Her agent, Vonny, had already taken the trouble of emailing a bunch of casting agents about the show, promising comps if they were keen, and one had said he might be attending. It wasn’t one of the big timers but, Simone told herself, you have to begin on the lower rung and haul yourself step by step to the top. She wished she could tell the whole world about working with Sherlock Holmes. That would have her Snapchat and Instagram going through the roof. Ha, imagine the Kardashians trying to compete with that!
Not that she wasn’t in their camp. Georgette had no time for any of this stuff, no time for any fun, period. If Holmes had been sharing an apartment with her instead of her sister, she would have buttered his crumpet.
Ambrose came up, jigging on the spot.
‘Nervous?’ she asked.
‘Nah,’ he said unconvincingly.
She looked up to see Frank N. Furter standing in front of her.
‘Break a leg,’ he said, in the way that their uncle used to offer them a piece of his pie, even though you knew he wanted it all to himself but felt it was still the right thing to do.
‘You too,’ she said. That was a good thing about theatre, you all sank or swam together.
To Georgette’s surprise, Harry’s attire featured not the blue blazer he’d worn to her lecture but a heavier tweed coat that fitted him better. No tie, but then you couldn’t expect miracles. Holmes was in a line for complimentary wine. She’d prepped him relentlessly on the way over.
‘Harry is a cop,’ she’d said. ‘He’s not stupid.’
Holmes had assured her he knew his role but she was worried his mind was on Noah.
‘I bought a new shirt,’ declared Harry and spun for her. She could see he’d also had his hair freshly cut and was impressed. ‘Where’s the limey?’
‘Lining up for wine.’
‘Sort of thing I used to do for your mother. She said it evened out the time women spent waiting for the bathroom.’ He nodded at the poster, which was extremely professionally done. ‘I only ever saw the movie. I never saw the play. Your mom always wanted to.’
‘She liked Rocky Horror?’
‘Loved it. Loved musicals.’
‘You see it together?’
‘No. I hadn’t met her yet. I was sixteen. Grease, we saw that together.’
Her father gazed into the middle distance, lost somewhere back in an era where video was a novelty. Holmes arrived with two red wines.
‘Dad, this is my friend Percy.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Percy.’
‘You too, Harry.’ Holmes was stranded with the wine glasses until Georgette took hers, and the men shook.
‘Would you care for a wine?’ asked Holmes, offering his.
‘I’m more a beer guy. So, you’re staying at Georgi’s.’
‘Yes, it was very kind of her to let me have her spare room.’
Good, he remembered that, even if did hit the “spare” a bit too obviously.
‘You’re an investigator?’
‘Private.’
‘You were a cop?’
‘Mine is more a scientific background.’
‘You ever work with the Yard?’
‘Several times.’
‘You come across Dougal Gray? He and I worked on some stuff.’
‘I’m afraid I’m probably before his time.’
Harry chuckled. ‘I see Georgi has briefed you to say all the right things.’
Fortunately, the bell rang.
‘You guys can swap war stories later,’ Georgette said, and prayed there was no chance of that.
She couldn’t believe how good the play was. And Simone was outstanding. She played the uptight goody-two shoes Janet so convincingly. Harry was proud as Punch, she kept taking sly looks at him. On her other side, Holmes was smiling, chuckling and more than once exclaiming, ‘Oh, capital!’
It lifted her spirits, banished the darkness of the world in which she had lately found herself.
All the boys in the play were very good. Simone had relentlessly run down the kid playing Frank but Georgette thought he nailed it. At interval, Harry made for the bathroom while Holmes went to get the drinks again. She made a mental note to ask where this supply of money might be coming from. There was the inevitable long line for the ladies bathroom but Georgette’s practiced eye had spied a disabled bathroom down a deserted corridor into which she’d blundered earlier while looking for Harry. She set off now for that, rounding the corner past the box-office area and then turning left again past the staircase. The bathroom showed vacant. She congratulated herself, entered, locked, slipped paper on the seat just in case and was quickly done. She opened the door, excited by the prospect of act two, and froze.
Morgan Edwards stood in her way. ‘Doctor!’ he exclaimed.
