The director's office was located on the far side of the gallery. The door was almost indistinguishable it was so seamlessly cut into the wall. Its only indication was a subtle silver handle which Donovan opened to reveal a posh looking room furnished with minimalist furniture of glass and chrome. It was the kind of room that reminded John of a high tech airport security terminal, uniform, sparse and singular in its purpose. It smelled slightly of citrus, which came to no surprise when he spotted a geometric metal bowl filled with oranges and apples on a side table next to the door.
When the detective inspector and the two flatmates entered, the other occupants of the room turned to give their attention to them. Two policemen stood in the way of a slender metallic desk in the center of the room. Sergeant Donovan, still leaning against the door, nodded to the officers and they left the room with her quietly. As the men in uniform moved, a pair of smooth female legs could be seen underneath the desk, peaking from the side slit of a satin silver dress. John and Lestrade both made efforts not to stare at them, sliding their eyes upward to see the rest of the woman. Meredith sat back in her black leather chair with her arms folded. Her steely blue eyes enchanted anyone who kept a lingered gaze on them, conveniently disguising her deepest thoughts.
"Sherlock Holmes," She uttered smoothly, brushing a lock of straight golden hair behind her ear, giving no attention to the two other men. John and Lestrade shared a look, both accustomed to lying in the background as Sherlock and his ego took over.
"I don't believe we've met," he replied with a quirked eyebrow at the woman.
"That's true. But I knew you would be coming. I recognize you from the news."
The art director pulled open a drawer and removed a folded newspaper, reaching across the desk to hand it to the consulting detective. On the front was a picture of him with that ridiculous deerstalker hat. He looked at his popular headliner photograph disdainfully, then back to the woman. She leaned forward in her chair, placing her elbows on her desk.
"Mr. Holmes I understand you are a specialist regarding…unusual crimes-"
"All really," he interjected. She remained quiet for a moment, annoyed by the interruption. When she spoke again she lowered her tone. While she spoke Sherlock snatched an apple from the bowl by the door, filling the small room with a resonating crunch as he took a large bite.
"The statue that was stolen tonight is the biggest asset to my gallery, and I need it to be found as efficiently as possible. Its permanent loss would devastate me and my business," she implored this with severity, "However, I must ask that you use a high level of sensitivity. I know how you are prone to catching the public's eye and I've already endured enough bad publicity. I'm afraid what the consequences would be if more unfavorable information or allegations about my gallery were leaked in the news."
Sherlock grabbed the back of the seat opposite her and swung it around, sitting down to face her with his shoes on her desk. She pretended the rude gesture didn't affect her and remained unfaltering. He stared at his apple, turning it around in his hand as he responded.
"As long as this place isn't hiding any skeletons in its cupboards i'm sure you won't have anything to be concerned about," Sherlock replied bitingly. "But since you already have seven of them you might as well tell me if you have any others. I'll dig them up either way. I always do, but then again you are such a fan that you already know that," he gave her a small sarcastic smile.
Meredith's politeness seemed to fade away as his attitude worsened. She pursed her lips together and narrowed her eyes, leaning back once again with her hands clasped on her satin covered knee. It wasn't until this moment that she realized others had entered with Sherlock. Her eyes first settled on John who was looking about the furnishings in the office and studying the oddly shaped paperweight on her desk, embarrassed by his partner's sarcasm.
"And you are?" she asked him. Sherlock looked back and gave John a glance.
They both replied to the question in the same instant.
"He's my flatmate."
"I'm his friend."
John awkwardly corrected both of their answers. "Partners," he settled on. Instantly the thought occurred to him that some people might take that in other ways then it was intended.
"In a strictly platonic...professional way," he added quickly with an uncomfortable smile.
"It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Meredith Dandurant the director of this gallery, as you probably already know."
She looked to Lestrade. "You must be the detective inspector Lestrade? The woman that was questioning me said you would arrive shortly. I hope you'll be able to find my statue as soon as possible."
"Yes I'm Lestrade, but i'm sorry to tell you Mrs. Dandurant-"
"Miss," she muttered.
"-Miss Dandurant, but our department doesn't deal with stolen property. We only have jurisdiction over the murders I'm afraid. But we do have Sherlock and John here to help you with that."
"How fortunate," she said, barely trying to hide her annoyance. Apparently the negative aspects of Sherlock's personality were left out of the headliners. The woman wasn't a fan of unpleasant surprises. John suddenly felt a pang of guilt for the woman sitting behind the desk, although she did have a stuck up air about her. Nevertheless, she had just sustained a pretty big shock and her concerns deserved to be taken seriously.
