Mortar & Stone: an Elementary fanfiction

Chapter 7

"Tony Naples? That guy from college? He blackmailed me then killed the pap?"

Sherlock and Watson sat in the Mayor's office as he paced in front of them, running a hand through his slicked-back hair.

"He has confessed to killing the photographer, yes," Sherlock said, "However, he claims to know nothing about the photos; he says a mysterious person sent him messages asking him to kill Hapston."

"And you believe that bullshit?"

"All evidence suggests he is telling the truth. We already have him for murder, being charged for blackmail is the least of his worries so he has no motive for lying; we have the phone messages from an untraceable number, and a large amount of cash received from an unknown source. The same amount of money, in fact, that was requested in your blackmail letter. Not a coincidence, I think."

The mayor stopped pacing.

"Did you send him the money, Mayor Goodwin?" Watson asked.

He moved back behind his desk and sat down on his large leather chair. "The Mayor's office does not respond to blackmail threats without the Police's involvement."

"That does not answer my question."

He gave her a withering stare. "Unless you are here to charge me with something, I am under no obligation to answer any of your questions."

Joan was sure that look intimidated many women, but not her. "Would it interest you to know that the note sent with the money, reading "I want them destroyed", came bearing your seal?" She asked.

The Mayor leaned back in his chair. "Miss Watson, do you know how many people have direct access to our stationary? At least thirty, possibly twice that if you include visitors, deliveries..."

"It may also interest you to know," Sherlock said, "that our handwriting expert has analysed the script, though it won't surprise you, I think, that it very closely resembles your own."

He went very still. "Do I need to call my lawyers, Mr Holmes?"

"No. While we are quite without doubt that you sent him that money, Watson and I do not think you contracted Naples to kill the photographer, nor do we believe that you forged the blackmail letter in order to cover your tracks."

"What do you believe then?"

"We believe you are being framed."

The Mayor's shoulders dropped a little. "Finally some sense. I knew someone was trying to frame me as soon as I heard about those photos around the body."

Watson cocked her head. "That information was not released."

His jaw tensed for the shortest moment. "I am the Mayor of New York, Miss Watson, if I want information from the NYPD about an investigation, I'll get it."

Sherlock gave her a long-suffering expression, before turning back to the Mayor. "Do you have any enemies? Someone that hates you enough to want you put away for murder?"

"You don't get to where I am without making some enemies along the way."

"Anyone who stands to profit directly from your incarceration? How about in your office, or your personal life? Would anyone have motive to frame you?"

"And the woman in the photos," Watson interjected, "We'll need her name."

The Mayor held a hand up to them. "I'll give you full access to our personnel files, but I'm not getting her involved in this."

"It is essential that we rule out all possible suspects," Sherlock said.

He held his palms up in mock-surrender. "I've told you as much as I can."

"Mayor Goodwin, I understand you want to protect her, but it is highly likely that she is already somehow involved." Watson said, in the most compassionate voice she could muster.

He considered them carefully, but did not answer.

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh, "Fine. Considering our next best suspect is your wife, we will be inviting her down to the station for questioning instead."

His eyes grew wide. "NO!" He barked, "She can't know about this mess."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "You do realise that our role in this investigation is to investigate. That means we need to question the people closest to you. I'm sure you are aware that cases pertaining to public personalities are almost impossible to keep under wraps, it is quite a miracle that it has been kept so thus far; so when the news does break that you are having an affair with a prostitute and are strongly implicated in this murder, would you like obstruction of justice added to that list?."

The Mayor's nostrils flared, "Come back with a subpoena. The way I see it, the photographer is dead, the photos destroyed; no longer my problem."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Sherlock waved a finger at him, "Did your 'source' tell you a large file transfer was made from the photographer's computer to an as-yet-unlocated thumb-drive? Or that in his statement Tony Naples mentioned seeing a woman arguing with the photographer not long before he was killed? He described her as 5'4, Asian, long black hair. Ring any bells?"

His eyes narrowed, before he reached over his mahogany desk and hit speed-dial on his phone. "Miss Rowntree, our meeting is finished. Could you show Mr Holmes and Ms Watson out?" He turned back to them, leaning forward on his desk.

"As I said, next time you come in here with vague accusations, they'd better be good enough for a warrant." He leant back in his chair and looked at them arrogantly, before Ms Rowntree appeared at the door.

"Right." Sherlock stood, "Thank you for your time, Mayor Goodwin." He said heading for the door.

Joan gave him a confused look. "That's it?" She asked, before standing herself.

"Oh, I just remembered," Sherlock said, turning back and pulling his phone out of his pocket, "We found this on the photographer's voicemail."

A woman's breathy voice came out of Sherlock's phone: "Room is 315, on the left side of the building. We'll be there at 9pm. The rooftop next door will be your best vantage point."

The Mayor sat up in his chair, straight as a rod.

"That fucking bitch..."

_________________________________________

"Ms Rosia Lee: escort-in-practise at the FBI: Fleshy Boudoir of Intoxication. Clever..." Sherlock waved the screen of his smartphone in front of Joan's face.

"How did you know that was the Mayor's mistress on Hapston's voicemail?" She asked as they left the building toward her car.

Sherlock shrugged, "A simple deduction."

"And what was all that about our handwriting expert?"

"I wasn't lying; I am an expert in forensic graphology. Fascinating subject. In fact, I've just thought a new topic for your lessons." He waggled his eyebrows at her.

"But don't you need another writing sample to compare it to?" She said, walking around to the driver's side.

He opened the door. "I saw some notes on his desk when we last visited his office."

Joan opened her door, narrowing her eyes. "His desk was spotless as far as I recall."

He tapped his forehead. "Photographic memory, remember?"

"Oh, so you were bluffing." She simply said, getting behind the wheel and closing the door behind her.

Joan Watson: the only woman who could call him on his shit.