Sherlock Holmes walked toward me before I could decide whether to retreat.
"Your awareness is defensive," he said, as if continuing a conversation we'd already been having. "Not the awareness of a predator scanning for opportunity, but of prey expecting attack. Someone taught you that. Someone who understood violence."
I kept my face neutral. "I spent time in places where violence was common."
"Obviously. But which places, and what kind of violence?" He circled me like a professor examining a specimen, his eyes cataloging details I couldn't hide. "Your hands suggest manual labor at some point — calluses in unusual patterns, healed cuts consistent with repetitive physical work. But your posture is educated. Your vocabulary precise. You've lived between worlds, Mr. Dalton."
"Most people have."
"Most people don't lie about it as skillfully as you do."
The accusation landed without heat. Sherlock wasn't angry — he was interested. The distinction mattered more than the words themselves.
"I'm not lying," I said. "I'm choosing which truths to share. There's a difference."
Something flickered in his eyes. Respect, maybe. Or recognition.
"Indeed there is." He gestured toward the street. "Coffee. There's a shop two blocks east that serves something approximating adequate espresso. You'll tell me about your client's connection to the victim, and I'll tell you whether I believe you're worth further attention."
It wasn't a question. I followed.
---
The coffee shop was the kind of anonymous establishment that exists in every city — vinyl booths, laminated menus, the particular smell of burnt grounds and industrial cleaning products. Sherlock ordered an espresso and criticized its extraction before the cup reached his lips. I ordered black coffee and didn't comment on it.
"Your client, Franklin Torres," Sherlock said, setting his cup down with obvious distaste. "His partner's murder appears straightforward, but straightforward murders don't require security consultants at the crime scene."
"Mr. Torres is concerned about his exposure. His business involves certain... gray areas. He hired me to ensure those areas don't become relevant to your investigation."
"Gray areas." Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Smuggling? Tax evasion? Something more creative?"
"Nothing that connects to the murder. Which is what you actually care about."
"I care about everything, Mr. Dalton. Relevance is a judgment I make, not one imposed by persons of interest." He leaned forward, hands steepled. "But let's assume you're correct. What can you tell me about the victim that the police don't already know?"
This was the moment I'd been positioning toward for weeks. Not the anonymous tips, not the surveillance from a distance, but actual value delivered face to face. Sherlock Holmes needed to understand that knowing me was useful.
"Victor Reyes had debts," I said. "Not to banks — to people who don't file paperwork. Torres didn't know the specifics, but he knew Victor was struggling. The business was supposed to fix that, except Victor's share wasn't enough to cover what he owed."
"And you know who these creditors are?"
"I have suspicions. Nothing I'd put in a police report, but useful directions for someone who knows how to look."
Sherlock studied me for a long moment. The Basic Deduction skill I'd earned was firing automatically, reading the micro-expressions I couldn't have perceived a week ago. He was weighing me. Calculating whether the information I offered was worth the complication of engaging with someone he couldn't fully read.
"You're not police," he said finally. "You're not criminal, precisely, though you operate in spaces that touch both. You're a fixer. Someone who solves problems without official channels."
"I prefer 'security consultant.'"
"I'm sure you do." He finished his espresso and pushed the cup aside. "Why approach me directly? You could have sent your information anonymously, as others have done."
My heart rate spiked. He was fishing — testing whether I'd react to the mention of anonymous tips.
"I wanted to see if you were worth knowing in person," I said. "Reputation suggests you are. But reputation lies."
"And what have you concluded?"
"That you're exactly as arrogant as reported. Also that the arrogance is mostly justified."
Sherlock's lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.
"Fair assessment," he acknowledged.
Detective Bell appeared at the table's edge, coffee cup in hand, expression suggesting he'd been observing our conversation from across the room. "Holmes. Dalton. Should I be concerned that you two are becoming friendly?"
"Friendly would be premature," Sherlock said. "Professional acquaintances, perhaps. Mr. Dalton may prove useful."
"Useful." Bell sat down without invitation, his bulk making the booth feel crowded. "That's what they all say until they start lying to you."
"I expect everyone to lie to me, Detective. It's what they lie about that matters."
Bell turned his attention to me, and I recognized the sharp focus I'd admired from a distance. Up close, it was more intense. This was a man who'd learned to read people through decades of street-level work, and he was reading me now.
"Security consultant," he said. "What kind of security?"
"The kind that keeps clients out of complications they didn't create."
"Sounds like lawyer work."
"Lawyers file paperwork. I solve problems."
Bell's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his posture. He was filing me away, categorizing me for future reference. I was on his radar now, for better or worse.
"Had a CI once," Bell said, seemingly changing subjects. "Good source. Knew things about the Maroni organization that nobody else would share. Found him in an alley off Atlantic two years later. Still bothers me — never found who did it."
The detail landed with the weight of something heavier than casual conversation. Bell was watching my reaction, gauging whether the mention of violence affected me.
"Sounds personal," I said.
"Everything's personal when it stays unsolved." Bell stood up, coffee cup still in hand. "Nice meeting you, Dalton. Try not to become another case file."
He walked away, and I filed the detail in my Memory Palace: murdered informant, Maroni connection, two years ago, Atlantic Avenue vicinity. Marcus Bell's cold case. Future leverage, if I could find the answers he couldn't.
Sherlock watched me catalog the information. His eyes missed nothing.
"You found that interesting," he observed.
"Everyone has unsolved problems. Solving them creates connections."
"Practical man." Sherlock reached into his pocket and produced a card — the brownstone address, hand-written on heavy cream paper. "If your clients produce useful information again, I'm not difficult to find."
I took the card. First invitation. The door was open.
Walking through it was another matter entirely.
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