The call came at 7:42 AM.
I recognized the number — Sherlock's burner, the one he used for contacts he didn't want in official records. My thumb hovered over the accept button for three heartbeats before I answered.
"Your information was useful." Sherlock's voice was clipped, professional, devoid of the emotional weight from our last meeting. "The connection to the Hartwell firm was accurate. The murdered accountant did know about the fraud scheme."
"I'm glad it helped."
"I could use more. There are aspects of this case that require knowledge I don't have — underworld channels, people who won't talk to police or consulting detectives." A pause. "Are you available?"
The words were carefully chosen. Not "I need your help" — that would be too vulnerable. Not "Come to the brownstone" — that would be too personal. Just a professional inquiry, the kind one expert might make to another.
But underneath, the subtext was clear: I'm willing to try.
"I'm available," I said. "Where do you need me?"
"The Hartwell offices. Twenty minutes."
He hung up without saying goodbye. Classic Sherlock. I pulled on my jacket and headed for the door.
---
The Hartwell Building was glass and chrome in Midtown, the kind of corporate architecture designed to intimidate clients and impress investors. I found Sherlock in the lobby, examining a security terminal with the particular intensity of someone cataloging every relevant detail.
Joan stood beside him, watching my approach with an expression I couldn't quite read. Not hostile, but not welcoming either. Evaluating.
"Mr. Dalton," she said.
"Dr. Watson."
Sherlock didn't acknowledge my arrival beyond a brief nod. "The fraud scheme originated in their accounting department. Three employees with access to client files, all of whom conveniently transferred to different firms within the past six months."
"Covering their tracks."
"Attempting to. Their departure timing correlates with the SEC investigation timeline. Someone warned them." He finally looked at me directly. "I need to know who in the criminal network might have facilitated those transfers. False references, employment verification — the infrastructure of manufactured careers."
This was my territory. The Memory Palace unspooled connections I'd built over months of fixer work — document specialists, employment verification networks, the particular channels through which guilty people disappeared into new lives.
Like Rebecca Torres. Like the job that had cost me Marcus.
"Three possibilities," I said, pushing the memory aside. "Dmitri Volkov handles documents, but his work is usually cleaner than this — no obvious connections to legitimate firms. There's a woman named Chen who specializes in corporate placement, uses blackmail material to ensure cooperation from HR departments. And Marcus Reilly — no relation — runs a reference verification service that's been flagged by several investigations but never prosecuted."
Sherlock processed the information with visible satisfaction. "Chen. The HR blackmail angle fits the timeline. The accountants weren't just fleeing — they were being placed somewhere they could continue to be useful."
"Or controlled," Joan added. "If someone has blackmail material on your new employer, you don't have much choice about what they ask you to do."
"Precisely." Sherlock was already moving toward the elevator. "We need to find Chen. Cash, I assume you know how to reach her."
"I know someone who knows."
"Then make the call."
---
Three hours later, we had a location.
Chen operated out of an office complex in Long Island City — legitimate enough on the surface, but with security measures that suggested awareness of unwanted attention. Sherlock wanted to approach directly; I suggested a more subtle method.
"She won't talk to a consulting detective," I said. "She's been in this business long enough to know that police adjacent means police eventually."
"What do you propose?"
"Let me go first. Establish that we're not interested in her operation — just information about specific placements." I glanced at Joan. "You two can monitor from outside. If something goes wrong, you'll know."
Joan's expression suggested she wasn't entirely comfortable with this arrangement. "And if Chen decides you're a threat?"
"Then I handle it."
Sherlock studied me for a long moment. The analytical assessment I'd grown accustomed to, the systematic evaluation of capabilities and trustworthiness.
"Acceptable," he said finally. "But if you're not out in twenty minutes, we're coming in."
"Understood."
---
Chen's office was on the fourth floor — modest space, professional furnishings, the kind of setup that could be abandoned in hours if necessary. She was a small woman in her fifties, sharp-eyed and immaculately dressed, watching me enter with the particular caution of someone who'd survived a long time in a dangerous business.
"Moriarty's fixer," she said. "I've heard of you."
"Good things, I hope."
"Interesting things." She gestured to a chair. "What do you want?"
"Information about three accountants you placed after they left Hartwell Financial. I'm not interested in your operation or your methods. I just need to know who asked for those placements."
Chen's expression didn't change, but something shifted in her posture — a calculation being made, risks being weighed.
"And why should I tell you anything?"
"Because I'm asking nicely. And because the alternative is someone less nice asking less politely." I kept my voice neutral. "The NYPD is already building a case. The SEC is already investigating. Those accountants are going to be questioned, and when they are, your name is going to come up."
"It always comes up. It never sticks."
"This time might be different. There's a consulting detective involved — someone who doesn't give up and doesn't play by normal rules." I leaned forward slightly. "I'm offering you the chance to share information voluntarily, in a way that never connects back to you. The alternative is waiting for the investigation to find you."
Chen was silent for a long moment. Then: "The request came through a law firm. Legitimate on paper, but I knew who really owned them."
"Who?"
"A man named Victor Rosenberg. Real estate developer, significant holdings, exactly the kind of client who benefits when competing firms collapse."
Victor Rosenberg. Eleanor's former client — the one whose account the larger firm had been trying to steal. The motive just became clear.
"Rosenberg commissioned the fraud scheme?"
"He commissioned the placements. What those accountants did before they needed new jobs wasn't my business." Chen stood, signaling the conversation was over. "You have what you came for. Now leave, and don't come back."
I left.
---
Outside, Sherlock and Joan were waiting in a parked car with a view of the building entrance. I slid into the back seat and relayed what Chen had told me.
"Victor Rosenberg," Sherlock said, processing. "The real estate developer. He's been acquiring properties in areas that conveniently become valuable after competitors fail."
"Eleanor Vance's firm was about to secure a major real estate account," I said. "If Rosenberg eliminated her firm through the fraud accusations, he'd be positioned to absorb that account himself."
"Not just positioned. The account would have nowhere else to go." Sherlock's mind was already racing ahead. "This isn't just fraud. It's systematic destruction of competition. And the murdered accountant..."
"Knew about all of it," Joan finished. "He was killed because he could connect Rosenberg to the scheme."
We sat in silence for a moment, the pieces falling into place. The fraud, the murder, the elaborate cover-up — all connected, all traceable, all solvable.
"We need to present this to Gregson," Sherlock said. "Evidence compilation, timeline reconstruction, connection mapping."
"I can help with the timeline," I offered. "The Memory Palace has everything Chen told me, plus contextual details that might be useful."
Sherlock glanced back at me, and for the first time since the confrontation, I saw something like genuine respect in his expression.
"That would be efficient," he said.
"Partnership usually is."
Joan watched the exchange without comment, but her expression suggested she was filing observations away for later consideration.
We drove back to the brownstone to build our case.
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