The Whitechapel Syndicate Mystery- Chapter 1
from: sherlockholmes@thescienceofdeduction.co.uk
to: chill_pepper@anonymous.net
subject:[secure]
cc:
bcc:
I need to see you. Usual time, usual place.
----
“Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system. The T-Mobile Customer Sherlock is not available. Please record your message at the tone.”
“Hello, this is Angela Frye calling from the Human Resources department of the Preston Children’s Foundation. I was recommended to you by Detective Inspector Lestrade. I would prefer to communicate with you in person, as it concerns a sensitive issue. Please give me a call back at 2086775158.”
JOHN WATSON’S BLOG
April 10th
Sherlock’s off again on another thing. Apparently, someone has been embezzling from the Preston Children’s Fund, the largest charitable organization for orphans in London. Normally, he says, he wouldn’t bother with something so trivial (Sherlock’s interest in the less fortunate is based purely on reciprocity) but he’s been on edge lately since the whole ####### thing, so he’s been trying to keep busy.
He asked me to come along, so we cabbed it over to Fleet Street, and got off in front of the Medical Centre. Mrs. Frye, a biggish woman who looked about fifty, met us in front, and took us up to a very posh office.
Sherlock stopped and stared, frozen in place like he was having an epileptic fit. Mrs. Frye opened her mouth but I waved her off.
“It’s okay.”
He put his hands together and then looked at us and said, “carry on.”
“All we know is that money has been disappearing from the charity for months. At first it was a little here, and a little there, but before we knew it, £5.6 million had gone missing.”
“Who discovered the loss?” Sherlock asked.
“I did. I went to make the deposit and thought to check the account balance. I nearly had a heart attack.”
“I’m going to need the bank account numbers, and the access codes if I’m going to trace the money.”
Mrs. Frye shook her head. “Not acceptable. I can’t give you those. I can only give you the statements.”
Sherlock gave her the disdainful look he usually reserved for Donovan or Anderson.
“Well, I would like to speak to your accountant, if that’s acceptable.”
“We only have one on a temporary basis, Ray Majors. He’s on holiday right now.”
“I’ll bet he is,” Sherlock said, going over to the water cooler to fill a cup. He turned around. “I need the man’s number and address. Actually, I would like the name and address of anyone who had the access codes.”
“It was only Mr. Majors and I that had the codes.”
“Maybe the accountant took the money,” I suggested.
“Impossible,” said Mrs. Frye. “There is no record of withdrawal under his user name.”
Sherlock’s phone beeped. I looked over his shoulder at it. It was a text from D.I. Lestrade.
caleb adler shot in soho. please come asap.
Sherlock crumpled up the paper cup and threw it over his shoulder into the trash. He turned to Mrs. Frye.
“Email me the information and I’ll see what I can make of it. Afternoon.”
Then he left, leaving me to apologize, and scramble after him as usual.
“It was the accountant,” I said, once we were in the cab. Sherlock gave me that pitying look he always gave me when he thought I was being dense.
“Obviously. The real question is, who paid the accountant?”
“You think someone paid him?”
“I know someone paid him. The embezzler’s first law: always pay off the help. Dull, dull, dull. Predictable. At least Lestrade has something for me.”
“That text you got, Caleb Adler, who’s Caleb Adler?”
“He’s a drug merchant, the kingpin of the White Chapel Syndicate.”
“Syndicate? Like the mafia?” I said with a laugh. “Are you serious?”
“Completely,” said Sherlock, unsmiling. He fishhooked the left corner of his mouth, and showed me a missing molar. “One of Adler’s thugs did that at Charing Cross when I got too close to discovering where they stored their capital.”
“Did you back off after that?”
He glared at me. “Of course not. The case is on-going, but they’ve been careful.”
“But now Caleb Adler’s been shot?”
“Correct.”
“Who shot him?”
“A man with that many enemies, it could have been anyone. The syndicate runs heroin and cocaine, and there’s plenty of competition. Lots of opportunities for hostile takeover.”
When we got out of the cab, police cars were all lit up around the scene. I spotted Lestrade, and next to him was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She was tall and black, with a long Nefertiti neck, and cornrows in her hair. She was huddled in a bloodstained mink and talking to the Detective Inspector. I immediately took a step in her direction, but Sherlock grabbed my wounded shoulder, and I yelped.
“Goddamnit, Sherlock!”
“Oh, does that still hurt?”
“Yes, you prat!”
He grinned, the bastard.
“Who is that?” I asked, feeling a little dizzy from the pain.
“Iris Adler,” Sherlock said, watching her with unblinking eyes. “Caleb’s wife, now widow. She’s the main attraction at one of his nightclubs, but I understand he has...other attractions at other clubs.”
“Do you think she, uh, whacked him?”
