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34
Mia and Sherlock
Mia’s Apartment
New York City
Thursday morning
Mia put her feet on the floor and stood up before she realized all was not well. Who knew the result of rolling around in garbage cans to avoid a car trying to run her down would be every inch of her body aching and throbbing and screaming in protest? Even her feet hurt. After three aspirin and a very hot shower, she forced herself to look in the bathroom mirror. A laugh spurted out of her mouth. She looked like a bunch of sugar-high kids had finger-painted all over her. She gingerly rubbed on bruise cream, whatever good that did, blow-dried her hair, and eased into loose sweats. She heard the doorbell ring as she managed to bend over to pull on thick white socks.
She knew who was there, but when she opened the door, all she could do was stare at the tall, slim woman dressed in a black leather jacket, white shirt, black pants, and black boots standing at her door. Her hair was amazing, a red nimbus around her fine-boned face. With her light blue eyes, she looked like a fairy princess. Mia would have told her so, but she didn’t want to sound like a groupie.
“Good morning,” the princess said in a pleasant voice. “I’m Special Agent Sherlock. And you’re Tommy’s Mia. He told me you were too pretty for your own good.”
Tommy’s Mia? Tommy thought she was pretty? Given the face she’d seen in her bathroom mirror minutes ago, pretty was an awesome stretch. Mia laughed. “If Tommy could see me now, he’d pull out his Glock and put me out of my misery.” She stuck out her hand. “At least I’m ambulatory, and believe me, that’s a big relief. Sorry I look like crap. When the aspirin kick in, I won’t look better, but I’ll feel better.”
Sherlock only lightly touched her fingers to hers. “Nothing broken though, right?”
“Thankfully no, all my bones are where they should be. But I ache in places I didn’t even know I had.”
“I’ve been there. You don’t look like crap, you look like you’ve been on a bender.” She smiled. “In three or four days, you’ll feel back to fighting strength. I remember aspirin was my lifeline.”
Mia grinned. “I wouldn’t be surprised if my energy hasn’t flown south for the rest of the winter.” She paused a moment, couldn’t hold it in. “I’ve written about you, of course, but to see you here, in my apartment—I’m sorry, I’m keeping you standing here in the doorway. Please come in. You’re very kind to come, Agent Sherlock.”
“Please just call me Sherlock and I’ll call you Mia. It’ll save time.”
“That’d be great. Can I hang up your jacket?”
“That’s okay,” Sherlock said as she stuffed her gloves into her leather jacket pocket. “I know it’s early, but Tommy is very concerned, well, no, he’s scared for you, upset he couldn’t be here right away, and that’s why he asked me to be here to keep you safe.” Sherlock paused a moment, looked at Mia Briscoe, said slowly, “I have to say I was very concerned. I’ve never seen Tommy scared. He’s usually unflappable, like his dad, and his mom, too.”
Mia swallowed at the sudden memory of Serena saying, Mia, his mom is awesome. She’d fit under my armpit, but she runs the show, all four giant-size sons and her giant husband. Then she’d waggled her eyebrows, whispered, Maybe she can teach me how if Tommy and I decide to—well, we’re both young, and who knows?
Mia brought herself back, swallowed tears. “I don’t know Tommy’s parents well myself, only met them at Serena’s memorial, ah, but Tommy’s incredible. We’ve stayed close, emailing and calling. I was thrilled for him when he graduated from the FBI Academy. I remember he told me his dad was over the moon, kept pumping his hand and bear-hugging him.”
Sherlock said, “Tommy’s dad, Mr. Maitland, is my husband’s boss. We are very fond of him and his family.”
Mia ushered Sherlock into her living room, waved her to Mia’s own favorite chair, and stood over her, still aching all over. She felt clumsy and pathetic next to this amazing woman. “Ah, I was just going to make coffee. Would you like some? And maybe an English muffin slathered thick with chunky peanut butter?”
Sherlock could see Mia was hurting and said matter-of-factly, “Why don’t you take me to your kitchen. You will sit down and tell me where everything is and I’ll make us both breakfast. When was your last dose of aspirin?”
Mia wished she didn’t feel like the remains of a lousy meal. She wished she could fold herself up and sleep. “Three aspirin, about fifteen minutes ago.”
“Good, they should kick in soon. I won’t burn the muffins, I promise. Come along before you fall over.” Sherlock nodded toward the living room window. “This is an incredible view you have. When you have friends over do they ignore you and simply stare out the window down on Central Park?”
“Usually. All I have to do is put a glass of wine in their hands and let them look to their heart’s content. The view is gorgeous, but prepare yourself for a very small kitchen. At least it’s open so you can see the view while you cook.” Mia stopped in her kitchen doorway. She was supposed to sit down and let Sherlock feed her?
Sherlock walked straight to a kitchen chair and pulled it out. “Down you go, right there. Your kitchen’s nice and bright. I have a half dozen of those little herb pots you have lined up on the window ledge in my own kitchen. You’re right about the view. Central Park in all its winter glory, which makes me shiver just looking. You have a coffee maker I recognize, so, no problem. Everything else is in the fridge?”
Six minutes later, Mia sipped delicious coffee, closed her eyes, and whispered, “Thank you. You even heated the cream. It’s wonderful.”
“My mother-in-law taught me that. You’re welcome. Here’s your muffin, lots of peanut butter. The protein should perk you up.”
While they ate, they spoke of the frigid New York weather and the murder case Sherlock had come to New York to consult about. Sherlock gave her a few of the details. At the mention of a creative murdering psychopath who happened to be a real estate agent as well as a gun expert, Mia was leaning forward, her aches and pains forgotten. She wanted a name, only a name, but knew she wouldn’t get it. Sherlock only smiled at her, shook her head. “I’m hopeful we’ll close the case today. Then I’m sure you’ll hear about it.”
Mia watched Sherlock take their plates to the sink, pour two more cups of coffee, add the lovely hot cream, and sit down again.
Sherlock said, “Tommy’s already spoken to the current police chief in Creighton, sent him clear photos of Harrington and Harper back when they were twenty-seven, the age they’d have been at the rave at Godwyn. He’ll show them to his old list of witnesses, but it’s unlikely the photos will jog any memories. He’s tracked down the cars registered to them at the time—a Jaguar and a BMW, and their license plates. That might help put them at or near Godwyn that night, if we’re lucky. Tommy can’t check credit card records yet that could help put them coming or going from Godwyn that night seven years ago. Those aren’t in the public domain and we don’t have enough yet to get a warrant, especially on a candidate for mayor of New York City or a bigwig businessman. And since it’s unlikely Harrington and Harper started and ended their roofieing spree with Serena at Godwyn, Tommy’s going to check nearby colleges for unsolved rapes or disappearances. That kind of luck would be a lot to ask for though.
