Missing Parts
Nothing
Oakland, California. July 21st, 2003.
The car park was empty and silent, eerily so, save for the lazy cackling of birds in the rustling maple trees that lined the highway. The two men stood alone on the searing concrete, heads tipped back, eyes squinting through the harsh midsummer sun and upon the tall, red-bricked studio building that seemed to stretch right up into the sky.
John Watson could feel the sweat beginning to break on his forehead and trickle down his temples. He sighed, audibly, not for the first time, then shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
They hadn’t moved for ten minutes. It was thirty-four degrees. Sherlock didn’t blink.
“So, er… we should probably have a look inside then… see what’s, er… see what it’s all about...”
“Fifth floor.”
“Hmm?”
“Fifth floor…” Sherlock repeated, his voice a low, gravelly murmur that John knew too well. He was thinking, hard, not just repeating the facts, and he found himself following his line of vision, counting the glittering windows from the ground on up. “… The fire escape is yellow.”
John wiped his forehead and let out a breath of frustration that he thought he had done well to hold in, up until now. He wasn’t sure why they had taken this case. It was somewhat different from the mysteries that usually reeled Sherlock in – a simple theft, as far as he could deduce - and they had certainly never travelled this far before.
“The fire escape is yellow,” he repeated, tightly, “Yes. Startlingly bloody yellow. What d’you think that means?”
Sherlock waited, squinting a little more, then turned to meet John’s eyes.
“I want to see the tapes.”
*
“I already told y’all… there’s nothing on camera. No people, no freaky shadows, no spooky noises… nada. You’re wasting your time, if you ask me.”
Don the security guard was on his lunch break. He lifted his feet onto the desk in front of him, crossing his work boots at the ankles, then went back to picking up the crumbs that had dropped from his doughnut to his navy-blue uniform, one by one.
“I’m not sure I did ask you…” Sherlock replied, leaning against the door frame and letting his hard eyes slide from one grainy CCTV monitor to another. “I told you… to find me the tapes from July the first…”
“…Yes… please…” John finished, clearing his throat.
Don raised his eyebrows, stared at the pair of them for at least five seconds, then took his feet off the desk and swivelled in his seat, muttering under his breath.
“… No, no problem at all. Six reels a day, seven days a week… pick any date that takes your fancy, for that matter… where’d they fly y’all in from anyway? Too much freakin’ money in this business if you ask me… not that I see any of it.”
“England…” John replied, almost apologetically. “North London. This is my first trip to America, actually. Loving it. People are so friendly.”
Don spun around in his seat again, tape in hand.
“July first. God speed. Now if you don’t mind, I’m on lunch.”
Sherlock smirked, as the reel was placed into his open palm and Don’s feet landed, heavily, on the desk again. He picked another crumb from his jacket and put it in his mouth.
*
“There’s nothing on the tape.”
John sighed, leaning back into the comfortable armchair he had occupied for the past three hours, whilst they had watched the night of the First of July take place before their eyes in fits and starts. Fast-forward and pause, fast-forward and pause.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive. And I’m not surprised. I hadn’t expected to see a thing and, frankly, I’m relieved.”
“Why are we relieved?”
“Because this is just as interesting as I expected.”
He rose from his seat, hands coming together and fingers locking in front of him, while he stared at the ground.
“This studio is on the fifth floor. Not one of the three ground floor exits was used – the tapes are clean. No sign of entry at the windows, no evidence of a break in. All doors and windows are alarmed and no alarms were sounded. The cameras picked up nothing in the stairwells or the corridors. In short, it appears as though not one soul set foot inside this building all night long.”
He began to pace the stretch of carpet by the window, very slowly, as though moving any faster would upset the delicate mechanics that were currently turning in his mind.
“Except….”
“Those recordings are gone. No broken glass, no fingerprints… no trace.”
He paused.
“Of course… someone was in this building on that night… and I want to know, not how, but… why…”
He scratched at his head, then squeezed his eyes shut tight. When he opened them again, John was staring at him.
“You know what this means, John… don’t you…”
“Well, I’m hoping you’re about to divulge.”
Sherlock took a breath, his mouth skewing to the side, as turned to look out of the window and gaze from the fifth floor down.
