The American Affair: Chapter 3
The American Affair: Chapter 3
David shifted in his seat; they never made chairs for men of his size. He was in the police station, sitting in a chair next to the detective’s desk while he waited for the detective to return. The Sergent (was it Sergent? David wasn’t sure. His knowledge of police procedure began and ended with reruns of Law and Order), had pulled the detective away mid-statement to take a phone call. There was something odd about that call. David ran a hand over his face. He was so caught up in looking for something sinister, he was reading into things.
David’s pocket pinged, and he pulled out his phone. It was Irene, telling him that Weston had been rescheduled for next week. David snorted as he texted his thanks; Weston could be rescheduled indefinitely, for all he cared. He had moved on to checking his email by the time the detective returned. He looked flustered, pink--he had been red--and unsettled.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” the detective, Rodriguez, said. “Let’s finish this in a more private room.” He gestured for David to stand and follow. David did, gathering his briefcase and slipping his phone back into his pocket. It beeped again, oddly insistent, and David suppressed the urge to check the message. His instincts were telling him that he was right to suspect something, but he had no idea what and it was making him uneasy.
Det. Rodriguez led him to a small room down the hall. There was a window and a desk, two chairs, and a large mirror. David felt a moment of panic. He had seen these rooms before, on television and in movies; did they think he had something to do with it? He hesitated in the doorway, before shaking his head and entering the room. He had done nothing wrong. He had nothing to fear. That off feeling was just nerves.
David sat in the chair facing the door, so his back was to the window.
“I’m sorry for the delay,” Det. Rodriguez said. “But apparently we have a specialist on his way. He’s just arrived at the airport. If you wouldn’t mind staying to speak with him?”
David was already nodded. “Yes, fine.” He said. “Anything that could help Tim.” The Detective eyed him for a moment, and nodded.
“Right,” he said. “Well.” He was obviously at a loss. David thought it was safe to hazard a guess that the phone call was this “specialist,” though how he knew to fly in when David hadn’t officially filed the report, was beyond him. “Would yo--like a drink?”
David could think of several drinks he would like at the moment. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”
“Right,” Det. Rodriguez said again. “In that case, we’ll be in with you as soon as he arrives. It shouldn’t be too long.” And with that, the Detective left. David raised his eyebrows at the closed door. Something is definitely up, he thought. Tim, what have you gotten yourself into?
After a moment’s silence, broken only by the low chatter David could just barely hear from down the hall, he pulled out his cell phone. There was one new text message from Irene.
Tell him EVERYTHING.
David frowned at the screen. Who was “him”?
***
John sat in the back of the taxi, hand covering his mouth, face still red. He looked out the window, both because he’d never been to New York before, even if it was just the ride into Manhattan from La Guardia, and because if he looked at Sherlock he was going to lose the precarious hold he had on his giggles. It was bad enough that he sounded like a hyena on helium; he didn’t need Sherlock encouraging him when they were supposed to be making a good impression in America.
Of course, being held up at customs because you were caught in flagrante on an aeroplane, even if it was first class, didn’t help matters. Maybe Mycroft would spring for a private jet for the return trip.
Sherlock was once again surgically attached to his mobile, either hacking into the NYPD database, or pestering Mycroft. Probably both.
John’s own mobile chimed, and he pulled it out to look.
1 new mssg: Greg Lestrade
Mycroft told me you were in America, and put me in touch with the Detective in charge of this case. Should smooth things over a bit. Try not to let him get arrested; extradition’s a nightmare.
John snorted and Sherlock glanced over at him. “Lestrade,” he said, sounding bored.
“Yeah,” John said. “Called in a reference.”
“Hmm,” Sherlock said, and slipped his phone into his pocket. “We’re here.”
It was nothing like New Scotland Yard. The precinct building was old brick, with faded lights that were at least seventy years old, though the sign was new. Sherlock led his way through the front door, coat swishing dramatically. John followed behind at a more sedate pace, perfectly willing to be unnoticed for the moment. Sherlock was at the front desk, wearing his “playing nice with stupid humans” smile. If her expression was anything to go by, woman behind the desk wasn’t impressed, but she called for Detective Rodriguez anyway. John tried not to wince. American accents could be so grating.
Sherlock stood back, arms clasped behind his back, looking like some sort of department store mannequin in the gritty background of the station. John stood next to him at parade rest and tried to catch Sherlock’s eye.
“You’re doing it again,” John whispered. “Being all dramatic.”
