Missing Parts
As It Seems
Imperial Inn. July 22nd, 2003. 7:25am.
“America’s amazing, don’t you think? I mean, I’m eating cake for breakfast. Cake… for breakfast. It’s a blood sugar disaster waiting to happen.”
Sherlock stared down into his black coffee, which he was stirring, very slowly and deliberately, at their corner table in the breakfast room of their Oakland motel. It was early, upon his insistence, but warm sunlight was already beginning to filter through the Bay fog and glitter across the polished tabletop. John might have been missing Mrs Hudson’s breakfasts but he wasn’t missing the weather.
Sherlock hummed, distractedly, in response and John watched him, chewing.
“What are you having for breakfast, then?”
“You know how I operate, John. I can’t think and eat at the same time.”
“Hmm. So, what d’you reckon to these blokes… the band. Everything as it seems?”
“Nothing’s as it seems,” he replied, with certainty, “But then, of course… it never is.”
Sherlock lifted his coffee to his lips.
“Eat faster. I want to get the guitarist on his own.”
*
In the control room of the fifth-floor studio, Billie Joe was waiting. Oversized headphones covering his ears, he swayed gently in the swivelling office chair, fingertips tapping absently on the edge of the studio console, as he listened to the demo the kids recording down in the basement had made that weekend. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t great either. He pulled a pen and a small reporter’s notebook from the back pocket of his jeans and scribbled some notes down. Constructive criticism. He hoped they’d appreciate it.
He didn’t hear him approach. The sudden touch on his shoulder was the first sign he wasn’t alone and he jumped as though he’d been burned.
“Jesus…” He slid the headphones off, letting them hang around his neck, “Dude… seriously. Are you trying to fucking kill me? I’m edgy right now, man.”
Sherlock smiled, tilting his head.
“Edgier than usual?”
Billie Joe finished his sentence, then slammed his pen down.
“Alright, so… I’m always a little edgy but… now I’m the victim of a crime.”
Sherlock looked around.
“Interesting that you hang around here all alone. Must be a little… disturbing.”
“Why are you here?”
“Just visiting the crime scene.”
Billie Joe felt a little bolt of unease shiver down his spine. He wasn’t sure if it was the thought of the perpetrator sneaking in and going through his stuff or the presence of the detective. There was something about his eerily calm demeanour and his crisp English accent that was unnerving. That and his eyes; were they grey or blue? Either way, they were fierce and cool and it felt almost as though they were stripping him bare. They had said he was good at reading people but it didn’t seem as though he needed to read at all, more that he simply looked right through them.
He watched Sherlock run a hand through his thick, unruly hair, then begin a circuit of the room, his pale hand running along the wall, feeling cracks and imperfections. Those eyes trailed the line of guitars propped in their racks, the pictures on the walls, the scrappy notes posted on the board above the desk.
“So how did you find out?”
“Pat called me at home the next morning. We were due in the studio at ten but I had a steamin’ hangover and… things weren’t too great at home. I was running late.”
“Who got there first?”
“Mike. Said he wanted to listen to that track again… y’know, the one we fought over?”
“How could I forget.”
“The tape was gone. He thought maybe Tre or I had taken it after he left. He called Tre first… that’s when it all kicked off. Tre called Pat, then they searched the studio with security. By the time I arrived the cops were here already. The fucking cops, man… they didn’t do shit. Do they ever?”
“No…” Sherlock replied vaguely, studying the post-its scattered against the side of the filing cabinet. “Although, I suppose they’d rather give the impression that they aren’t interested in a crime, rather than just unable to solve it.”
“How about you?”
“If I’m unable to solve it? That’s when I’m most interested. Of course, I always get there. If the police could do their job properly, I’d be out of mine.”
Billie Joe smirked.
“You think you’ll have this one figured out?”
“Of course.”