“I need to talk to this bloody rock band.”
The car park was empty and silent, eerily so, save for the lazy cackling of birds in the rustling maple trees that lined the highway. The two men stood alone on the searing concrete, heads tipped back, eyes squinting through the harsh midsummer sun and upon the tall, red-bricked studio building that seemed to stretch right up into the sky.
John Watson could feel the sweat beginning to break on his forehead and trickle down his temples. He sighed, audibly, not for the first time, then shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
They hadn’t moved for ten minutes. It was thirty-four degrees. Sherlock didn’t blink.
“So, er… we should probably have a look inside then… see what’s, er… see what it’s all about...”
“Fifth floor.”
“Hmm?”
“Fifth floor…” Sherlock repeated, his voice a low, gravelly murmur that John knew too well. He was thinking, hard, not just repeating the facts, and he found himself following his line of vision, counting the glittering windows from the ground on up. “… The fire escape is yellow.”
John wiped his forehead and let out a breath of frustration that he thought he had done well to hold in, up until now. He wasn’t sure why they had taken this case. It was somewhat different from the mysteries that usually reeled Sherlock in – a simple theft, as far as he could deduce - and they had certainly never travelled this far before.
“The fire escape is yellow,” he repeated, tightly, “Yes. Startlingly bloody yellow. What d’you think that means?”
Sherlock waited, squinting a little more, then turned to meet John’s eyes.
“I want to see the tapes.”
*
“I already told y’all… there’s nothing on camera. No people, no freaky shadows, no spooky noises… nada. You’re wasting your time, if you ask me.”
Don the security guard was on his lunch break. He lifted his feet onto the desk in front of him, crossing his work boots at the ankles, then went back to picking up the crumbs that had dropped from his doughnut to his navy-blue uniform, one by one.
“I’m not sure I did ask you…” Sherlock replied, leaning against the door frame and letting his hard eyes slide from one grainy CCTV monitor to another. “I told you… to find me the tapes from July the first…”
“…Yes… please…” John finished, clearing his throat.
Don raised his eyebrows, stared at the pair of them for at least five seconds, then took his feet off the desk and swivelled in his seat, muttering under his breath.
“… No, no problem at all. Six reels a day, seven days a week… pick any date that takes your fancy, for that matter… where’d they fly y’all in from anyway? Too much freakin’ money in this business if you ask me… not that I see any of it.”
“England…” John replied, almost apologetically. “North London. This is my first trip to America, actually. Loving it. People are so friendly.”
Don spun around in his seat again, tape in hand.
“July first. God speed. Now if you don’t mind, I’m on lunch.”
Sherlock smirked, as the reel was placed into his open palm and Don’s feet landed, heavily, on the desk again. He picked another crumb from his jacket and put it in his mouth.
*
“There’s nothing on the tape.”
John sighed, leaning back into the comfortable armchair he had occupied for the past three hours, whilst they had watched the night of the First of July take place before their eyes in fits and starts. Fast-forward and pause, fast-forward and pause.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive. And I’m not surprised. I hadn’t expected to see a thing and, frankly, I’m relieved.”
“Why are we relieved?”
“Because this is just as interesting as I expected.”
He rose from his seat, hands coming together and fingers locking in front of him, while he stared at the ground.
“This studio is on the fifth floor. Not one of the three ground floor exits was used – the tapes are clean. No sign of entry at the windows, no evidence of a break in. All doors and windows are alarmed and no alarms were sounded. The cameras picked up nothing in the stairwells or the corridors. In short, it appears as though not one soul set foot inside this building all night long.”
He began to pace the stretch of carpet by the window, very slowly, as though moving any faster would upset the delicate mechanics that were currently turning in his mind.
“Except….”
“Those recordings are gone. No broken glass, no fingerprints… no trace.”
He paused.
“Of course… someone was in this building on that night… and I want to know, not how, but… why…”
He scratched at his head, then squeezed his eyes shut tight. When he opened them again, John was staring at him.
“You know what this means, John… don’t you…”
“Well, I’m hoping you’re about to divulge.”
Sherlock took a breath, his mouth skewing to the side, as turned to look out of the window and gaze from the fifth floor down.
“I need to talk to this bloody rock band.”