“Yes, Bugsy Malone, it’s possible she hired someone. Clever, if she did; look at the state of her.”
We went over to Lestrade and I was able to get a closer look at the future Mrs. Watson. She had big chocolate brown eyes, and her lips were full and glossy. She completely ignored me, and looked at Sherlock with murder in her eyes.
“What the hell is this bitch doing here?” she barked at Lestrade, watching Sherlock with narrowed eyes. Her accent originated from some New York borough, possibly Brooklyn.
“Oh, just, come to pay my respects,” said Sherlock, almost gleefully. “How are you, Iris? Family’s all well, I hope?”
“Fuck you,” she spat.
“Down, Sherlock,” Lestrade growled. “You’re only here as a formality.”
“Really,” said Sherlock, his eyebrows shooting up. “Which is why you demanded I come at once?”
“Okay, I panicked a little,” said Lestrade, pulling a face. “The style looks like the Hondurans, but we can’t confirm. I want you to look at it. It was a drive-by with both parties inside vehicles. And not just the usual ruffling of feathers. Definitely a hit. And we can’t find the driver, but the only blood in the car belongs to Caleb.”
We went over to the smashed up black Cadillac Escalade, where the corpse was propped against the backseat. It was riddled with a strafing of bullets. The head was cocked crazily to one side, and one glazed eye stared up at us, the other a bloody, gelatinous mass, clipped by a bullet that had gone through the cheekbone. He was an extremely tall and thin man, black, bald, with a naked woman tattooed up the back of his neck. Sherlock whipped out his magnifying glass, and went right down to the bullets wounds.
“Mac-ten,” said Lestrade, bending down next to us.
“Obviously, but one of them was a .22. Look at this exit wound,” Sherlock pointed. “It hit him in the back and blew out the front.”
He signaled for a pair of gloves from a hovering medical examiner, then took the corpse by the ear and pulled it forward, showing the place where the bullet had gone in just left of the small of the back, and out through the pelvis. The wound wasn’t large, but it had bled copiously.
“It hit him right in the femoral artery,” I said. “He would’ve died in a few moments.”
“There’s a star-burst pattern, and powder burns,” said Sherlock. “Point blank range.”
My heart sank a little. “Iris?”
“No powder-burns on her hands,” said Lestrade, shaking his head. “How did she keep from getting hit, in any case?”
“If the .22 was the first shot, she could’ve been out of the car before the mac ten was fired. Or maybe she was wearing kevlar. Definitely had gloves, maybe the vest, got rid of both. Find them.”
“I’ll put someone on it. I’ve got to take her in.”
Sherlock shook his head. “No, let her go. We’ll have better luck finding the source if we can track her movements. Put a trace on her phone.”
“Should I put someone to tail her?”
“No. I know where she’ll be tonight.”
We returned to where Iris was seated, talking on her mobile. She immediately put it away when she saw us coming, and stood up. Sherlock sidled up to her, and looked down into her beautiful, angry face. It wasn’t too far away from his, as she was nearly his height and quite a bit taller than me.
“I’m not gonna talk to you, so you can just take your pale, skinny ass and your little buttboy and go have tea and cakes or something.”
“Always lovely to see you, my dear,” said Sherlock with as much artificial sweetness as he could muster.
“Oh, and I am so sorry about your loss.” He offered his gloved hand, covered in her husband’s blood, grinning like a demented child showing off a freshly killed cockroach.
I moved to interfere as Iris wound up to smack him one right across his smart gob, but Lestrade caught her hand, giving Sherlock a warning look, who simply smiled as he shucked off the gloves and shot them into a nearby dumpster.
“Mrs. Adler, you’re already involved in a murder investigation,” said Lestrade in his most mollifying voice. “Don’t add an assault charge on top of it.”
Iris relaxed, and let her hand drop. She shook Lestrade off.
“Get me a car,” she said imperiously, and Lestrade opened his mouth to argue, but then closed it, clearly helpless to resist. He signaled to a bobby.
Sherlock pulled out his card, and offered it to Iris. “If you ever need a shoulder to cry on.”
She looked sideways at him and put her hands on her hips “Are you really that big an asshole, or are you just a retarded spastic?”
Sherlock just grinned his silly grin, flipped the card at her and then went to go find us a cab. The amazon turned her burning gaze on me, and I felt my heart rise in my throat.
“And what are you, his retarded sidekick?”
“Yes. No! I mean, I’m his colleague, but I’m not-”
“Whatever.” She turned her back and walked away.
“-retarded.”
We got into the cab, and Sherlock looked at me, still grinning. “Do you like live music?”
“Uh, sure, why?”
“The wake will be at the club tonight. Pezzonovante. Excellent Italian kitchen, we should get there early and have dinner. But first we need to accessorize.”
“Accessorize?”
