Echoes of Sherlock Holmes: Stories Inspired by the Holmes Canon(82)
Watson shrugged a shoulder. “I’d picked up some rumblings from the streets. I was leaning toward whoever had taken over from Nicky Barnes.” Leroy “Nicky” Barnes had been a drug lord given to ostentatious tastes. His being on the cover of the New York Times Magazine had prompted President Jimmy Carter to pressure the Drug Enforcement Administration to get Barnes. He was incensed that someone like Barnes should be seen as a twisted image of emulation. Barnes had been arrested and jailed last year.
“The East Harlem Purple Gang is supposed to have stepped into the void and been supplying his lieutenants,” Watson continued.
“But you dismissed this notion?”
“As we both know, dope men don’t go out of their way to be clever in rubbing out an opponent. Why all the rigmarole with the locked room bit and what have you? Sure, Professor Barrow made speeches decrying the parasitic pusherman but he also denounced plenty of others preying on the black community.”
“Including his allegations of the CIA being involved in flying heroin out of the Golden Triangle for profit and geo-political reasons,” Moriarty offered, stern-faced.
“He wasn’t the only one stating that,” Watson observed.
“Agreed.” Moriarty steepled his fingers. “Martin X has been making something of a campaign of unmasking the true players in this insidious enterprise, often noting poppies do not grow in the ghetto. Could be too Dr. Barrow uncovered a bombshell, proof of some local connection.”
“You’re not trying to have me chase my tail, are you, James?”
Moriarty smiled, spreading his hands apart. “Our friend says all avenues must be explored.”
“Speaking of which, are you getting him sprung too?”
Moriarty said, “He was gone by the time I got here. Possibly his brother had something to do with that. Still, you’re free to go too, Dock.”
Watson wondered if Holmes had examined Barrow’s library. “The driver of the news van, his story check out?”
Moriarty nodded. “Seems he got a call at the station this morning as he was getting ready to cover the Martin X speech. The voice on the other end told him they had his wife and daughter. A woman comes on the line, sobbing, calling his name, and is then cut off. He naturally assumed it was his wife.”
“The voice was faked?”
“Apparently. Wife and daughter were safe. But he was told not to try and call home or their throats would be slit.” He paused, taking in the other man. “At the time, what would you have done? He drives off in the van with the reporter, then makes a stop as he was told to do. The reporter is knocked out and the remote-controlled machine gun quickly installed in the rear by two masked men with portable power tools.”
Watson absorbed this. “That’s some heavy planning and access to resources involved.”
Moriarty concurred.
Weighing the import of that, Watson said, “Can you get me a copy of the autopsy results on Professor Barrow? And if I get in a bind, can I drop your name?”
Both men rose. “Of course—this is in the service of justice. The mayor wanted me to emphasize what you already know: the city’s on edge. Satisfactory answers need to be forthcoming tout de suite, my friend.”
“I heard that,” Watson said.
They shook hands again, then Moriarty handed Watson a card with a handwritten phone number on it. From his coat’s inner pocket he also took out a device the size of a hip flask, though thicker. It was made of black plastic with a readout screen.
“This is a pager. You call that number on the card and your phone number will appear on the screen,” he said. “Only two other people have my pager number, so I’ll know an unfamiliar one is from you.”
Watson knew one of those people was the mayor. As they walked out, he asked about the second person. “How is Irene?”
“She’s well, I’ll tell her you said hello.”
“Cool.”
The detective’s hunting and pecking on the electric typewriter filled the silence as the two departed.
As the cooks prepared food for the evening crush, Dock Watson snapped on his penlight at the entrance to Professor Barrow’s library. Late afternoon light filtered in from the high windows but there were pockets of gloom as well. He held the tight beam steady on the broken chain guard. In particular he examined where the base had been screwed to the side of the door. His gloved fingers touched the gouged wood and he made a sound in his throat. The light went out. After leaving the library, he found a payphone and called Moriarty’s pager.
Two nights later, Sherlock Holmes entered the back area of the second floor of Club 99 trailing Jerry “Little Fish” Genero. Holmes was dressed in a colorful Rayon knit shirt and disco-style bell bottom slacks high up on his trim waist. His shirt was open several buttons and a gold chain sparkled on his tanned chest. The nude form of a golden woman hung from the chain. Her nipples were sparkling zircons.
“You let me do the talking, Terry,” Genero said.
“Sure thing, Little Fish,” Holmes said as Terry Ritchie, affecting a Cockney accent by way of a transplant living in New Jersey for several years.
The two came to a closed double door, a good-sized individual standing guard before it. He wore a Pierre Cardin suit sans tie, collar up, shoulder pads like the prow of a boat. His neck was thick and corded and led to a thicket of chest hair.