From desk worker detective to Sergeant at Scotland Yard, Adelaide Gregson has come a long way from her days in Manhattan. When one consulting detective catches her eye, things get complicated. When a case now means life or death, will sentiment prov...
"You'd think he led a sedentary life but his feet and legs show otherwise. So a lot of walking and a lot of sitting around. Security guards looking good. His watch showed he did regular night shifts, the buttons are stiff so he set it a long time ago and his routine never varied. There was some sort of badge or logo ripped off the shirt front, so it must have been something recognizable. Wad of ticket stubs in his pocket so probably a museum gallery." I said.
"I did a quick check, the Hickman gallery has reported one of its attendants is missing. Alex Woodbridge. Tonight, they unveil the rediscovered masterpiece. Now, why would anyone want to pay the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant? Inference, the dead man knew something about it, something that would stop the owner getting paid £30 million. The pictures are fake." Sherlock said, wrapping it up.
"I better get my feelers out for this Golem character." Lestrade stated.
"Pointless, you'll never find him, but I know a man who can." Sherlock returned.
"Who?" Lestrade asked.
"Me." Sherlock smirked. I shook my head, smiling. Lestrade went back to the office, and as I was apparently Sherlock's handler I got in a cab with him and John.
"Why hasn't he phoned? He's broken his pattern. Why?" Sherlock said, talking to himself. The question was simple enough but the answer was complex. The numerous possibilities each frightened me. The bomber wasn't just sitting and watching us now, he was planning something. His end game. He's clearly not afraid to rack up a boy count. He also isn't going to allow himself to be caught by authorities, this was about him and Sherlock. They had to share some sort of connection. Every single case so far had been about him. Carl Powers was his first case, the shoes were found in his bloody flat. The rest of the cases were tests, trying to find out just what makes him tick.
"The Hickman is contemporary art. Why have they got hold of an old master?" John asked, breaking your trance.
"Don't know. It's dangerous to jump to conclusions. Need data." Sherlock said, jotting something down in his notebook and ripping out the page. He then pulled out 50 pounds and wrapped it around the note. He suddenly yelled at the cabby to stop and asked him to wait. Sherlock jumped out of the cab and gave the money to a homeless person. Must have been someone in his homeless network.
When we arrived outside of the gallery Sherlock stepped out of the cab, he helped me out and then stopped John before he could exit.
"No, I need you to find out all you can about the gallery attendant. Lestrade will give you the address." Sherlock said.
"Okay." John said annoyed.
"You know Mycroft is going to get upset the longer you wait to solve his case. If I keep ignoring his texts he's just going to trick John into looking into it." I told Sherlock as we were walking to the gallery together.
Once inside, I went to talk to some of the other security guards to see if Alex Woodbridge had told them anything about the painting. Sherlock on the other hand grabbed a hat and jacket out of the security office and slipped off his long coat. He handed it to me and I folded it over my arm, parting ways. I wondered what he had planned, but he walked off before I could ask.
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