Who: Hunter Williams What: Investigating and talking to himself When: Saturday Where: A warehouse in London
Even with the connections he'd made since the lodgings on Baker Street had shown up, it took a frustratingly long time for Hunter to get access to the crime scene. It was in better condition than they'd expected though. There were some things to be said for the modern era. The constabulary could not longer be counted on to run roughshod over a scene, obliterating every footprint, soil deposit, and minuscule clue. Instead, decades of mystery novels and daily doses of CSI turned every cop into a would-be Sherlock. It was a positive change, although the tendency to preserve wasn't much good without the ability to observe. It was still impressive just how much people could miss.
There wasn't much to miss in this case. Their bomber had been careful not to leave anything behind. Even so, the bomb itself was the clue. An explosive device was as individual as a fingerprint. Finding the culprit would not be difficult. Finding the bomber's boss would be more difficult.
"It won't be difficult," he said to himself. "I already know who did this."
'There's no evidence of that, Williams. Not yet.' The detective's clipped tones were impossible to ignore, even if he was the only one who could hear him. Usually he and Holmes were of one mind, but not in this case. When they'd seen Juliet lying in that hospital bed, they'd both been determined to end this, once and for all. Holmes had his methods, but Hunter was ready to jump several steps ahead. Moriarty had done this. He didn't know how he knew, but he knew.
'Intuition is not a substitute for logic.'
"And logic ain't a substitute for action."
'There will be plenty of time for action. There always is. She knows us well. She'll have left a trail, and expect us to follow it.'
"So the game's afoot. That doesn't mean we have to play by her rules."
The bomber's trail would lead inexorably to an agent. That agent to some other shadowy figure, and then to whispers of the woman in charge, but nothing solid. He'd let the police chase ghosts. It was time to take a shortcut.