“That’s more a reason for the people they robbed to be mad than the police.”
“Yes, but it’s more than that. It’s what the police aren’t saying.”
“Oh, really. And what is it that they aren’t saying?”
“Serial killer.” He paused for a twitchy little smile, which I valiantly refrained from mocking openly. “They haven’t made the connection yet, between all the killings, and it is perhaps the most shockingly apparent pattern that has ever been.”
“You don’t know what they are or aren’t saying. You only know what was and wasn’t said that night.”
“So, you believe there could have been three strikingly similar murders in Regent’s Park, and a fourth one wouldn’t be noticed by the very detectives who police the park?”
“Maybe.” My mind was reeling with a myriad of reasons why, like their not wanting things to get all mucked up by the media, not that I felt I had to justify myself to him. “This is all just your imaginings. It is possible that other detectives know about the pattern, and the ones at our scene just don’t know about it.”
“Why wouldn’t they know? Why wouldn’t all of them be on the lookout?”
I shrugged. “Any number of reasons. To keep it from leaking out to the public. To stop mass panic.”
“And in the meantime, he just roams free? Killing at will? No.”
“Maybe we’re making more of the pattern than is there. Have you thought of that? Without the police files, we have no way of knowing if these crimes are truly connected. It could be there’s no connection at all.” Of course, I knew the connection, and a part of me was even tempted to confess it all, tell him about the photo and see what crazed theories he’d come up with once he knew. But the people in this photo were my mother’s secret—another secret that bound us together forever, just like her coin. But only if I kept it.
Besides, in my mind the connection of the people in the photo to each other and to my mother made it less likely there was a policeman killing people, not more. The most likely scenario was that one of the people in the picture was killing all the others, and whenever I looked between the two main survivors, my eyes couldn’t seem to shift off the blue-haired woman. Something about the way she looked at the camera . . .
“The files are exactly why it must be police at the heart of this. Someone must be doctoring the files, keeping the pattern from being seen. And the only people with access are?”
God, he was being smug. “You are wrong. And really, Lock, if you’re going to be wrong so much of the time, you should learn how to take it with an ounce of humor. You’ll have plenty of time for condescension when you’re right about something.”
Sherlock climbed forward in the boat until he sat on the bench facing me, so that our knees tapped with every soft rocking wave of the lake. He stared into my eyes in this rather disarming way, and then he said, “You think you’re more clever than me.”
It was true, but I supposed I should show him a bit of deference. “I am female. That comes with a few advantages.”
“Such as?”
“Understanding and perception, a unique worldview, and the power that comes with being constantly underestimated.” I made sure to underscore those last two words by staring unflinchingly back at him.
“So, you believe women are more clever than men, but men cannot see it?”
I shrugged, though our staring match probably detracted from my attempt at casual discussion. “We can be, if we assert ourselves. Unfortunately, many do not. And yes, sadly, men see very little when it comes to women.”
“So, you are a feminist?”
“No. Feminists fight for equity, which is an unsatisfactory goal.”
He grinned. “You’re not satisfied with equity?”
“Why should I be? Men aren’t. For all our generations, men have fought for control and power. Why should women be satisfied to be merely equal?”
Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t understand the need for power, really. There are more important pursuits.”
“Only those who have never felt powerless can afford to think like you.”
Sherlock tilted his head and studied my face a moment, then broke into a giant smile that once again seemed to age him backward. “You are brilliant.”
I bit back my own smile and said, “I am right.”
“You are brilliant and right, and I think we should . . . that is to say, I should . . .” He studied my face again, and before I could quip about his staring, he swooped forward and kissed me, gently and just long enough to separate this kiss from the quick and playful kiss I’d given him. Almost as an afterthought, his palm came up to cup my cheek just as he pulled away and dropped his hand back to his knee. Then, for what felt like the first time in hours and hours, he looked away, down, up at the sky—anywhere, it seemed, but at me. “I thought perhaps such a moment should be marked,” he said quietly.