“One must give the people what they want, John,” Sherlock muttered back, and stepped forward as the doors opened and a harried looking man, the one and only Det. Rodriguez, appeared. John looked at him, tried to see him with Sherlock’s methods, but all he could see was a man who had just hit middle age, was tired from lack of sleep (red eyes) and poor diet (waistline, stain on shirt), and had no idea how to take them. John knew Sherlock could tell so much more. After all, these were the obvious ones; all cops lived on no sleep and poor food, and nobody knew quite how to take Sherlock and John.
“Mr Holmes?” Det. Rodriguez asked. Sherlock stepped forward, hand out. Rodriguez shook it, and turned to John. “And you must be Doctor Watson.” John nodded, and shook hands. The detective’s grip was strong, sure and calloused. Also, slightly clammy. John resisted the urge to wipe his hand on his trousers.
“At this point,” the detective said, gesturing them to follow. “You know more than I do about this case. Order came down from above that you’re to be given full access and full cooperation,” John shook his head. Mycroft. “And it’s just as well. I’ve got a hundred other things to do, including other missing persons. The guy who made the official report is room 1,” Det. Rodriguez pointed. “His name’s David Karofsky. He says the guy hasn’t been at work in days, but that while he’s certain something happened to the guy, nobody else at work will.” He stopped next to the door. “Ready?”
“Of course,” Sherlock said and Det. Rodriguez snorted.
“Right. Here.”
The door opened and Sherlock swept into the room. John followed more sedately, exchanging a look with the detective, and took up his position in front of the door.
The man, David, sat at a lone table. He had a briefcase at his feet, and was holding his phone loosely in his hands, like he had been stopped while fiddling with it.
Sherlock stared at David. David, though confused, stared back. John wasn’t sure why Sherlock was staring, but he was pretty sure David just didn’t know what else to do.
“When did you see him last?”
“Little over a week ago,” David said. “We had lunch at work.”
“Isn’t that a bit odd, a high powered individual such as yourself and a young up and comer?”
“How--” David stared, but stopped himself, and said, “Yes, it was. But we were about the same age and had similar interests.”
“And he gave no signs that he was about to run?”
“None.”
Sherlock paused. “You’re being completely honest with me,” he said, face jumping in surprise. “They’re never completely honest--I don’t have to shock you into--why are you being so honest?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” David said.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John bit back a grin. Or a sigh. Here it comes. “Because you’re a business man, an agent, and if there’s one thing agents are good at, is spinning the truth, they tend to do it even when they don’t mean to, but you’re not even spinning, so it has to be something that deliberately overcomes habits developed at work. You liked him. Not in a sexual way, though you are both homosexuals, and he was clearly your type--a new relationship for him, honeymooning then, not likely to stray, and a long-term committed relationship for you. Married, happily with one young son. So, no romantic attachment. Could be, you were just friends and you could just that nice a person to sit here and put up with me for him, when nobody else seems to believe he’s missing. But that’s not very likely. People don’t like to put up with me, unless they’re John.”
“Ta.” John said, amused.
“So it’s something else. Something deeper. Accent places you mid-west. Build says you were an athlete, size and country of origin means American Football is most likely. Your age puts you in High School in the early teens, not an easy time to be a gay teen in America, let alone in such hetero-normative environments as football and--hmm--Ohio. You’re uncomfortable now, pale, sweating, I’m on the right track. There’s guilt there. A bully, were you? Maybe to another young gay man. There’s atonement here, as well, maybe for what you did to him, maybe to repay what he did for you with another. But either way, it’s enough to ensure you’re involvement.” Sherlock stopped, turned his face back to his phone, but his shoulders settled back for a moment, half-preening, half-braced for impact.
“Like,” David said.
“Sorry?” Sherlock didn’t look up from his phone.
“You said that I ‘liked him.’ It’s like--present tense.”
John felt his eyebrows raise. It was rare to get that type of response so quickly after being intoduced to Sherlock’s particular brand of madness. Lestrade could only do so after having worked with him for years, Mycroft often bested Sherlock in their verbal spars and John himself was an altogether different sort of mad, anyway.
“Yes,” Sherlock said, quietly. “Present tense.” He looked David up and down. “I’d like to see where he worked.”
David stood. He was at least as tall as Sherlock, and nearly twice as wide. “I can show you.” He faltered, looking at Det. Rodriguez. “If, I’m free to do.”
“Yeah,” Det. Rodriguez said, waving it off. “Just don’t skip town.”
Sherlock gestured David to leave with an elaborate bow. David faltered slightly, but his stride was steady as he lead the way out of the room. John fell into step next to Sherlock. He elbowed him gently in the ribs, pleased and the amused huff of air that left Sherlock.
“Show off,” John whispered. Sherlock just grinned.
