don't know if he killed her, but I do know there isn't a woman here that he didn't make a pass at."
As the doors glided open, Mr. Bates quickly stepped out, but he turned one last time before hurrying off. "The man has ice water in his veins."
"Well, he doesn't have a very loyal staff," John observed. "And it sounds like he doesn't deserve one."
"The warning might prove to be a useful one," Sherlock said and walked toward the executive suite.
Neil Gibson kept them waiting for fifteen additional minutes. By the time he and John were admitted into the sparsely decorated office, Sherlock was seething, but not so much that he couldn't make several swift observations about the millionaire.
The man was of average height but had the long, lean lines of a swimmer. His black hair was salted with white, which gave him an air of respectability that was quickly lost when his hard, black eyes flashed coldly. He gave off the impression that he was a hard man and tried to disguise that fact with good grooming. His well-cut pinstripe suit didn't have a crease and his heavily Botoxed face indicated Gibson was vain. He sat at a large desk in a larger chair across from a matching credenza as sunlight spilled through wide-paned windows. This was his kingdom, and he was letting them know they were trespassers.
"You have five minutes," Gibson announced in a voice that was heavily American but held traces of other influences.
"I have been retained by your sister in law regarding your wife's murder," Sherlock said.
"Lulu can't accept the fact that the police have already found Maria's killer. But you already know that." Gibson looked the pair up and down. "I suppose you took this case for the money."
"Money is irrelevant to me," said Sherlock.
"Then it must be for the reputation you'll gain by having your name associated with mine."
"It may surprise you to learn, Mr. Gibson, that it is the problem itself that intrigues me, not notoriety. But we are wasting my five minutes. When was the last time you saw your wife?"
Gibson answered with all the emotion he might have in ordering Chinese food. "Sunday morning. She was going for her run. I got up early because I had a call with China. I didn't even know Maria hadn't come home until the smoke alarm went off. My eight year old was trying to cook breakfast and burned the eggs."
"Where was your nanny?"
"It was Grace's day off."
Sherlock assessed the photos on the credenza. Each silver frame contained a picture of Neil and a world leader or a famous actress. There was none of his wife and children. "What precisely is the nature of your relationship with Grace?"
Mr. Gibson stood. "Get out of my office."
"I still have two minutes left," Sherlock smirked.
"You've done yourself no good, Mr. Holmes. No man has ever crossed me and been the better for it."
"So many have said so, and yet here I am," said Sherlock, smiling. "Good day, Mr. Gibson."
~s~s~s~s~
"How did you know Gibson had an affair with the nanny?" John asked as they entered the detective's rooms.
Sherlock took off his blue scarf and dropped it over the back of a kitchen chair on which assorted beakers were stacked in an open box. "That was an educated guess on my part. If what Bates said was true and Gibson had flirted with every woman in his office, then he most likely would not have any more ethics in his home. We will need to speak to Miss Dunbar as soon as possible."
As Sherlock tossed his coat toward the chair, something fluttered to the ground.
"What's this?" John picked up the brochure Sherlock had casually dropped.
"I am going to that exhibit. On a date."
"A date?" John coughed. "A date?"
"With Molly."
"You? On a date?" John echoed.
"It is something that will make Molly happy. As I recall, you told me to think about her feelings more often. I am willing to do this for her."
John wasn't sure where to begin. "Just showing up isn't going to make Molly happy. She'll have certain expectations."
"Such as?" Sherlock looked owlish as he blinked at his former flatmate.
"She'll expect you to be engaged, not distant. She'll want you to enjoy yourself, not be all stone faced and cold. She may want you to…" The doctor couldn't say the words.
The silence at 221 B Baker Street was deafening.
"Yes?" an exasperated Sherlock finally asked.
"Oh God." John scrubbed his hands over his face. "I really don't want to do this, but we may need to have the talk—"
"Really, John?" Sherlock interrupted. "I hardly think that is necessary. Molly and I will go to the museum and then get something to eat at Angelo's. It is quite simple. What can go wrong?"