Murder with Lens: A Sherlock Holmes Case (221B Baker Street Series) by S.K. Lloyds Read Free Book Online Page A

seemed to be busy shining the light across the ceiling.
    “We need a sign-in sheet for this club. The store might have one,” John said.
    “There isn’t one.” Sherlock said. “Certainly not with the store."
    “Maybe Reese will know who this is. This was supposed to be her source, after all.” John turned his head her way and saw her standing on a chair. Her gloved hands fiddled with a light bulb. All the bulbs in here were red. But nothing else indicated that they’d been using this virtually windowless room – seeing as all the curtains were drawn – to develop photos, he assumed.
    “This may be her source. It may not. I’d say yes. He’s an American exchange student from a relatively wealthy, politically conservative family, particularly inclined toward physics, politics, and law, but his strong nonconformist tendencies have trained him to be secretive. He hasn’t got tattoos. They aren’t subtle enough. All outward signs must remain nailed down. That dissonance increases the thrill for him when he takes risks. He’s an adrenaline junky; smokes weed to slow down – small traces left in both pockets, so it’s a habit; and a gold chain with diamond solitaire, good chance he’s gay. She wouldn’t have called me here if she knew him on sight, but she doesn’t know, because she’s only ever seen his picture and interacted with him remotely over secure channels. And here we are. Coat. Where’s his coat?” Sherlock rose to his feet and walked around the blood soaking into concrete. He scanned the room with the Maglite. Anderson winced in the doorway as the light passed over him. Sherlock’s eyes swept the room and came to rest on Reese. Her head rose a little. He said, “Yes. I know.”
    “I want them dusted.” Reese said. She held up a bulb by the metal contact.
    “Anderson is many things, but he’s not a bad hand with evidence collection.” Sherlock indicated the hawk-nosed man leaning in the doorway again, and noted Anderson’s attention was reserved for Reese. Holmes turned around again, his voice quiet enough that only John heard it. “Nor is he subtle.”
    Reese climbed down and crossed to Holmes. “I can’t say for sure if that’s Lawrence Waters, or not. This sucks. But I can tell you this is a warning for the CIA teams looking into these people. I wonder if this is how I’d look now, if they could manage it. It’s why I don’t get to leave Langley, much.”
    Sherlock backed up and opened his arms. “So how many people in the room?”
    “It looks like there were initially at least twelve people, at least four of whom were women; three are smokers. Lots of genetic material scattered across the cups left sitting around. Mix of coffee, wine, tea, and soft drinks, so we’re talking a wide range of tastes and possible ages.” Reese nodded her head. “But don’t be fooled. These cups and cigarette butts you’re seeing are dead ends. They plant all sorts of evidence. This stuff will lead off in every direction, some of it promising; some of it will go off to totally unrelated crimes; some of it is just trash; all of it bogus. None of what we’re seeing here is real. Except the body. And the lights. The red lights.” She looked at John, “The rods of the eye are not sensitive to red. The rhodopsin that gives you night vision, you know, it’s exhausted much more slowly on long red wavelengths, and once it’s spent it will take about 30 minutes to regenerate.”
    Sherlock walked the room, scrutinizing it. “Did you see the shop times on the front door?” He stopped by the chair Reese had been on, and picked up the coat hung over the back. He snuffed it, though how he might smell anything in the stench was hard to imagine. John watched Holmes rifle the pockets and study the ceiling and walls. He seemed to be searching for something specific there. Reese crossed her arms.
    Faint smell of weed.
    Blood and hair on table edge.
    Head impacted with table.
    Slight drag marks in