Next Chapter:
Sherlock Holmes: Gangster
to: chill_pepper@anonymous.net
subject:[secure]
cc:
bcc:
I need to see you. Usual time, usual place.
----
“Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice message system. The T-Mobile Customer Sherlock is not available. Please record your message at the tone.”
“Hello, this is Angela Frye calling from the Human Resources department of the Preston Children’s Foundation. I was recommended to you by Detective Inspector Lestrade. I would prefer to communicate with you in person, as it concerns a sensitive issue. Please give me a call back at 2086775158.”
JOHN WATSON’S BLOG
April 10th
Sherlock’s off again on another thing. Apparently, someone has been embezzling from the Preston Children’s Fund, the largest charitable organization for orphans in London. Normally, he says, he wouldn’t bother with something so trivial (Sherlock’s interest in the less fortunate is based purely on reciprocity) but he’s been on edge lately since the whole ####### thing, so he’s been trying to keep busy.
He asked me to come along, so we cabbed it over to Fleet Street, and got off in front of the Medical Centre. Mrs. Frye, a biggish woman who looked about fifty, met us in front, and took us up to a very posh office.
Sherlock stopped and stared, frozen in place like he was having an epileptic fit. Mrs. Frye opened her mouth but I waved her off.
“It’s okay.”
He put his hands together and then looked at us and said, “carry on.”
“All we know is that money has been disappearing from the charity for months. At first it was a little here, and a little there, but before we knew it, £5.6 million had gone missing.”
“Who discovered the loss?” Sherlock asked.
“I did. I went to make the deposit and thought to check the account balance. I nearly had a heart attack.”
“I’m going to need the bank account numbers, and the access codes if I’m going to trace the money.”
Mrs. Frye shook her head. “Not acceptable. I can’t give you those. I can only give you the statements.”
Sherlock gave her the disdainful look he usually reserved for Donovan or Anderson.
“Well, I would like to speak to your accountant, if that’s acceptable.”
“We only have one on a temporary basis, Ray Majors. He’s on holiday right now.”
“I’ll bet he is,” Sherlock said, going over to the water cooler to fill a cup. He turned around. “I need the man’s number and address. Actually, I would like the name and address of anyone who had the access codes.”
“It was only Mr. Majors and I that had the codes.”
“Maybe the accountant took the money,” I suggested.
“Impossible,” said Mrs. Frye. “There is no record of withdrawal under his user name.”
Sherlock’s phone beeped. I looked over his shoulder at it. It was a text from D.I. Lestrade.
caleb adler shot in soho. please come asap.
Sherlock crumpled up the paper cup and threw it over his shoulder into the trash. He turned to Mrs. Frye.
“Email me the information and I’ll see what I can make of it. Afternoon.”
Then he left, leaving me to apologize, and scramble after him as usual.
“It was the accountant,” I said, once we were in the cab. Sherlock gave me that pitying look he always gave me when he thought I was being dense.
“Obviously. The real question is, who paid the accountant?”
“You think someone paid him?”
“I know someone paid him. The embezzler’s first law: always pay off the help. Dull, dull, dull. Predictable. At least Lestrade has something for me.”
“That text you got, Caleb Adler, who’s Caleb Adler?”
“He’s a drug merchant, the kingpin of the White Chapel Syndicate.”
“Syndicate? Like the mafia?” I said with a laugh. “Are you serious?”
“Completely,” said Sherlock, unsmiling. He fishhooked the left corner of his mouth, and showed me a missing molar. “One of Adler’s thugs did that at Charing Cross when I got too close to discovering where they stored their capital.”
“Did you back off after that?”
He glared at me. “Of course not. The case is on-going, but they’ve been careful.”
“But now Caleb Adler’s been shot?”
“Correct.”
“Who shot him?”
“A man with that many enemies, it could have been anyone. The syndicate runs heroin and cocaine, and there’s plenty of competition. Lots of opportunities for hostile takeover.”
When we got out of the cab, police cars were all lit up around the scene. I spotted Lestrade, and next to him was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She was tall and black, with a long Nefertiti neck, and cornrows in her hair. She was huddled in a bloodstained mink and talking to the Detective Inspector. I immediately took a step in her direction, but Sherlock grabbed my wounded shoulder, and I yelped.
“Goddamnit, Sherlock!”
“Oh, does that still hurt?”
“Yes, you prat!”
He grinned, the bastard.
“Who is that?” I asked, feeling a little dizzy from the pain.
“Iris Adler,” Sherlock said, watching her with unblinking eyes. “Caleb’s wife, now widow. She’s the main attraction at one of his nightclubs, but I understand he has...other attractions at other clubs.”
“Do you think she, uh, whacked him?”
“Yes, Bugsy Malone, it’s possible she hired someone. Clever, if she did; look at the state of her.”
