Holmes sipped his tea, saying nothing.
“But then again,” Watson added, “that meant Martin had to speak out to calm things down. So was he the real target all along? The Peoples Clinics sponsored by the FNC have been effective in battling the drug scourge. Then there was the voice on the phone making the cameraman drive the van away. The imposter on the roof not being found. The two masked men who planted the remote-controlled machine gun in the van.” He sat back. “But your brother and MI6 didn’t send you here about what us poor ole’ black folks are up to, now did he?”
“Not precisely, Watson. But as it happened, the Council, this entity that arose from the remains of the infrastructure Nicky Barnes created before he was put away, now that was of interest.”
Watson considered his companion’s words. “Using dope money to fund other activities.”
“Yes, sadly, heroin and cocaine addictions yield millions in broken lives and shattered families, and dollars and pounds.” Holmes had also mentioned the woman had hesitated shooting him the other night as no doubt her orders were to take him alive until they could beat out of him where his supposed cache of heroin was hidden.
Watson tapped the table. “The exchequer was caught up in some kind of hooker and blow scandal earlier this year.”
“Tip of the iceberg and all that. But I’m heartened to see you keep up on news from your once-adopted environs.”
After mustering out of the service, Watson had landed in London, like a number of ex-pats. That was where he’d met Holmes and where later, both of them pursued Irene Adler.
“How deep are the tentacles of this Council, Holmes? Into the American halls of power. The CIA for instance?”
Holmes took a forkful of fried noodles. “I honestly don’t know, John. I do know there’s a hidden hand at work. A, shall we say, an international Napoleon of Crime who is moving the pieces around. Was it the mayor’s current fixer who told you about the FBI operations house where you trailed Waller?”
“Yes, but come on, Holmes, we both have reasons to dislike him, but are you suggesting he’s this mastermind? Then why tell me about the FBI pad and blow up the operation?”
Holmes gestured. “You asked him about the house because a man like him, a man who moves back and forth on both sides of the Atlantic, who has a hand in American and British politics and circles of influence, would know such things. Your suspicions would be raised if he didn’t produce an address.”
Watson cut off a piece of his smothered steak with fried rice on the side. “That fine pretend junkie chick, she’s one of your Irregulars isn’t she?”
“Indeed,” Holmes confirmed. “She and I were shadowing Martin X’s rally as we surmised some chicanery might be in the offing. When the imposter appeared on the roof as a distraction, and seeing you had Mr. X safe, I went after the van.” Holmes sampled his rib tips.
At that moment in an Upper East Side penthouse, U.N. Special Ambassador Irene Adler was also sipping tea. The dark haired, sharp-featured woman was in her dressing gown, looking out the large window. Moriarty came up behind her. He slipped an arm around her waist and nuzzled her fragrant neck.
“I’m going to miss you,” he said.
“No more than I’ll miss you.” She turned and raised her head to kiss him.
Back at Francine’s, Holmes paid the bill and they walked outside.
“What if this Napoleon of yours was a woman?” Watson said.
His lunch companion slowly nodded his head. “You might have something there. . . . Dock.”
“See you around, Holmes.”
“Indeed.”
As Dock Watson walked away, he idly put a hand in his jean jacket pocket. There was an object in there and he took it out. In his hand was a fortune cookie. He frowned, concluding Holmes must have surreptitiously slipped it on him. Watson cracked the cookie open and read the fortune.
The game’s afoot, the message read.
He chuckled and ate the bits.
THE PAINTED SMILE
by William Kent Krueger
He was an odd child to begin with. After he received the book as a Christmas present, things only got worse. Eventually his aunt was beside herself and sought my help.
I have an office in Saint Paul, in a building that was grand about the time Dillinger was big news. It’s long been in need of a facelift. One of the things I like about it is that I can see the Mississippi River from my window. Another is that I can afford the rent.
Although she’d called ahead and had explained the situation, when she brought in the boy, I was still surprised. He was small, even for a ten-year-old. But his eyes were sharp and quick, darting like bees around the room, taking in everything. I welcomed the woman and her nephew, shook their hands, and we sat in the comfortable easy chairs I use during my sessions.
“So, Oliver,” I said. “I’m very curious about your costume.”