"We'll try our best to be sensitive about the situation," John told the woman finally,
"If you need us to be confidential we will be."
Relief appeared behind Meredith's crystal blue eyes. It's not a common occurrence for her to find someone trustworthy at first meeting, but as she examined John's sincere smile her breathing steadied for the first time since her speech earlier that night.
"Please sit," she gestured to the chair beside Sherlock.
"Thank you," the doctor nodded and sank into the leather. Sherlock paused from taking another bite of the apple and let out a steady stream of orders before returning to it.
"John get out your journal. Lestrade proceed with the questions."
"He's charming," Meredith said sarcastically.
"You get used to it," John replied while rummaging through his satchel for a small black notebook which he reserved for recording their case notes. Once he found it, his fingers grazed the cover admiringly. He flipped through the dust and nostalgia scented paper, which had become yellowed and stained with constant use, until he landed on a fresh unwritten page.
On the top he wrote: The Case of the Soap People and the Missing Statue
His eyes landed on Lestrade to indicate he was ready. Lestrade, still taken off guard by Sherlock's unusual demand for him to begin the questioning process, stepped tentatively toward the witness.
"Are you sure you want me to ask the questions?" he checked for confirmation.
"Positive," Sherlock stated with finality taking another bite of the scarlet apple.
"Alright then," the inspector cleared his throat and began.
"So you said there was a statue stolen as well? Could you tell us what happened exactly?"
Sherlock smirked at the originality of the question and John gave him a look of warning. Meredith retold the previous events of the night in detail from the time she set foot on the stage for her speech to the moment when the guests began their chaotic stampede for the exit, to her complete and utter shock when she saw what was gruesomely left standing in the place of her statue.
"It took me some time to realize what was happening. I was in shock. My assistant Cara shook me until I realized everyone had fled the building. They were all forced to leave because of the pressure of the crowd. Luckily, Cara had jumped up on the stage and called the police."
The consulting detective groaned. The three glanced at him but he said nothing.
"Okay. Did you see any suspicious activity tonight?" Lestrade continued.
"No. Nothing really comes to mind," Meredith shrugged. She looked down at her hands as she spoke, checking to make sure her nails were still intact.
Sherlock groaned again and crossed his legs the other way on top of Meredith's desk. John looked up from writing, recognizing that as one of Sherlock's many signs of agitation. Lestrade was asking the wrong questions and he needed to intervene before his friend's impatience caused a row.
"This gallery must have surveillance cameras," John interrupted, "have you checked the footage?"
"Cara was just about to show Miss Donovan I believe. I don't understand. We have a fully operation security system. If someone broke in our alarms would notify us and the police within minutes. How could all of this happen without us knowing?"
"That is a very good question," John agreed, completely baffled. "Sherlock, any theories?"
The man was now staring off, clearly lost in thought.
"Perhaps," he responded distantly, "how big was it, the statue?"
"About seven meters tall I suppose," Meredith responded.
"Weight?"
She thought about the question for a minute.
"I'd say close to 450 kilograms."
An experienced team would take 4-5 movers to transport it safely. Sherlock pondered. Probably one at the vehicle to watch for trouble. A moving truck would be necessary as well as an industrial dolly, often used for moving grand pianos and safes. Clearly this would have to be done by very skilled and knowledgeable people, capable of disarming complex security systems. Seems a bit contradictory compared to the jute rope used on the bodies.
"Did you recognize any of the victims?" Sherlock questioned, switching the subject to the bodies.
"No. As far as I can tell… with the decomposition," she said with the slightest wince. John decided it would be best to avoid the more morbid topics at the moment.
"Did the guests arrive by invite?" he asked. She seemed grateful for the change and even perked up at the question.
"Oh yes they were. I have a guest list," she searched through a file drawer, quickly retrieving a folder which contained all of her itineraries and plans for that night's event. On the top of the pile was the invitation list. The list claimed Sherlock's attention enough for him to put his half eaten apple down on the desk. He scanned the paper, hoping to find something that might strike out to him.
"Was there anyone tonight who stood out to you?" Lestrade questioned, hoping that it might redeem him after Sherlock's criticism.
Sherlock's eyes stopped on a familiar name. Augustus Weinfeld.
"Oh," Meredith abruptly uttered, breaking his thoughts. "I almost forgot. It was suspicious at the time but then after all the chaos it wasn't a priority anymore."
