Breakfast was Sherlock’s favorite meal of the day. He could order lox and cream cheese, or he could order gooey pancakes covered in syrup. He could start and finish in ten minutes, or he could stretch the meal to an hour. It all depended on what he wanted. Lunch was almost always a quick affair full of unhealthy food, while dinner came with too many expectations once it was over—sex, business, witty conversation. He had to become an entertainer after dinner. Breakfast, though, came with a freedom no other meal possessed.
Today, he had brought bagels, cream cheese, pastries, and coffee from a local bakery. It wasn’t fancy or pretentious; it was food that tasted good. He liked that.
He had two employees with him in the car that morning: Scott Gibson and Alonzo Morrison. Both were former police officers who had become private investigators. They did as he asked, and he paid them well for their time. More than that, he protected them. Everyone had skeletons in his or her closet. In Scott’s and Alonzo’s cases, those bodies were real, and they had buried them in the woods or dumped them in the Mississippi River or left them to rot in abandoned buildings in north St. Louis.
Behind him was a white Ford Focus. Its driver—a man Sherlock knew only as Mr. Mendoza—had picked it up from a rental car facility near the airport very early that morning. Most of the time, Sherlock preferred knowing everything he could about the men and women with whom he worked, but knowing too much about Mr. Mendoza or his business partners would earn him an unmarked grave. Ignorance in this case was bliss.
They pulled to a stop in front of McFarlane Motors in north St. Louis. A chain-link fence topped with barbed wire surrounded the lot, giving the business a menacing look and feel. The property had started as a gas station, and it still had the overhead metal canopy that had, at one time, shielded the pumps from the elements, but now the shop’s owner had removed those pumps and expanded the main building from two garage bays to six. There was a warehouse next door with an additional five garage bays and ample room for storage.
Alonzo and Scott waited outside while Sherlock and Mr. Mendoza went in. Though it had been several years since he had last stepped foot in that building, Sherlock remembered the shop’s layout. He and Mendoza walked to a smoke-filled employee lounge at the rear of the station. Linoleum tile covered the ground while kitchen cabinets lined two of the walls. In the center of the room was a sturdy Formica-topped table with six chairs, four of which had men sitting in them.
Sherlock put the bagels on a clear section of counter and opened cabinet doors until he found a stack of paper plates. Those, too, he put on the counter.
“You want to tell us why you called a meeting, counselor?” asked Warren Nichols, the garage owner. “I’ve got a business to run and shit to do.”
“I’ll make it worth your while to listen,” said Sherlock, pulling a chair from the table to sit down. “First, though, I brought cinnamon crunch bagels. They’re delicious, and breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”
Two guys laughed before standing and digging into the food. The others followed suit shortly. Sherlock waited at the end of the line and slathered a thick layer of apple cinnamon infused cream cheese on his own bagel before sitting down and enjoying the quick, unhealthy breakfast at the table. After a few minutes of relative silence, he took a drink of coffee and cleared his throat. The men focused on him.
“Don’t stop eating on my account. It’s breakfast. Let’s keep it casual,” said Sherlock, looking to the men around the table. “First, I’m here because you were all in business with Christopher Hughes. He’s a friend of mine, just as he’s a friend of yours. I’m here with a business proposal that can make all of us rich.”
Randy Shepard, a hotel owner from East St. Louis, crossed his arms. “Who the fuck are you, and why should we trust you with any kind of business deal?”
Sherlock nodded to him.
“I’m James Holmes, but most people call me Sherlock. And you shouldn’t trust me. You shouldn’t trust anyone. Our business relationship will be transactional.”
Randy raised an eyebrow, but Sherlock ignored him and reached into the briefcase at his side. He pulled out four manila folders and handed them out to the men around the table.
“Open them,” said Sherlock. “Each folder is custom made for you.”
One by one, the men looked in their folders, and one by one, expressions around the table darkened.
“The hell is this?” asked Neil Wilcox, owner of several nutrition and supplement stores across the county. He tossed the folder to the table in front of him and leveled a malevolent glare at Sherlock. “You’ve got pictures of my kids. I don’t appreciate that.”
“I understand, but this is an important component of how I do business,” said Sherlock. “This envelope ensures that you remain accountable. Each of you has something you love. If you lie, cheat, or steal from me, you’ll lose it. It’s as simple as that.”
Steven Zimmerman, the owner of several office supply and copy centers in the county, stood up. Sherlock had figured he’d leave, so he hadn’t included Zimmerman in any of his plans.
“I don’t appreciate being threatened. That’s not how I do business.”
