Chapter 38: Valentine's in Trouble Part 1
"Sherlock, what are you doing?" Emmaline walked into view in her coat.
"I was ordering room service; did you want to go out?" He asked.
Emma smiled and took off her coat. "Staying in is just fine with me."
Sherlock smiled and returned to the hotel phone. He had decided that they should do the sappy romantic film for Valentine's so he had booked a hotel room in a different part of London for the night. It was a break for both of them – Emma from the stress of school and Sherlock from the stress of his case.
Ever since December, he had been working on the same kidnapping case. The man had taken four women, all brunette and kept them for a few days before they ended up dead. He left no real clues, even for Sherlock, though he had slipped up enough that they had four prime suspects. It had been a few weeks since his last victim, and Lestrade thought this meant he would stop soon for a time or lash out on a spree.
"Did you order champagne?" Emma asked, hanging up her coat.
"Of course." He replied, hanging up the phone. "It will be forty minutes."
"Well, why don't you look through the TV listing and find a movie we can watch and I'll go get some ice?"
"They'll bring it in an ice bucket." He reminded her.
"Who said it was for the champagne?" She asked playfully.
She kissed Sherlock before picking up the ice bucket. "I'll be back in a bit." And she left. Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bed and picked up the remote.
Flipping through the channels, noting the useless drivel that came on each one. He finally settled on a film that he recognized from posters when Emma had dragged him to the cinema and left that on. He stood and glanced down at his watch, noting she had been gone for a few minutes.
He straightened the pillows and comforter on the bed, killing a few seconds. He checked his reflection in the mirror above the dresser, straightened his jacket. When he looked down at his watch again and noted she had been gone for ten minutes, he began to worry. How far away is the ice machine? He wondered.
He made sure a room key was in his pocket before leaving the room and walking down the halls until he found the little room that housed the ice machine and a few vending machines. He opened the door and his heart chilled. The bucket from their room lay on the floor, melting ice scattered across the carpet.
Sherlock did not hesitate in calling Scotland Yard and asking for immediate assistance. He stood in the entrance to the room, not daring to enter any further until Lestrade arrived.
Fifteen minutes later, the gray haired detective inspector approached him.
"Sherlock, we got your call, what's going on."
"The man who's doing the kidnapping – he hasn't disappeared, he just moved." He turned to face Lestrade, his eyes deadly serious. "He has Emmaline, Lestrade."
Greg groaned and looked into the room. "So he took her here. Right. Anderson!" He yelled for the forensics man.
"Sir?"
"I need every inch of this hotel gone over very carefully, I want the manager up here now, and I want full access to the cameras this place has. And, I want to hear no complaining from anyone about Sherlock's involvement in this case, do you understand?"
Over the next twenty minutes the floor was turned into a crime scene, including Sherlock's hotel room. The man himself had just been allowed to step into the room where she had been taken. Examining the angle of the bucket he could see that she had been surprised while getting the ice. He peered closer at the machine and saw faint scratch marks – so he had fought back. Sherlock bit back a smile of pride for his girl.
He thinks logically about what they know about the killer, the ways down to the lobby from this floor. He pulls Lestrade aside.
"Taking her down the stairs is risky, so is the elevator. How would he get her out with no one seeing him?"
The manager overheard and turned from the officer he had been talking to. "We have a service elevator that our employees use to get to every level and the garage, by employee parking."
"Show me." Sherlock practically growled.
The manager struggled to stay ahead of Sherlock's long stride but after a minute of fast walking they had reached the elevator. The manager swiped his identification card and pinned a number in.
"Do you have to have those things to call the elevator?" Lestrade asked.
"Yes, that's the only way to get this elevator to work."
"So he works for the hotel?" Lestrade thought aloud.
"Or he bribed someone who does." Sherlock replied.
The groaning elevator finally halted on their floor and the doors opened. Sherlock and Lestrade stepped inside, and immediately noticed the black heel lying on the floor.
"Is that her shoe?" Greg asked.
"Yes." Sherlock stooped to examine it. There were scuffmarks – she had been dragged down the hall to the elevator. Did that mean she had been drugged, or hurt until she was barely conscious? With every passing moment, the fury in his heart intensified.
Sherlock turned to the manager. "Would you say that with as long as the elevator took to get here, what floor it came from?"
The manager nodded. "It definitely came from the parking garage."
Lestrade urged the man to get in the elevator as well. "Then take us there." He obeyed and they began to slowly descend. The whole time Sherlock was quiet, his mind on fire trying to fit things together from the other kidnappings. The girls had only lasted a few days before being killed and dumped somewhere. From the evidence, they had been chloroformed but there had been no smell in the room to suggest that she had been. This suggested to Sherlock that Emmaline's capture had been one of convenience, not of planning, which also meant that he had to make her easy to get out of there without his drug, which meant physical harm.
The elevator finally stopped on the bottom level and Sherlock launched himself out of the elevator. Lestrade noticed the tenacity with which his friend was acting and hoped that it did not affect his deductive skills.
The only empty space in the lot had tire marks from where a car had pulled out quickly. Sherlock felt that he could still taste the burnt rubber in the air. "He left quickly." He told Lestrade.
He pulled out his magnifying glass and examined the concrete more closely; there were drops of blood and strands of brown hair. Most likely Emmaline's, but he still told Lestrade about it. Sherlock stood up and examined the rest of the space, and spied something. There, under the car next to the lot – he got down on his stomach and reached under the car. He pulled out Emmaline's engagement ring – it had been left behind.
Sherlock looked it over in his gloved hand, finally turning it over to see the diamond. He smiled, proud of his wife. There was blood and a bit of skin stuck to the diamond. She had fought back and left this behind on purpose for him.