We went over to Lestrade and I was able to get a closer look at the future Mrs. Watson. She had big chocolate brown eyes, and her lips were full and glossy. She completely ignored me, and looked at Sherlock with murder in her eyes.
“What the hell is this bitch doing here?” she barked at Lestrade, watching Sherlock with narrowed eyes. Her accent originated from some New York borough, possibly Brooklyn.
“Oh, just, come to pay my respects,” said Sherlock, almost gleefully. “How are you, Iris? Family’s all well, I hope?”
“Fuck you,” she spat.
“Down, Sherlock,” Lestrade growled. “You’re only here as a formality.”
“Really,” said Sherlock, his eyebrows shooting up. “Which is why you demanded I come at once?”
“Okay, I panicked a little,” said Lestrade, pulling a face. “The style looks like the Hondurans, but we can’t confirm. I want you to look at it. It was a drive-by with both parties inside vehicles. And not just the usual ruffling of feathers. Definitely a hit. And we can’t find the driver, but the only blood in the car belongs to Caleb.”
We went over to the smashed up black Cadillac Escalade, where the corpse was propped against the backseat. It was riddled with a strafing of bullets. The head was cocked crazily to one side, and one glazed eye stared up at us, the other a bloody, gelatinous mass, clipped by a bullet that had gone through the cheekbone. He was an extremely tall and thin man, black, bald, with a naked woman tattooed up the back of his neck. Sherlock whipped out his magnifying glass, and went right down to the bullets wounds.
“Mac-ten,” said Lestrade, bending down next to us.
“Obviously, but one of them was a .22. Look at this exit wound,” Sherlock pointed. “It hit him in the back and blew out the front.”
He signaled for a pair of gloves from a hovering medical examiner, then took the corpse by the ear and pulled it forward, showing the place where the bullet had gone in just left of the small of the back, and out through the pelvis. The wound wasn’t large, but it had bled copiously.
“It hit him right in the femoral artery,” I said. “He would’ve died in a few moments.”
“There’s a star-burst pattern, and powder burns,” said Sherlock. “Point blank range.”
My heart sank a little. “Iris?”
“No powder-burns on her hands,” said Lestrade, shaking his head. “How did she keep from getting hit, in any case?”
“If the .22 was the first shot, she could’ve been out of the car before the mac ten was fired. Or maybe she was wearing kevlar. Definitely had gloves, maybe the vest, got rid of both. Find them.”
“I’ll put someone on it. I’ve got to take her in.”
Sherlock shook his head. “No, let her go. We’ll have better luck finding the source if we can track her movements. Put a trace on her phone.”
“Should I put someone to tail her?”
“No. I know where she’ll be tonight.”
We returned to where Iris was seated, talking on her mobile. She immediately put it away when she saw us coming, and stood up. Sherlock sidled up to her, and looked down into her beautiful, angry face. It wasn’t too far away from his, as she was nearly his height and quite a bit taller than me.
“I’m not gonna talk to you, so you can just take your pale, skinny ass and your little buttboy and go have tea and cakes or something.”
“Always lovely to see you, my dear,” said Sherlock with as much artificial sweetness as he could muster.
“Oh, and I am so sorry about your loss.” He offered his gloved hand, covered in her husband’s blood, grinning like a demented child showing off a freshly killed cockroach.
I moved to interfere as Iris wound up to smack him one right across his smart gob, but Lestrade caught her hand, giving Sherlock a warning look, who simply smiled as he shucked off the gloves and shot them into a nearby dumpster.
“Mrs. Adler, you’re already involved in a murder investigation,” said Lestrade in his most mollifying voice. “Don’t add an assault charge on top of it.”
Iris relaxed, and let her hand drop. She shook Lestrade off.
“Get me a car,” she said imperiously, and Lestrade opened his mouth to argue, but then closed it, clearly helpless to resist. He signaled to a bobby.
Sherlock pulled out his card, and offered it to Iris. “If you ever need a shoulder to cry on.”
She looked sideways at him and put her hands on her hips “Are you really that big an asshole, or are you just a retarded spastic?”
Sherlock just grinned his silly grin, flipped the card at her and then went to go find us a cab. The amazon turned her burning gaze on me, and I felt my heart rise in my throat.
“And what are you, his retarded sidekick?”
“Yes. No! I mean, I’m his colleague, but I’m not-”
“Whatever.” She turned her back and walked away.
“-retarded.”
We got into the cab, and Sherlock looked at me, still grinning. “Do you like live music?”
“Uh, sure, why?”
“The wake will be at the club tonight. Pezzonovante. Excellent Italian kitchen, we should get there early and have dinner. But first we need to accessorize.”
“Accessorize?”
Next Chapter:
Sherlock Holmes: Gangster