“Then you’re free to go, Steven,” said Sherlock, nodding. “Good luck with your future endeavors. Take your accountability folder with you. No hard feelings, but you’ll miss out on a terrific opportunity.”
Steven grabbed the folder and shook his head as he left the room. Mr. Mendoza followed. Warren stood and opened his mouth to say something, but Sherlock coughed and shook his head while holding up his index finger.
“Just a moment,” said Sherlock. He held his breath, knowing what was coming next. The gunshot was loud and close. The other guys around the table jumped, but Sherlock sat straighter. “Does anyone else want to leave?”
Warren sat down.
“It’s unfortunate how dangerous this neighborhood has become,” said Sherlock. “Mr. Zimmerman’s kids will miss their dad, but at least they’ll sleep in their little beds in Glendale tonight, safe and sound.”
“Who the fuck are you?” asked Randy, his face pale.
“I’m the guy who’ll make you rich,” said Sherlock. “I’m also Christopher Hughes’s attorney. Before his incarceration, I know you all worked for him. Warren, you allowed him to process and break down stolen vehicles in your shop here. It’s a wonderful facility. Randy, you pimped his girls in your cheap motels in East St. Louis. You also provided drivers to take those girls across town. Neil, you helped him launder money through your stores. Steven—God rest his soul—did the same. Christopher was a gangster. You were his crew, or at least the closest thing he had to one. Now you’re mine.”
Nobody said anything for a moment. Then Randy crossed his arms.
“Steven was a prick,” he said. “I don’t care if he’s dead, but I’m not a fan of empty promises. Tell me about this money you’ll make me.”
“I had hoped to get the chance to talk to you,” said Sherlock. “Using the foster care system to meet and recruit young vulnerable girls—and getting paid for housing them while you pimped them out—was brilliant. If I were a father, I’d tear your balls off, but since I’m not, I can be honest. That was genius.”
“Thank you,” he said. “But I’m not here for flattery. I’ve got a business to run. I’m not interested in having smoke blown up my ass.”
Sherlock glanced toward the door, having spotted movement. Mr. Mendoza stepped inside. He had a pistol tucked into the front of his belt.
“We’ll move into a new market,” said Sherlock. “Pharmaceutical sales. Each of you has a business network chosen for this endeavor. Randy, you’ll handle distribution. Your girls already deal some. Now, they’ll increase that. They will also recruit and supervise our new dealers. Warren, you’ve got cars moving into this place twenty-four hours a day. You’ll be our logistics man. Neil, you’ll be our money man. We will funnel cash to you, and you will use your stores and other businesses to clean it.”
Warren rolled his eyes and shook his head. Neil said nothing. Randy leaned forward and held up two fingers.
“Two problems. We’ve talked about moving into narcotics, but the competition is intense, and it’s hard to find a reliable supplier. If this is your plan, we might as well declare bankruptcy now.”
“I like the way your mind works, Randy,” said Sherlock. “I can see why Christopher relied on you so much.”
“Like I said, I’m not here for flattery.”
Sherlock looked to Mendoza and nodded. Mendoza took Steven’s now empty seat. Warren shifted away from the diminutive Hispanic man.
“This is Mr. Mendoza,” said Sherlock. “He represents a business conglomerate in Juarez, Mexico. They’d like us to set up a franchise in the city for them. Securing products to sell will not be a problem.”
The men around the table looked to Mendoza. He had the cold, black eyes of a reptile. They took in the men around them but gave nothing away. Sherlock almost felt a cold shudder pass through him.
“As Mr. Holmes says, finding an adequate supply of cocaine will not be an issue,” said Mendoza. “My organization would like to expand its regional distribution network to include a hub in St. Louis. Agents in my organization wholesale products in Chicago, Houston, and Miami, but our analytics data shows we are the primary supplier of cocaine, marijuana, and methamphetamines in your city.
“Because of our existing market saturation in our target markets, we’d like to increase our presence in smaller cities across the Midwest. St. Louis is our first trial. If we’re successful, we’ll expand to Indianapolis, Kansas City, Cincinnati, and other cities in the region.”
He stood up and walked around the table.
“Our analytics data estimates that the St. Louis region consumes four tons of cocaine per year. Your organization will purchase five tons from us at a cost of fifty-two million dollars. As our regional distributor, you will be free to set prices as you see fit, but we suggest a retail price of twenty-six thousand per kilo. Assuming the pricing structure holds, your organization will net seventy-two million per year in profit. As you increase the size of the market, your profit will increase.”
Somebody whistled. Randy, though, shook his head.
“What about the competition? What about security? What about capital?” he asked. “You may think you’ll make us rich, but it sounds more like you’ll make us dead.”