He crossed the room and took a seat in the chair opposite, fixing his eyes on Billie Joe, who squirmed a little, under his gaze. His eyes were grey, he decided, and he wondered if he’d ever seen anyone with eyes quite that shade before. Grey eyes should be boring, soulless. Sherlock’s were anything but. He glittered.
“So, how did you feel?” Sherlock asked, gently. The gravelly tone to his question hung in the air for a moment and Billie Joe let it, caught off guard. He didn’t know why it mattered how he felt, particularly to the detective. After all, since the moment Sherlock Holmes had swaggered through the revolving glass entrance to the Eight Eighty Studios, he had given the impression that having to listen to other people talking was his biggest challenge of all.
How did you feel? Perhaps, Billie Joe realised, the reason the question was sticking in his throat was because Sherlock Holmes was the first person that had asked.
“Confused…” he admitted, swallowing. “… Empty. It was my work… I’d lived and breathed it, day and night, just like I always do, y’know… and someone took it… for free… like it wasn’t even worth anything.”
Sherlock cocked his head to one side.
“Interesting. And when the Mona Lisa was taken from the Louvre… was that because they believed it was worthless?”
Billie Joe frowned, tapping his pen on the arm of his chair.
“I… no. I never really thought about it that way.”
Sherlock was out of his seat again.
“It was stolen because of its worth. That painting was, and still is, one of the most famous and valuable works of art of all time. You’re a multi-million selling artist, Mr. Armstrong… and yet, almost three weeks later, there have been no leaks, no bootleg copies of your tracks on the Internet or elsewhere. Either somebody is biding their time… or the perpetrator has no interest in letting your music see the light of day.”
They both looked up, as the studio door banged open and Tre entered, balancing a large paper bag and two iced coffees, one of which he handed to Billie Joe.
“It isn’t that weird that no bootlegs showed up yet,” he told them, as if he had been a part of the conversation all along. “We have some freakin’ crazy fans. ‘Specially him. Some chick’s probably falling asleep to the sound of his voice at night or some shit. Doughnut hole?”
“Hmm,” Sherlock murmured, scratching his head. He looked at Tre’s expectant face for a moment. “… God, no.”
Billie Joe rolled his eyes, dipping his hand into the bag.
“I don’t think anyone from that particular category of fan is likely to don the ole’ ski mask and gloves and break into a fully alarmed recording studio, Tre.”
Tre shrugged.
“You never know, Beej, you just never know. Remember the one that jumped your fence and picked up your dog’s shit in one of those little yellow baggies?”
He circled his finger around his ear.
“Ker-azy. You gotta watch your back around these kids.”
Billie Joe sighed, turning to the window, which Sherlock had opened and was leaning right out of, sitting on the ledge.
“Uh… buddy… we’re five floors up. You probably shouldn’t…”
He trailed off, as Sherlock hopped onto the ledge with both feet, gripping the window pane for support.
“You can reach the fire escape from here…” he called. “I’m sure you know that…”
“Yeah, we usually use the fire door…” Billie Joe called in response, gesturing to the neon sign above the door at the far side of the room. He turned to Tre. “Is this guy nuts or what?”
Tre shrugged.
“He gives me the creeps,” he agreed, “How long are you giving him?”
Billie Joe reached back into Tre’s paper bag, brushing the powdered sugar from the front of his tee shirt.
“They tell me he’s the best. I paid him to crack this thing… I guess I’ll give him however long he needs.”
*
“So how long will it take to re-record it? I mean, have you already started?”
He was making conversation, really, but the bassist was easy enough to talk to. He was calmer, more predictable, less spiky, than the other two, and his laid-back demeanour was quite refreshing, after a whole morning of Sherlock’s intensity.
Mike shook his head.
“Nah. At first I thought Billie was just waiting out of hope that we’d get it back… but now I’m not so sure. I just feel like… we aren’t gelling very well lately. I think we need a break before we have another shot at it.”
“How long have you guys worked together?”