Later, thinking back over it, the reaction seemed overdone, staged.
‘Hello.’ She was ashamed to say that she stammered the greeting. He was holding a small backpack and she couldn’t take her eyes from it. What she was thinking was that there were three hundred people just twenty yards away but he could cut her throat before anybody would locate where her screams came from. He made no move to shift away.
‘You have a boy at the school here?’ she asked, conjuring a carefree attitude from thin air. She was calculating if she could dart past him.
‘No.’ And the answer was like a slab sealing a tomb, until he suddenly smiled bashfully and said, ‘Self-confessed Rocky Horror nut. See every production I can. Is Mr Turner here?’
‘Yes, I should be getting back to him. It doesn’t look like Professor Scheer wants to sell.’
‘Oh well, if he does, it will be my pleasure to come and collect my wages of sin.’
Now her flesh was crawling. ‘Well, nice to see you again,’ she said and squirrelled past him. She found Holmes waiting with Harry but had to restrain herself from babbling about the encounter. The last thing she wanted was to alert Harry to her sleuthing. Holmes she could tell, sensed something was up and when the lights blinked and people shuffled back inside, she whispered what had happened.
‘Morgan Edwards? Here?’
She relayed his explanation and then, as if trying to convince herself said, ‘Perhaps it is pure coincidence.’ Even as she said it, she was thinking, yes, it’s possible that he just happened to be here but then he must have seen her in the crowd and followed her to the bathroom. Maybe he wanted to see if a sale had been made so he could claim his commission. But then she thought of the backpack and shuddered.
‘Never fear, Watson,’ said Holmes as the lights darkened. ‘I shan’t be letting you out of my sight.’
For the remainder of the performance, the encounter sat with Georgette like unpleasant foot odor. The play finished and all three of them were on their feet applauding heartily.
‘Stay with your father,’ whispered Holmes during the encore and bolted out. She saw Harry’s head turn.
‘The wine,’ she lied. As they shuffled out she stuck like glue to Harry.
Holmes was waiting in the foyer when they emerged with the stragglers. He gave an almost imperceptible shake of the head to indicate he’d not spotted Edwards. By now she was feeling safer. A mini-supper was served back in the reception area. Georgette announced she was going to find Simone, and Holmes, of course, said he would come with her. Harry wanted to sample more mini-burgers.
Georgette and Holmes went back into the theatre and tracked towards the stage. Ambrose, whose ‘Brad’ had been very good, walked towards them on cloud nine, greeting Holmes with a prison-yard handshake.
‘A most commendable performance,’ said Holmes.
‘You enjoyed it?’
‘It was terrific.’ Georgette meant it.
‘You need to take a bow too,’ said the schoolboy.
‘What did I do?’ asked Georgette.
‘Simone modelled Janet completely on her sister,’ said Holmes. ‘Is that correct?’
‘Exactly,’ said Ambrose.
Georgette felt impelled to say there was a distinction between being a stuck-up anal-retentive and somebody who was simply tidy but, before she could, Ambrose asked to have a photo taken with her.
‘Would you mind?’ Ambrose handed his phone to Holmes.
‘Delighted.’
‘It’s not every day I get my photo taken with a genius,’ said Ambrose.
‘Smile!’
‘What do you mean, genius?’ asked Georgette, her eyes throbbing.
‘Simone doesn’t stop talking about you. Says one day you’re going to win the Nobel Prize.’
‘And I believe she is correct,’ said Holmes handing back the phone, his eyes scanning the empty theatre, just in case. Ambrose shifted off to check the photo and Holmes said, ‘I was pleased to see Alfred Nobel followed my notion to initiate prizes for those who worked unstintingly for the benefit of humankind – yes Watson, I am adopting your vernacular – however, I was disappointed that he chose to name the prizes after himself instead of my suggestion.’
‘Which was?’ She was fairly certain she knew the answer to that. After all he had googled himself first chance he had.
‘The Watson prize.’ And he smiled as if he had known exactly what she’d been thinking.
Ambrose returned. ‘I’m texting the photo to you.’ Conspiratorially he whispered, ‘There’s an agent with Simone. He loved it.’
Holmes caught a flash of somebody lurking by the far exit.