Chapter 2
Chapter 4
David shifted in his seat; they never made chairs for men of his size. He was in the police station, sitting in a chair next to the detective’s desk while he waited for the detective to return. The Sergent (was it Sergent? David wasn’t sure. His knowledge of police procedure began and ended with reruns of Law and Order), had pulled the detective away mid-statement to take a phone call. There was something odd about that call. David ran a hand over his face. He was so caught up in looking for something sinister, he was reading into things.
David’s pocket pinged, and he pulled out his phone. It was Irene, telling him that Weston had been rescheduled for next week. David snorted as he texted his thanks; Weston could be rescheduled indefinitely, for all he cared. He had moved on to checking his email by the time the detective returned. He looked flustered, pink--he had been red--and unsettled.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting,” the detective, Rodriguez, said. “Let’s finish this in a more private room.” He gestured for David to stand and follow. David did, gathering his briefcase and slipping his phone back into his pocket. It beeped again, oddly insistent, and David suppressed the urge to check the message. His instincts were telling him that he was right to suspect something, but he had no idea what and it was making him uneasy.
Det. Rodriguez led him to a small room down the hall. There was a window and a desk, two chairs, and a large mirror. David felt a moment of panic. He had seen these rooms before, on television and in movies; did they think he had something to do with it? He hesitated in the doorway, before shaking his head and entering the room. He had done nothing wrong. He had nothing to fear. That off feeling was just nerves.
David sat in the chair facing the door, so his back was to the window.
“I’m sorry for the delay,” Det. Rodriguez said. “But apparently we have a specialist on his way. He’s just arrived at the airport. If you wouldn’t mind staying to speak with him?”
David was already nodded. “Yes, fine.” He said. “Anything that could help Tim.” The Detective eyed him for a moment, and nodded.
“Right,” he said. “Well.” He was obviously at a loss. David thought it was safe to hazard a guess that the phone call was this “specialist,” though how he knew to fly in when David hadn’t officially filed the report, was beyond him. “Would yo--like a drink?”
David could think of several drinks he would like at the moment. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”
“Right,” Det. Rodriguez said again. “In that case, we’ll be in with you as soon as he arrives. It shouldn’t be too long.” And with that, the Detective left. David raised his eyebrows at the closed door. Something is definitely up, he thought. Tim, what have you gotten yourself into?
After a moment’s silence, broken only by the low chatter David could just barely hear from down the hall, he pulled out his cell phone. There was one new text message from Irene.
Tell him EVERYTHING.
David frowned at the screen. Who was “him”?
***
John sat in the back of the taxi, hand covering his mouth, face still red. He looked out the window, both because he’d never been to New York before, even if it was just the ride into Manhattan from La Guardia, and because if he looked at Sherlock he was going to lose the precarious hold he had on his giggles. It was bad enough that he sounded like a hyena on helium; he didn’t need Sherlock encouraging him when they were supposed to be making a good impression in America.
Of course, being held up at customs because you were caught in flagrante on an aeroplane, even if it was first class, didn’t help matters. Maybe Mycroft would spring for a private jet for the return trip.
Sherlock was once again surgically attached to his mobile, either hacking into the NYPD database, or pestering Mycroft. Probably both.
John’s own mobile chimed, and he pulled it out to look.
1 new mssg: Greg Lestrade
Mycroft told me you were in America, and put me in touch with the Detective in charge of this case. Should smooth things over a bit. Try not to let him get arrested; extradition’s a nightmare.
John snorted and Sherlock glanced over at him. “Lestrade,” he said, sounding bored.
“Yeah,” John said. “Called in a reference.”
“Hmm,” Sherlock said, and slipped his phone into his pocket. “We’re here.”
It was nothing like New Scotland Yard. The precinct building was old brick, with faded lights that were at least seventy years old, though the sign was new. Sherlock led his way through the front door, coat swishing dramatically. John followed behind at a more sedate pace, perfectly willing to be unnoticed for the moment. Sherlock was at the front desk, wearing his “playing nice with stupid humans” smile. If her expression was anything to go by, woman behind the desk wasn’t impressed, but she called for Detective Rodriguez anyway. John tried not to wince. American accents could be so grating.
Sherlock stood back, arms clasped behind his back, looking like some sort of department store mannequin in the gritty background of the station. John stood next to him at parade rest and tried to catch Sherlock’s eye.
“You’re doing it again,” John whispered. “Being all dramatic.”