“Since about eighty-nine. Billie and I have been jamming together since we were in the fifth grade. We’ve never needed a break before but… we’re older now, life’s harder and more complicated… I just don’t think he’s very happy at the moment.”
John swallowed his coffee, wondering if he really wanted to have this conversation. He really didn’t see the need to have a heavy, meaningful discussion about in-band relationships but he did consider that there might be something in it that could be relevant to the case, so he took a breath and put down his coffee.
“What about the drummer? Things tough with him too?”
Mike raised his eyebrows.
“Tre’s okay. I mean, he’s been through his shit, but he always bounces back better than anyone I know. He’s good for Billie Joe, for both of us… and I feel bad when he gets caught in the crossfire. Billie can just be so fuckin’… difficult. I mean, I love the guy to death but, damn. Sometimes it’s like he’s completely incapable of seeing things from anyone else’s point of view. He’s so self-involved and, when he’s writing he just… disappears. And he doesn’t see any problem with it. He has a family, y’know? Where does that leave them?”
“Artists…” John mumbled, not knowing what else to say, “What can you do…”
Mike rolled his eyes.
“There’s nothing any of us can do. You just have to learn to accept him the way he is. Doesn’t mean he can’t drive you nuts though. Adrienne… man. She’s a sweet angel. I don’t know how she’s done it so long and… I don’t know that she’s gonna do it much longer.”
“You think she’s going to leave him?”
“Right now… it wouldn’t come as a big surprise. Things aren’t good for them. He needs to get his shit together, and fast, or he might not get another chance.”
John frowned, his eyes narrowing in thought.
“So… you’re saying he needs to spend less time at this place and more time with his family.”
Mike nodded, taking another sip of his coffee.
“That… would be a great place to start,” he agreed.
At a clattering above them, they both looked up to the sky, where the clanging sound of rattling metal was resonating down the fire escape that ran along the side of the building.
“What’s your guy Holmes doing up there?” Mike asked
John took a breath, held it thoughtfully, then blew it out again.
“Not a clue,” he breathed, eventually. “… Pub?”
“America’s amazing, don’t you think? I mean, I’m eating cake for breakfast. Cake… for breakfast. It’s a blood sugar disaster waiting to happen.”
Sherlock stared down into his black coffee, which he was stirring, very slowly and deliberately, at their corner table in the breakfast room of their Oakland motel. It was early, upon his insistence, but warm sunlight was already beginning to filter through the Bay fog and glitter across the polished tabletop. John might have been missing Mrs Hudson’s breakfasts but he wasn’t missing the weather.
Sherlock hummed, distractedly, in response and John watched him, chewing.
“What are you having for breakfast, then?”
“You know how I operate, John. I can’t think and eat at the same time.”
“Hmm. So, what d’you reckon to these blokes… the band. Everything as it seems?”
“Nothing’s as it seems,” he replied, with certainty, “But then, of course… it never is.”
Sherlock lifted his coffee to his lips.
“Eat faster. I want to get the guitarist on his own.”
*
In the control room of the fifth-floor studio, Billie Joe was waiting. Oversized headphones covering his ears, he swayed gently in the swivelling office chair, fingertips tapping absently on the edge of the studio console, as he listened to the demo the kids recording down in the basement had made that weekend. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t great either. He pulled a pen and a small reporter’s notebook from the back pocket of his jeans and scribbled some notes down. Constructive criticism. He hoped they’d appreciate it.
He didn’t hear him approach. The sudden touch on his shoulder was the first sign he wasn’t alone and he jumped as though he’d been burned.
“Jesus…” He slid the headphones off, letting them hang around his neck, “Dude… seriously. Are you trying to fucking kill me? I’m edgy right now, man.”
Sherlock smiled, tilting his head.
“Edgier than usual?”
Billie Joe finished his sentence, then slammed his pen down.
“Alright, so… I’m always a little edgy but… now I’m the victim of a crime.”
Sherlock looked around.