‘Excuse me,’ said Holmes. ‘Would you mind Georgette for me?’
‘Of course,’ said Ambrose. Holmes bounded across to the other side of the theatre.
‘Strange, dude,’ commented Ambrose. ‘Come on,’ and then, with Georgette still craning to track Holmes, he ushered her down a back corridor. A middle-aged man with silver hair was just leaving Simone’s dressing room.
‘Call me and we’ll set up a meeting. I’ve got some things could really suit,’ he called back to where Simone waited in the doorway. Ambrose dug his elbow into Georgette’s ribs: the agent. The man forced a tight smile as he passed and congratulated Ambrose.
Simone was beaming. ‘He loved it. Says he has some film roles.’
‘I loved it too,’ Georgette kissed her sister.
Ambrose announced he had better be off to see his parents. Simone hugged him.
‘Don’t forget my driving lesson tomorrow,’ he reminded her.
‘I don’t forget my co-stars.’
When Ambrose left, Georgette told her Harry was still scoffing his face in the foyer.
‘But we’re going to supper, aren’t we?’
‘I doubt that will affect his appetite. You know what he’s like with anything free. Dad is so proud. You were sensational. You are an actress, you really are.’
‘Don’t sound so surprised.’
Georgette felt guilty. The truth was she never believed her sister would do more than dabble in anything.
Simone read it, said, ‘I don’t blame you. I’ve always been a mess-up. I never thought I could be anything either. Did Percy come?’
‘I never saw him so happy. Well, for the first act.’ Georgette explained about the encounter with Morgan Edwards but there was no time for further discussion because Holmes appeared.
‘False alarm, sound technician.’ Harry arrived next. Georgette watched Harry hugging Simone, saw the absolute love in his eyes and then looked at Holmes, lost for a moment, watching them. I’m so lucky, thought Georgette, I have sister, a dad, flesh and blood that I can hold and feel their heart pumping against mine. Holmes has only a long, empty corridor containing nothing but a wisp of memories.
Harry could not remember a night as good as this one in a very long time. He wished Helen could have been there but didn’t go on about it for fear of seeming maudlin and spoiling the moment. Up until tonight he’d really wondered if Simone had it in her. I mean, playing rat excrement, he supposed, took a bit of moxy but it gave the audience no idea of the kid’s potential. Tonight, she sang, danced, acted. After he’d congratulated Simone, they rejoined the rest of the cast for the best part of an hour where Simone and the boys relived their finest moments. Then the four of them walked to a Spanish restaurant a few blocks west. Snow was falling constantly. They ate, and after toasting the late Helen Watson, Harry regaled Percy with embarrassing stories about the girls. Had them squirming. Jeez, it was fun. When the girls had gone off to the bathroom, Harry did grow sentimental. He couldn’t help it, the wine and the evening all bubbled up. He needed an ear to bend and Percy’s was convenient. The guy was calm, had an air of … gravitas, he was pretty sure was the word, so he figured what he wanted to say wouldn’t be squandered.
‘You know, Percy, when people hear about Georgette and what happened, they say “I know what it must have been like for you” but of course they don’t. They have no idea. As a young cop on patrol, I was sometimes not only first on the scene, but then later had to break the news of a loved one’s death. There were a couple of auto accidents, and a terrible boating tragedy where I had to swim in two injured girls. One made it, the other … I stood watching while the medics worked on her, and I felt absolutely useless.’ Percy nodded, understanding. ‘They couldn’t revive her. And believe me I thought I knew, or had some inkling how the parents felt but when I pulled the lifeless body of my own little girl from that freezing lake and laid her dead upon the ice … only then did I truly understand the utter desolation of a loved one dealing with the fact. Kneeling on that ice, it was like my body had been cleaved in two, and the universe was nothing but emptiness and pain. It was like you’re naked, split open, in a winter that’s never going to end, but is just … eternal. And the horror of that emptiness, the reality that this is your life now, I can’t … no one can explain that. And yet I was blessed. I got her back and I swore to God I would never, ever forget that gift. And with Simone … well, hell, I’ve had my heart in my mouth every day for thirty years but tonight, I felt just as blessed.’