“One must give the people what they want, John,” Sherlock muttered back, and stepped forward as the doors opened and a harried looking man, the one and only Det. Rodriguez, appeared. John looked at him, tried to see him with Sherlock’s methods, but all he could see was a man who had just hit middle age, was tired from lack of sleep (red eyes) and poor diet (waistline, stain on shirt), and had no idea how to take them. John knew Sherlock could tell so much more. After all, these were the obvious ones; all cops lived on no sleep and poor food, and nobody knew quite how to take Sherlock and John.
“Mr Holmes?” Det. Rodriguez asked. Sherlock stepped forward, hand out. Rodriguez shook it, and turned to John. “And you must be Doctor Watson.” John nodded, and shook hands. The detective’s grip was strong, sure and calloused. Also, slightly clammy. John resisted the urge to wipe his hand on his trousers.
“At this point,” the detective said, gesturing them to follow. “You know more than I do about this case. Order came down from above that you’re to be given full access and full cooperation,” John shook his head. Mycroft. “And it’s just as well. I’ve got a hundred other things to do, including other missing persons. The guy who made the official report is room 1,” Det. Rodriguez pointed. “His name’s David Karofsky. He says the guy hasn’t been at work in days, but that while he’s certain something happened to the guy, nobody else at work will.” He stopped next to the door. “Ready?”
“Of course,” Sherlock said and Det. Rodriguez snorted.
“Right. Here.”
The door opened and Sherlock swept into the room. John followed more sedately, exchanging a look with the detective, and took up his position in front of the door.
The man, David, sat at a lone table. He had a briefcase at his feet, and was holding his phone loosely in his hands, like he had been stopped while fiddling with it.
Sherlock stared at David. David, though confused, stared back. John wasn’t sure why Sherlock was staring, but he was pretty sure David just didn’t know what else to do.
“When did you see him last?”
“Little over a week ago,” David said. “We had lunch at work.”
“Isn’t that a bit odd, a high powered individual such as yourself and a young up and comer?”
“How--” David stared, but stopped himself, and said, “Yes, it was. But we were about the same age and had similar interests.”
“And he gave no signs that he was about to run?”
“None.”
Sherlock paused. “You’re being completely honest with me,” he said, face jumping in surprise. “They’re never completely honest--I don’t have to shock you into--why are you being so honest?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” David said.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John bit back a grin. Or a sigh. Here it comes. “Because you’re a business man, an agent, and if there’s one thing agents are good at, is spinning the truth, they tend to do it even when they don’t mean to, but you’re not even spinning, so it has to be something that deliberately overcomes habits developed at work. You liked him. Not in a sexual way, though you are both homosexuals, and he was clearly your type--a new relationship for him, honeymooning then, not likely to stray, and a long-term committed relationship for you. Married, happily with one young son. So, no romantic attachment. Could be, you were just friends and you could just that nice a person to sit here and put up with me for him, when nobody else seems to believe he’s missing. But that’s not very likely. People don’t like to put up with me, unless they’re John.”
“Ta.” John said, amused.
“So it’s something else. Something deeper. Accent places you mid-west. Build says you were an athlete, size and country of origin means American Football is most likely. Your age puts you in High School in the early teens, not an easy time to be a gay teen in America, let alone in such hetero-normative environments as football and--hmm--Ohio. You’re uncomfortable now, pale, sweating, I’m on the right track. There’s guilt there. A bully, were you? Maybe to another young gay man. There’s atonement here, as well, maybe for what you did to him, maybe to repay what he did for you with another. But either way, it’s enough to ensure you’re involvement.” Sherlock stopped, turned his face back to his phone, but his shoulders settled back for a moment, half-preening, half-braced for impact.
“Like,” David said.
“Sorry?” Sherlock didn’t look up from his phone.
“You said that I ‘liked him.’ It’s like--present tense.”
John felt his eyebrows raise. It was rare to get that type of response so quickly after being intoduced to Sherlock’s particular brand of madness. Lestrade could only do so after having worked with him for years, Mycroft often bested Sherlock in their verbal spars and John himself was an altogether different sort of mad, anyway.
“Yes,” Sherlock said, quietly. “Present tense.” He looked David up and down. “I’d like to see where he worked.”
David stood. He was at least as tall as Sherlock, and nearly twice as wide. “I can show you.” He faltered, looking at Det. Rodriguez. “If, I’m free to do.”
“Yeah,” Det. Rodriguez said, waving it off. “Just don’t skip town.”
Sherlock gestured David to leave with an elaborate bow. David faltered slightly, but his stride was steady as he lead the way out of the room. John fell into step next to Sherlock. He elbowed him gently in the ribs, pleased and the amused huff of air that left Sherlock.
“Show off,” John whispered. Sherlock just grinned.
Chapter 2
Chapter 4