“Interesting that you hang around here all alone. Must be a little… disturbing.”
“Why are you here?”
“Just visiting the crime scene.”
Billie Joe felt a little bolt of unease shiver down his spine. He wasn’t sure if it was the thought of the perpetrator sneaking in and going through his stuff or the presence of the detective. There was something about his eerily calm demeanour and his crisp English accent that was unnerving. That and his eyes; were they grey or blue? Either way, they were fierce and cool and it felt almost as though they were stripping him bare. They had said he was good at reading people but it didn’t seem as though he needed to read at all, more that he simply looked right through them.
He watched Sherlock run a hand through his thick, unruly hair, then begin a circuit of the room, his pale hand running along the wall, feeling cracks and imperfections. Those eyes trailed the line of guitars propped in their racks, the pictures on the walls, the scrappy notes posted on the board above the desk.
“So how did you find out?”
“Pat called me at home the next morning. We were due in the studio at ten but I had a steamin’ hangover and… things weren’t too great at home. I was running late.”
“Who got there first?”
“Mike. Said he wanted to listen to that track again… y’know, the one we fought over?”
“How could I forget.”
“The tape was gone. He thought maybe Tre or I had taken it after he left. He called Tre first… that’s when it all kicked off. Tre called Pat, then they searched the studio with security. By the time I arrived the cops were here already. The fucking cops, man… they didn’t do shit. Do they ever?”
“No…” Sherlock replied vaguely, studying the post-its scattered against the side of the filing cabinet. “Although, I suppose they’d rather give the impression that they aren’t interested in a crime, rather than just unable to solve it.”
“How about you?”
“If I’m unable to solve it? That’s when I’m most interested. Of course, I always get there. If the police could do their job properly, I’d be out of mine.”
Billie Joe smirked.
“You think you’ll have this one figured out?”
“Of course.”
He crossed the room and took a seat in the chair opposite, fixing his eyes on Billie Joe, who squirmed a little, under his gaze. His eyes were grey, he decided, and he wondered if he’d ever seen anyone with eyes quite that shade before. Grey eyes should be boring, soulless. Sherlock’s were anything but. He glittered.
“So, how did you feel?” Sherlock asked, gently. The gravelly tone to his question hung in the air for a moment and Billie Joe let it, caught off guard. He didn’t know why it mattered how he felt, particularly to the detective. After all, since the moment Sherlock Holmes had swaggered through the revolving glass entrance to the Eight Eighty Studios, he had given the impression that having to listen to other people talking was his biggest challenge of all.
How did you feel? Perhaps, Billie Joe realised, the reason the question was sticking in his throat was because Sherlock Holmes was the first person that had asked.
“Confused…” he admitted, swallowing. “… Empty. It was my work… I’d lived and breathed it, day and night, just like I always do, y’know… and someone took it… for free… like it wasn’t even worth anything.”
Sherlock cocked his head to one side.
“Interesting. And when the Mona Lisa was taken from the Louvre… was that because they believed it was worthless?”
Billie Joe frowned, tapping his pen on the arm of his chair.
“I… no. I never really thought about it that way.”
Sherlock was out of his seat again.
“It was stolen because of its worth. That painting was, and still is, one of the most famous and valuable works of art of all time. You’re a multi-million selling artist, Mr. Armstrong… and yet, almost three weeks later, there have been no leaks, no bootleg copies of your tracks on the Internet or elsewhere. Either somebody is biding their time… or the perpetrator has no interest in letting your music see the light of day.”
They both looked up, as the studio door banged open and Tre entered, balancing a large paper bag and two iced coffees, one of which he handed to Billie Joe.
“It isn’t that weird that no bootlegs showed up yet,” he told them, as if he had been a part of the conversation all along. “We have some freakin’ crazy fans. ‘Specially him. Some chick’s probably falling asleep to the sound of his voice at night or some shit. Doughnut hole?”