He lifted his glass and the Englishman did the same. They shared a silent toast: to life, to the girls. He was pleased Percy hadn’t tried to interrupt, like he’d known his role was to just listen, knew Harry could never say the same words to his daughters. Holmes stood as Simone and Georgette rejoined the table.
Harry said, ‘Be careful, you do that here, you’ll get a lecture on being a chauvinist.’
Georgette’s phone buzzed.
‘That’ll be Spielberg,’ quipped Harry.
Georgette read it, found Holmes’ eyes on her. ‘It’s Benson. He can see us.’
‘What on earth did you think you were doing?’ Benson’s hands were supplicant, as if he’d been lifted out of a Florentine painting. Lipinski leaned back on a bench, arms folded, unimpressed. Holmes thankfully remained silent. She’d just revealed she had been to lunch with Avery Scheer earlier in the day. ‘This is what I was afraid of,’ said Benson. They were up in the corner of the squad room where Benson was running the Noah task force. The minute Benson had appeared, Georgette could tell he’d got no confession from Coleman.
Georgette said, ‘You were busy and we thought it too important to just ignore.’
‘We?’ Benson glared at Holmes.
Far from intimidated, Holmes said, ‘You were fully occupied with your … suspect.’ Holmes dropped the word in the sentence the way a socialite drops a teabag into a trash can. Like it might splatter and get him dirty. Georgette felt obliged to ease the tension.
‘I’m sorry, Garry, but what could we do? Put yourself in our shoes: the book seemed a viable lead and then Avery Scheer called me and we thought … there’s no harm in meeting with him.’
‘No harm? Noah slashes women’s throats. And he could be Noah!’
Holmes needled, ‘I suppose you are right. But we apologize for advancing the case while you were tied up. No doubt you would have got there eventually.’
Benson trained guns on the annoying British frigate. Georgette threw herself across the line of fire.
‘If anybody is to blame, it’s me. I suppose I shouldn’t have accepted Scheer’s invitation to lunch. Percy knew nothing about it.’
‘Well, he should have. Who knows why Noah fixates on these particular women?’
Georgette kept it rolling. ‘We found this in a bin in the study room of Walter Morris and Melissa Harper… it seems to be a group email for those attending the discussion group.’
He took it carefully and studied it. ‘Only four people attended?’
‘That’s what Scheer told us and this would support that,’ she said.
Benson pushed out a lip. ‘Of course they could have talked – shown the discussion paper to somebody else. And then there’s the book guy …’
‘Edwards,’ said Holmes. ‘Yes. You might want to look into him.’
Georgette explained his appearance at the play. Benson wrestled with an invisible demon, pointed his pen at her.
‘See, this is what I’m talking about. If one of these people is Noah, you are in harm’s way. Did you tell him you were going to the play?’
‘No.’
‘Anything on your Facebook?’
‘Not yet but Simone would have posted.’
‘So, if he knows you are sisters, it’s pretty easy for him to guess you’re going to turn up.’
‘I suppose so.’
Benson rocked in his chair. ‘And despite that, we can’t say they are the only ones who have ever read this book, or parts of it.’
‘It would seem extremely coincidental,’ said Holmes, ‘that if Noah had some other copy, he waited for Scheer’s discussion group before beginning his activity.’
Lipinski glanced over to see if he would try to dispute Holmes but Benson seemed to concede the point. Georgette decided not to mention the others, De Souza and Ross. It would not take Benson long to find them and it avoided … difficulties.
‘One thing we can tell you, there was a sexual harassment claim filed against Melissa Harper at her previous college by a female student but that was withdrawn. Nothing on Scheer or Edwards. Morris wrote a pro S&M piece for a student paper but that’s not illegal.’
‘You found this out already?’ Georgette was impressed.
‘Soon as you told me about the book. Even though I don’t believe that excludes Coleman.’
Holmes raised an eyebrow. He asked if Coleman seemed the type who would read a book more than one hundred years old.
‘Frankly, I doubt he could read the X-Men. Judge for yourself.’ Benson found a file on his computer of the interview with Ricky Coleman. Coleman was mid-to late twenties, Afro-American, wearing a shiny Knicks jacket. He appeared tired, perplexed.
