Mortar & Stone: an Elementary fanfiction

Chapter 3

"We called your boss and he gave us the names of two men that matched the height and build of our gunman: Tony Naples and Brian Mallory."

Detective Bell was sitting in the interrogation room, Gregson stood leaning against the corner. A balding middle-aged man sat across from them, his stomach straining against the buttons of his collared shirt.

"The manager there said Naples was out on two after-hour repair jobs. Car logs show they were back-to-back."

"So that leaves you, Mr Mallory," Gregson stood. "We searched your house this morning while you were in custody, and guess what we found?"

Mallory stared up at him, dumbfounded. Gregson nodded at Bell, who pulled out a hand-gun wrapped in plastic and placed it on the table, "Ballistics say it's the same one used last night to kill Mr Jack Hapston, the photographer."

Mallory's eyes widened. "W-what are you talking about?"

"So, you'd better start talking Mr Mallory;" Gregson leant over him, "You're gonna tell us what your connection to the photographer is, and why you killed him."

Mallory held his hands up, "Woah woah. I ain't killed nobody. Me and My buddy Tony use that gun to go shootin' targets together. He came over last night, askin' for the gun, sayin' he had some time to kill. I assumed he was just gonna do some target practise.

"He's not the killer," Joan said, as she and Sherlock watched from behind the two-way mirror. "The signs are all wrong: the only reaction he had when they brought that gun out was confusion. He's not lying."

"Agreed." Sherlock said. He enjoyed watching her make deductions, using what he had taught her. "They found two sets of fingerprints on that gun. His story would be plausible, if it weren't for the pesky issue of Tony Naples' alibi."

Joan frowned, thinking. "What if it didn't check out? Has anyone interviewed his clients from last night?"

"No, but I can see we're about to."

Joan and Sherlock pulled up outside a large brick house on Bow Street, Forest Hills. The street was lined with large, shady trees, full of huge old houses that Joan would love to live in one day. Not that she wasn't happy where she was now; she loved the hustle and bustle of New York City, and strangely enough, she and her reclusive housemate had found a natural rhythm together. She just couldn't see herself living there forever. She wanted to have a family one day, no matter how far off that dream was becoming with each birthday that passed leaving her single and one year older.

"Before I forget," said Joan as they got out of the car, "Tom's hosting a fundraising ball tonight for the American Mental Health Foundation and he was wondering if you'd like to come. I think he thought you'd make an interesting table guest, you know, drum up some funds for the foundation."

Sherlock pursed his lips, pretending to give it some thought, "Please tell the Good Doctor that, while I am extremely flattered to be whored out for a good cause, I will be unavailable. I expect this case will be occupying most of our free-time so I want to get a head start and, in any case, I'm not sure being around all that free-flowing champagne would be good for my sobriety. You will have to do the cash-squeezing without me."

Joan didn't answer as Sherlock knocked on the white-wooden door.

A well-dressed woman in her fifties opened it, "Can I help you?" She asked.

"Good afternoon, Ms Trent," Sherlock said, "My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate, Joan Watson. We are consulting detectives with the NYPD and were wondering if we could ask you a few questions about Tony Naples, the man who came to fix your air-conditioning yesterday evening."