21
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
TUESDAY MORNING
Sherlock and CARD agent Connie Butler made good time to Baltimore through the heavy traffic. Connie zipped her bright red Mini Cooper into an upper-middle-class neighborhood in the Mount Clare section and parked across the street from a Victorian town house painted white with green trim, its blue window boxes filled with red and white petunias. Sherlock had spent the driving time filling Connie in on everything they knew about John Doe’s break-in at Kara’s house on Sunday and the attempt on his life the night before.
Connie Butler cut the engine and turned to Sherlock, smiling. “And here you are ready to go again on about three hours’ sleep.”
On cue, Sherlock yawned. She pulled a small thermos out of her briefcase, took a long drink of Dillon’s rich black special brew, and basked in the feel of the caffeine zinging through her bloodstream. “That’ll pick me right up. I’m fine. Tell me, what’s your bet about what we’re going to find here?”
Connie said, “Sorry, Sherlock, it’s possible Sylvie Vaughn knows something about Alex’s kidnapping. I know you’re convinced John Doe is also connected, but I’ve got to tell you I’m not ready to make that leap even though someone tried to kill him last night. One thing I find strange is that Kara was in his room at all, given she claims she never saw him before he broke into her house on Sunday. Do you know what that’s all about?”
Sherlock knew Connie was a twenty-five-year FBI veteran, five of them with the CARD team. She’d seen most of everything, Sherlock imagined, and yet she was having trouble getting her mind around how much more this case was than a simple kidnapping. Many of the pieces seemed unrelated, Sherlock would be the first to admit that, but to her, they would eventually all tie together. She just didn’t know exactly how yet. She said slowly, “I think Kara feels some kinship to him since Alex was taken. It’s a pity John Doe wasn’t coherent enough to tell her what kind of danger they were in. I’ve never believed in coincidences, Connie, and our situation is loaded with them. My gut is shouting that Sylvie Vaughn isn’t as innocent as Kara believes she is about what happened to her nine months ago. Will you play that idea out with me in there?”
“Of course. Look, if it turns out Sylvie Vaughn is involved in any of this, she wasn’t ever Kara’s friend and she deserves whatever comes. You want to take the lead, or should I?”
Agent Connie Butler looked like a grandmother, her gray hair cut short, no muss, no fuss, no makeup on her pretty face, ready to pass out homemade cookies to the neighborhood kids. Sherlock grinned at her. “Why don’t I start and you can jump in.”
Connie unfastened her seat belt. “Fair enough. There’s a Jaguar parked in the driveway. Kara told you Vaughn works from home, right?”
“Yes, and that’s her car. Sylvie Vaughn writes a Monday/Thursday women’s fashion blog—what women should wear to make them look good given their budget, fashion tips, makeup, the right hairstyle, you get the idea. She does a once-weekly YouTube production. Kara says she never appears on-screen; she’s the voice in the background. She brings on women of all ages and body types to model clothes she’s selected for them that make the most of their assets. She’s big on emphasizing everyone’s assets. She gives advice depending on their age and the impression they want to make, and so on. Kara says she’s very popular.”
Connie said, “Now that I knew. Kara told Bolt Haller and me about her show at the hospital. It’s called Cycling Madness—I know, weird name, like those book titles that have nothing to do with what’s inside the covers. I watched a couple of the shows on YouTube yesterday. She’s good, Sherlock; she’s been on for a couple of years now and still growing.”
“I should have done that myself,” Sherlock said, and nodded toward the door. “Kara said Josh, the husband, drives a BMW and works for an investment firm, Ely and Briggs. Did Kara tell you she’d met Vaughn by chance when she came to a showing of Kara’s painting at the gallery where she worked in downtown Baltimore? That they became best friends very quickly?”
“Yes, she mentioned it. Are you thinking Sylvie Vaughn had a motive, that she made friends with Kara on purpose?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. But I do know Kara didn’t accidently get pregnant at her party. Let’s go see what she has to say.” As Sherlock clicked open her seat belt and opened the car door, Connie’s cell rang. Sherlock turned to see her looking at the screen. “Gotta take this. Go ahead, Sherlock, I’ll be right after you.”
Sherlock expected Sylvie Vaughn to be a walking advertisement of good taste and appropriate fit and style, in short, to have made spectacular use of her assets. Instead, a very tall, stick-thin woman, in her midthirties, opened the door, dressed in capri black tights and a short stretchy black top that showed every muscle and bone. She wore her straight dark hair parted on the side and falling lank on either side of her long face to her shoulders, and glasses too big for her thin face. Sherlock blinked, smiled, and introduced herself. “Sylvie Vaughn?”
“Yes.” She looked down at a thin wrist sporting both a black Fitbit and a black iWatch. “I’m working. It’s very early. I’m sorry, but who are you and what do you want?”
Sherlock introduced herself, handed Sylvie Vaughn her creds.
She raised a black eyebrow. “FBI? What is this? I don’t understand—oh, you probably want to speak to my husband, Josh. He’s not here. He’s at work, an investment firm, no doubt fast-talking a hapless client into buying God only knows what. Did he get himself into trouble?” She sighed. “All right, come in and tell me what my lamebrain husband has done.”
Sherlock looked back to see Butler still speaking into her cell, her tablet in one hand, writing as she listened. “My partner will be along shortly.”
Sylvie stepped back, waved her in. “I’m in dire need of coffee. I’ll get you a cup, too.” Sylvie Vaughn waved a hand around the living room. “Don’t mind the mess, the housekeeper is coming this morning, bless her well-paid heart. I didn’t even make up the bed, not that I ever do, such a waste of time.”
Sherlock stepped into a white world filled with dark blue furnishings, from dark blue draperies to dark blue scatter rugs on the floor. Clothing, underwear, shoes—from sandals to six-inch ankle breakers—covered every surface. Dozens of magazines were piled up next to a dark blue easy chair with several, hopefully empty mugs piled on top.
She smiled at Sylvie. “I love housekeepers.”
Sherlock watched her shove away sample fabrics stacked on a dark blue leather chair, frown, and rub her finger over a damp-looking stain on its arm. “Have a seat. I’ll get us some coffee, and you can tell me how much I’m going to have to put out on a lawyer this time. Please tell me he didn’t kill anyone.”
“Not that I know of,” Sherlock said and watched Sylvie stride out of the living room. Sherlock waited where she was, getting a feel for the place. She wondered what Josh the fast-talking husband thought about this room. Not a minute later, Sylvie returned carrying two mugs. Before she could hand over one, Sherlock pulled out her cell, called up John Doe’s photo. “Do you recognize this man?”