‘Why did you run, Ricky?’ asked Benson.
‘Cause you all were looking for me. Why you think? I know you got me in your sights for some shit. I ain’t hanging around.’
‘What were you doing in the church, Ricky?’ Lipinski this time.
‘What people usually do in church. Prayin’.’
‘You’re a changed man?’
‘Yes, I am a changed man. I did my time and I have repented.’
They watched a few more minutes. Holmes indicated he had seen enough.
‘You know the book is in Italian,’ he said. ‘Does Coleman speak Italian?’
‘Says he doesn’t. But he wouldn’t have to. You know what happens, somebody tells some freak they read about this cool serial killing, and then that person tells somebody else.’
Lipinski joined in. ‘Down the line it finally gets to the right freak and it all sings – in a bad way.’ Clearly the two of them had kicked some theories around.
‘You will investigate the phone calls of our suspects?’ asked Holmes.
‘Persons of interest,’ corrected Benson. Georgette remembered a boy whom she sat next to in middle school pricking her with his compass. Benson’s tone reminded her of it now. ’Naturally we’ll check phone records, social media, anything we can that might give us some link to one of the victims.’
Holmes said, ‘If he is following the book, Noah’s next victim will be a zebra. I’m sure your resources, as you say, are superior to mine but this is a list of all things zebra I was able to find.’
He handed across his list. Benson regarded it as if it might be a trick but ultimately took it, and that, Georgette felt, seemed to suggest some form of truce.
‘Okay. I’m not going to take this any further but I mean it when I say, we’ll take it from here.’
Georgette asked if he was planning to question the – she stopped herself from repeating Holmes’ mistake. ‘– persons of interest.’
‘Not at this stage. I’ve already got surveillance on them, better to see if that takes us anywhere. We’ll look into their phone records see if there is any interaction with the victims.’
‘What’s your impression of the four you’ve met?’
Georgette was flattered to have her opinion considered.
‘Edwards seems … devious. I don’t trust him. You could imagine those women wouldn’t give him a second glance. Harper is, well, physically athletic. We didn’t interact with her much. Morris seemed relatively normal except for his sculpture: an avenging angel.’ She called on Holmes to help her with the detail.
‘And Scheer?’
‘I’m not sure if there’s a darkness in him or it is just his manner but he’s intense and intellectually arrogant. He’s the scariest.’
Benson said he would have them all watched around the clock.
‘And we’ll find out the other two people at that seminar.’
Georgette wanted to save them the time and trouble but didn’t dare.
‘Needless to say, you don’t mention this to anyone.’
‘Can we call you to check on progress?’ she asked in her most deferential voice.
‘I might be able to give you some very limited information.’
‘We’d appreciate that.’
As they got up to leave, Benson called her back and said quietly, ‘I don’t want anything to happen to you. Hopefully we nail this case and you and I can enjoy some social time.’
She could feel the blood rising to the tips of her ears.
‘Sure,’ she said and walked to where a suspicious Holmes was waiting.
‘What did he say?’
‘He told me to be very careful and said we were to leave well alone.’
‘After we’ve given him the best lead he has in his case. Typical.’
It was near one. Outside the car you couldn’t see a face, just nylon hoods and knitted caps. How quickly the excitement of Simone’s play had faded. When they reached the apartment, Holmes insisted on going in first. She was beginning to truly comprehend the reality of her new situation. Once cleared to enter, she made sure the heat was up and asked Holmes if he would like a coffee.
‘First, we need to do something. Stand here.’ With his hands about her waist he placed her by the table. It was the first time he had handled her firmly but gently like that and it felt … well, good. In a smooth, stunningly quick movement, Holmes seized a spoon off the table and lunged at her, stopping the spoon handle an inch from her neck while his left hand strapped her in position better than any seatbelt. She’d not even had time to blink.
‘When I seized you from behind in your laboratory, your lack of any adequate response revealed you would have scant chance of protecting yourself from one determined to harm you. You say you have no firearms expertise, and your reflexes leave much to be desired should you be subjected to a knife attack. It simply won’t do, Watson. I’ll not have your death on my conscience. Now, how do you think you would get out of this situation?’