“My organization will handle product security,” said Mr. Mendoza. “We can also make our security personnel available should problems arise. As for competition, consider it eliminated. If you agree to our terms, you will become the sole distributors of our products in the region. Wholesalers in other cities will no longer sell to St. Louis-based distributors for fear of losing their own franchises. My agents will give your contact information to anyone who can no longer purchase in Chicago or Miami.”
Warren looked at Sherlock.
“If he’s providing the drugs, what do we need you for?”
“Everyone needs a manager,” said Sherlock, smiling. “I’ll act as the liaison between our organization and Mr. Mendoza’s organization. Not only that, I’m a criminal defense attorney who has been in private practice for the past twenty years. I have pre-existing relationships with an awful lot of people involved in the narcotics trade in this city. I can get you the dealers who will push our products. We’ll split the proceeds equally among us. Given the size of the market and the generous terms Mr. Mendoza has offered, that will leave us each with eighteen million dollars a year.”
“So how would this work?” asked Neil, looking to Mr. Mendoza. “Do you give us product on consignment and we reimburse you?”
Mendoza gave him a tight smile and shook his head.
“No,” he said.
Neil looked to Sherlock and raised his eyebrows. “What do we do, then? I don’t have fifty million dollars sitting around.”
“Mr. Mendoza is not asking for fifty million dollars up front,” said Sherlock. “He’s asking for ten.”
Warren scoffed and stood but didn’t leave the room. Randy stayed put, thinking. Neil leaned forward, ran his fingers through his hair, and sighed as if he were giving up.
“If you give me a week, I can put together a million—maybe even two if I’m lucky—but ten is a stretch,” said Randy, looking at Sherlock. “You seem like a smart man. You wouldn’t have come here and presented this unless you thought it was possible. So what’s the plan?”
When he planned that meeting, Sherlock had assumed Randy was just a pimp who specialized in young women. He was smarter than that, though. Sherlock would have to watch him. If necessary, he’d have to eliminate him. He’d worry about that if the time came, though.
“Each of you has significant resources at your disposal,” said Sherlock. “Ten million is a stretch, but one million isn’t. That’s all I ask from you. One million cash. I’ll provide the same. When we need more product, we’ll use the proceeds of our sales. After this seed capital, we shouldn’t need any further cash infusions.”
Warren leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “Counting you, there are four of us in on this deal. Math wasn’t ever my strong suit, but my math says we’ll be six million short.”
“Christopher Hughes will provide the rest,” said Sherlock.
Warren laughed and shook his head. “Good luck with that. I love Chris, but that guy’s done. You know what life without parole means? He’s never getting out, and he will never give you money. You got any other plans?”
Sherlock smiled at him. “You don’t watch the news, do you?”
Warren narrowed his gaze and then looked to the other men still at the table. “What’s he talking about?”
“Looks like Chris is getting out,” said Neil. “Megan Young, the girl he confessed to murdering, was just found. She’s been alive for the past twelve years.”
Warren said nothing for a moment. Already, though, Sherlock could see the gears in the mechanic’s head turning. He would be a problem sooner rather than later. He had a plan for that, though.
“And you’re sure Christopher has that kind of money?” asked Neil.
Sherlock nodded. “He does, and he’ll give it up. That’s why I had Megan killed. Christopher’s getting out. I’m already in negotiations with the St. Louis County Prosecutor’s Office regarding a monetary settlement for his wrongful conviction. It will be substantial.”
Randy blinked and drew in a breath. “Why did you have the girl killed? If she were alive, you could get him out quicker.”
Sherlock smiled at him but didn’t allow it to reach his eyes. “If she were alive, she’d say Christopher raped her, and that he had raped multiple other girls in his care. It was a lot easier just to shut her up early. You have a problem with that?”
“No,” he said. “The police do, though.”
“I’ll worry about the police,” said Sherlock. He looked to his three potential partners. “You’ve heard the proposal, and you’ve heard the cost. I need to know whether you’re in or out.”
“If we say no, you’ll kill us, right?” asked Neil.
Sherlock looked at him and shrugged. “It’s a tough world we live in. This arrangement can make it easier for you and your families. If you cooperate, we all win. If you refuse…”
He let his voice trail to nothing. The men didn’t even pause before agreeing, not that he expected them to. Randy and Neil even shook his hand as if this were a normal business deal. They all had dangerous work ahead of them, but the rewards outweighed the risk. They would be rich and powerful, none more so than Sherlock.
But first, he had to take care of Christopher Hughes, and that was easier said than done.