"What is it?" the inspector probed. Meredith's eyes trailed off as she tried to recall accurately.
"Bruce Hartford… I didn't invite him. He showed up and I hadn't met him before tonight."
John looked at Sherlock as if to confirm if the name rang a bell. Sherlock shook his head with a thoughtful expression.
"What was he like? What did you discuss?" Lestrade continued.
"He was mysterious, and American. He didn't tell me what he does, except that we worked in the art industry. He knew quite a lot about Christanza's art, specific pieces, but this was the first time they were available for public viewing."
"And you said the artist's name was Christanza?"
"Yes. Leo Christanza. He's a new artist. I was the first gallery to sign him. He's been creating this art collection for my gallery for the past two years. The London Art Museum was even interested in him."
"Where is he now? Do you know?" Lestrade asked as he sat on the corner of her desk.
"No, he disappeared with the crowd I think. I remember seeing him looking very distraught. I should probably phone him. I'm sure he would like to be kept updated."
John finished writing his notes and then made eye contact with Lestrade and Sherlock.
"Is that all for now?" he asked them.
"Yes," Sherlock said, standing up quickly and straightening his jacket. "We have what we need for now. We need to see the security footage."
He looked to Meredith and she nodded. "Of course. I'll see where Cara is. Excuse me for a moment."
She moved to leave the room with a lithe and catlike body. Her dress shimmering like mercury as she slipped out of the door, graceful yet powerful. John turned to Sherlock as soon as the door closed.
"What do you think of her?"
"Suspicious."
"Exactly what I was thinking. There's something a bit off about her."
Sherlock began pacing the room. Lestrade changed positions on the desk so he could face him.
"Why is she suspicious? That seems harsh don't you think? You just talked with her for a few minutes. That can hardly be a judge of character."
Sherlock stopped pacing to give him an incredulous look.
"Lestrade, don't be a fool. She is a woman of power who uses her attractive appearance to distract men with mental vulnerabilities." he looked Lestrade up and down to indicate that he was one such man. Lestrade took offense to the comment, his face falling. He looked to John but he didn't show any sign of agreeing with the inspector.
"Greg you must admit she seemed to be very...guarded. She didn't give us much information."
"Exactly John!" Sherlock exclaimed with zeal. "Why would she make that comment about keeping our investigation as quiet as possible and reserving any information we discover about her gallery private? Because there is something she is keeping from us. Something she is keeping from everyone. Maybe it's connected to the case, maybe it isn't. But that chance makes it vitally important. Did you also fail to see, Lestrade, how unaffected she was by the bodies? They were right next to her, decayed, rotting in front of her, and she barely mentioned them?"
"Well I don't know about that Sherlock. She seemed disturbed to me. When you asked if she recognized them she seemed put off."
"Put off? The average person would be in tears and she's concerned about the state of her nails," he snorted in disbelief.
"The average person yes," John interrupted, "But some people deal with emotions by telling themselves they are irrelevant. Some people rely on logic instead," John responded, looking straight up into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock stared back and for a single second the doctor swore he saw them shining with truth, but the man looked away as quickly as the feeling was shared.
"Insurance fraud," Sherlock stated while looking away. "It's one of my theories for the stolen statue. She hired a moving truck and paid a group of movers to take the statue to another location. I predict in the next few days she will claim the item missing with her insurance company. But that's only one theory. It seems too simple and she seems too smart to pull something so stupid. And I don't know how that would tie in with the bodies."
"That is an interesting point. You said the murderer was inexperienced. Then how did they steal a statue and bring in seven bodies without triggering an alarm?" Lestrade inquired with confusion.
"Yes…" Sherlock thought as he paced again. "A crime of profit and a crime of passion. An experienced thief and an inexperienced killer...these are two different crimes, by two different criminals."
"At the same time?" John asked, "how?"
"We shall find out," Sherlock concluded confidently just as someone entered the room.
A woman with dark hair and wide bookish glasses appeared from behind the door. The three men looked down at her, surprised by her shortness.
"I'm Cara, Meredith's assistant. She said you wanted to see the security footage," She chirped in a gentle yet high pitched voice.
"Um...yes thank you," John responded as the other men remained in awe by the woman's peculiarity.
"I'll show you if you'll just follow me," she squeaked and held the door open for them to exit. Trying not to laugh at the squirrelish woman, the three of them left the director's office and entered the great gallery room once again.