‘My best idea would be to leave anybody over one hundred frozen solid.’
‘Ha, ha, droll, Watson. As I’ve mentioned, in wit you have the edge over your great-great-grandfather. In the question of self-defense, however, you are inferior.’
‘He had the benefit of a war, so unless you are going to pack me off to the Middle East …’
‘No such extravagance is required. You are going to learn everything you need to know right here, in this room, tonight. Let us waste no more time. In a frontal attack like this, you block …’ he demonstrated, ‘… and then drive with the heel of your palm.’
He took her hand and demonstrated the action required against his chin. Her mind should have been on the necessity to defend her life but when their hands touched and she felt his stubble on her hand and looked into those eyes burning with intelligence and earnestness, there was nothing but the most pleasant tingling from her neck to her toes. And when he swung her round and pressed his arm across her chest and drew her to him, his warm breath on her, that very same stubble pricking her neck and sending a delicious shiver along her spine, she lost her breath. It shouldn’t have been like this but it was. His manliness excited something deep and primal inside her. Perhaps because he feared injuring her, he suddenly relaxed. She felt his chest contract in the way a cry is stifled and he unhanded her and asked with great solicitude if he was being too rough.
‘Not at all,’ she answered.
‘If you would rather we postpone –’
‘No. I think it extremely important you school me to defend myself. Please, continue.’
‘Very well,’ he said and, looking about, settled on the umbrella stand in the doorway. He seized two umbrellas and tossed one at her, which she managed to catch.
‘Hand to eye is good,’ he said. ‘I’d like to see you in slips.’
Had she misheard him? For the first time he seemed suddenly embarrassed.
‘It is a cricket term, Watson.’
‘Oh,’ she said and wasn’t certain whether she was disappointed or not.
‘The beauty of bartitsu is that with so much as a stick, or an umbrella, we can even the odds against a physically stronger foe. Have you ever fenced?’
‘Once, in the school play of Romeo and Juliet. I played Tybalt.’ Simone of course had been Juliet. Even now it galled.
‘You are a fast learner, Watson. I taught your great-great-grandfather and I have no doubt I can teach you.’
One could only hope. She watched him demonstrating pivots and thrusts, thought of how he had been holding back so as not to harm her, and such restraint and gentleness touched her and frightened her too, because she knew just how easy it would be to wish for more, and just how often our wishes go unrequited.
Each flake of snow was like manna from heaven. It was as if God were personally rewarding him for his diligence and months of hard work. How wonderful it had been earlier this evening to be that close to her you could smell her perfume. Would he smell her fear like he had with the other? There was no erotic satisfaction for him, he was simply the executioner charged with bringing about true justice, because sometimes justice slipped, missed the mark. He had known that of course for many years but what he’d not understood was that it was simply a challenge to rectify that, not a sentence that could never be overturned. Those who cared, it became their challenge, their burden; instead of self-destruction that did nobody any good, it was incumbent on them to enact justice.
Taking the other’s life had been physically demanding, even with the element of surprise, and he wouldn’t deny it, there had been, even at the height of the act, a voice urging him to let go, loosen up his grip, give her a chance. But of course, he couldn’t, everything had been written before either of them had been born. Georgette would go the same way but with an ironic touch. That was most important. Perhaps it had been foolish of him to allow even the slightest chance that she might be saved but no, she wouldn’t be saved, and then those little flourishes would be oh so much more bitter for the ones who remained. To think if only their eyes had been open and they had been more careful, they might have saved her. Which was the whole point. Negligence is no less blameful than a wilful act. Not in his mind. Turner was an obstacle forcing a change of his initial plans that had made him think outside the square. Now, not only had he found a way around that, it had made him realize he could double down. First you slash the Achilles, then you stab through the heart. He almost felt like calling for a drink.
Almost.
But no, he would not weaken, find himself down in the gutter where he had wallowed. It was a new him, unrecognizable. He chuckled at that. Well, that was enough gloating. It was time to move things along. He opened the freezer and stared down at her, that blue tint, like the snow outside. Sometimes life imitated art. Or in this case death. Oh, the irony was delicious.