“Hmm,” Sherlock murmured, scratching his head. He looked at Tre’s expectant face for a moment. “… God, no.”
Billie Joe rolled his eyes, dipping his hand into the bag.
“I don’t think anyone from that particular category of fan is likely to don the ole’ ski mask and gloves and break into a fully alarmed recording studio, Tre.”
Tre shrugged.
“You never know, Beej, you just never know. Remember the one that jumped your fence and picked up your dog’s shit in one of those little yellow baggies?”
He circled his finger around his ear.
“Ker-azy. You gotta watch your back around these kids.”
Billie Joe sighed, turning to the window, which Sherlock had opened and was leaning right out of, sitting on the ledge.
“Uh… buddy… we’re five floors up. You probably shouldn’t…”
He trailed off, as Sherlock hopped onto the ledge with both feet, gripping the window pane for support.
“You can reach the fire escape from here…” he called. “I’m sure you know that…”
“Yeah, we usually use the fire door…” Billie Joe called in response, gesturing to the neon sign above the door at the far side of the room. He turned to Tre. “Is this guy nuts or what?”
Tre shrugged.
“He gives me the creeps,” he agreed, “How long are you giving him?”
Billie Joe reached back into Tre’s paper bag, brushing the powdered sugar from the front of his tee shirt.
“They tell me he’s the best. I paid him to crack this thing… I guess I’ll give him however long he needs.”
*
“So how long will it take to re-record it? I mean, have you already started?”
He was making conversation, really, but the bassist was easy enough to talk to. He was calmer, more predictable, less spiky, than the other two, and his laid-back demeanour was quite refreshing, after a whole morning of Sherlock’s intensity.
Mike shook his head.
“Nah. At first I thought Billie was just waiting out of hope that we’d get it back… but now I’m not so sure. I just feel like… we aren’t gelling very well lately. I think we need a break before we have another shot at it.”
“How long have you guys worked together?”
“Since about eighty-nine. Billie and I have been jamming together since we were in the fifth grade. We’ve never needed a break before but… we’re older now, life’s harder and more complicated… I just don’t think he’s very happy at the moment.”
John swallowed his coffee, wondering if he really wanted to have this conversation. He really didn’t see the need to have a heavy, meaningful discussion about in-band relationships but he did consider that there might be something in it that could be relevant to the case, so he took a breath and put down his coffee.
“What about the drummer? Things tough with him too?”
Mike raised his eyebrows.
“Tre’s okay. I mean, he’s been through his shit, but he always bounces back better than anyone I know. He’s good for Billie Joe, for both of us… and I feel bad when he gets caught in the crossfire. Billie can just be so fuckin’… difficult. I mean, I love the guy to death but, damn. Sometimes it’s like he’s completely incapable of seeing things from anyone else’s point of view. He’s so self-involved and, when he’s writing he just… disappears. And he doesn’t see any problem with it. He has a family, y’know? Where does that leave them?”
“Artists…” John mumbled, not knowing what else to say, “What can you do…”
Mike rolled his eyes.
“There’s nothing any of us can do. You just have to learn to accept him the way he is. Doesn’t mean he can’t drive you nuts though. Adrienne… man. She’s a sweet angel. I don’t know how she’s done it so long and… I don’t know that she’s gonna do it much longer.”
“You think she’s going to leave him?”
“Right now… it wouldn’t come as a big surprise. Things aren’t good for them. He needs to get his shit together, and fast, or he might not get another chance.”
John frowned, his eyes narrowing in thought.
“So… you’re saying he needs to spend less time at this place and more time with his family.”
Mike nodded, taking another sip of his coffee.
“That… would be a great place to start,” he agreed.
At a clattering above them, they both looked up to the sky, where the clanging sound of rattling metal was resonating down the fire escape that ran along the side of the building.
“What’s your guy Holmes doing up there?” Mike asked
John took a breath, held it thoughtfully, then blew it out again.
“Not a clue,” he breathed, eventually. “… Pub?”