"Lestrade, we have him!" Sherlock yelled triumphantly, holding up the ring.
"What?" Lestrade walked over to his friend.
"Emmaline got us a blood sample – if he's in the system we can find him." Sherlock talked quickly, even for him.
Greg understood and took an evidence bag out of his pocket. "I'll have this rushed to Scotland Yard. Even so Sherlock, it will still be at least a day." Lestrade warned him.
Sherlock sighed, allowing some of the manic energy to leave. He had to calm down, look at the scene again, and do his best for her. "I understand, but try and do better." He urged.
Greg nodded and left the parking garage. As he stepped into the elevator, he got a call from one of his men that they had identified the color of the car, and were waiting for clearer footage before identifying the make and model.
"As soon as you find out I want every officer in England on the lookout for it, do you understand me?" He ordered into the phone.
Back on the floor where Sherlock's room was, Lestrade handed Anderson the bag containing Emma's ring. "Rush this to the lab, now. I want it done as fast as you can."
Anderson nodded his understanding, peering through the bag. "Hopefully it's a good enough sample that we can get something from it." He remarked, his gloved hands trying to make out exactly what was in the bag. "Is that…it's an engagement ring right?" He asked, turning to look at Lestrade with a quizzical look on his face.
"Just get it done Anderson." Greg ordered, turning from the younger man. The thought though had struck him. He knew that Sherlock and Emma were close, but the consultant was acting very frantic, very worried.
Curious, Greg lifted up the tape and stepped into the hotel room for the first time all night. He noted the room service that had arrive moments after Sherlock's call. There was champagne, now swimming in a bucket of melted ice, and only one bed. There was one suitcase large enough to fit both of their overnight things. So they did not pack separate bags, he thought.
Snapping his gloves on he placed the luggage on the bed and opened it, searching through. It was the most ordinary bag, pajamas and clothes for the next day. Toiletries that had not yet been removed; still, it was missing the air of innocence. He dug through to the bottom of the bag, and there, between sweatpants and socks, was a half-used box of condoms.
Lestrade paled at the sight of it. His twenty-eight year old friend and this nineteen-year-old girl were…for how long, he wondered. After she had been found he would have to sit Sherlock down and talk about this. She was of age he admitted, but sex and Sherlock did not seem to belong in the same sentence. He cared for them both and wanted to be sure that this was the best thing for them.
Carefully, Greg put the bag back together and set it back down. He threw the gloves away; he had other things to worry about, being in charge of this investigation. His personal worries could wait until Emmaline was safe again.
Sherlock stood outside the room, waiting to speak to Lestrade.
"Do I have to get a new room?" He asked as Greg exited his room.
"Yes Sherlock, get a new room. I'll have an officer bring you your things when we're done going through everything." Lestrade silenced a call on his phone; he would get it in a minute.
"I'm going back to the Yard now. I will call you as soon as we find something; if you get there first, call me, do you understand? This man is dangerous."
Sherlock nodded his head.
"I mean it Sherlock." Lestrade said, forcing the younger man to pay attention to his words. "Do not endanger Emmaline because you think you're trying to take care of her." He warned.
Sherlock nodded again. "I understand."
"Good." Greg backed away from his space and picked up the phone. "This is DI Lestrade."
Sherlock watched him walk away; noting the pale face, the tension in his shoulders, and wondered what had made the man suddenly so terse.
Shrugging, Sherlock went away to go and re-examine every space he had visited, to re-check everything he knew about the other cases and this man.
ᶓ
Two days, it had been two days since Emmaline had been taken from the hotel. Time was running out. Sherlock had not slept at all in that time. Most of it he had spent staring at the case files spread before him, trying to connect facts, figure out who was doing this.
He was in the middle of a thought when his phone rang. He flipped it open, briefly checking the caller I.D.
"Lestrade." He said shortly.
"Jack Albert, aged 34. He lives in Liverpool as a door-to-door salesman of get this, cleaning products. That is why the scenes were always so pristine. He messed up with Emma – he stalked the other victims, she was just an opportunity he saw and took."
"And, where is he now?" Sherlock fought to keep his voice calm.
"Relax Sherlock; I have my guys working on it right now and a car on the way to get you to take you there when we figure out. It should be shortly."
Sherlock huffed impatiently and threw his clothes on, buttoning his coat when there was a call on the hotel phone for him. He raced down to the lobby and out the door where the officer was waiting.
"Just got the call from D.I. Lestrade sir, we think we know where he's keeping her."
As soon as Sherlock was in the car, they drove off, speeding through towns and villages until they reached Liverpool. Sherlock saw a congregation of officers and Lestrade himself, outside of a barn that appeared to be abandoned.
"Why here?" Sherlock asked.
"You know how that pathologist at St. Barts kept saying that she was finding bits of straw in their hair? Jack Albert grew up on this farm before his father went bankrupt and they had to sell. It fell into disarray; it's the perfect place to keep his victims."
Lestrade explained, while trying to organize his men into formation.
"Now Sherlock, we're going in to get her. You have to stay out here. I have officers under orders to tackle you if you try to get into that barn and hamper out take-down." Lestrade said seriously.
Sherlock was about to open his mouth to complain but Greg put up a hand to stop him.
"Just don't. You are staying out here because that is what is best for her. You going in puts her in jeopardy."
Sherlock closed his mouth; he was not happy about it but he understood where Lestrade was coming from. He waited tensely, digging his fingernails into his palms as Lestrade and his men slowly worked their way to the barn.
"Alright boys," Lestrade whispered over their comms, which Sherlock heard through the other officer's radios, "we're going in."