"Done," she said. She gifted him with a smile that would have made lesser men hand over their wallets. Lestrade only planted himself in the unmarked car and drove away without another look. Clearly Mrs. Lestrade had nothing to worry about in the fidelity department.

  "Just how are we going to produce Sherlock Holmes by the end of the day?" I asked as we headed back to our car.

  She shrugged. "We'll think of something."

  "You'd better think fast. It's already noon," I told her.

  She grinned. "Ye of little faith."

  "Me of little bank account for bail money if Lestrade finds out the truth."

  "You worry too much, Mar," she said. "Besides, the ends justify the means, right? He's going to talk to Watson about the autopsy, and—"

  I grabbed her arm, stopping her midsentence. "Irene, look."

  A man leaned against the side of her car, legs crossed casually at the ankles as he studied the cell phone in his hand. He wore tan khakis and a white button-down shirt under a tan windbreaker, which struck me as a deliberately forgettable outfit. In fact, I almost couldn't describe him even while I was looking at him. Almost…

  "Hey!" Irene yelled. "Get away from our car!"

  He lifted his head. And recognition dawned.

  "Wiggins!" I muttered.

  "Again?" Irene. "Dang, he's persistent."

  "That's one word for him," I muttered, power walking toward the car.

  Irene jogged beside me to keep up with my anger-fueled determination. "Marty, take it easy," she warned. "There are police everywhere."

  I didn't want to take it easy. I wanted to cash Barbara Bristol's check, forget this Sherlock lie had even been started, and go back to happily slinging coffee and crashing college classes. But as long as Wiggins kept poking around, I had a bad feeling that wasn't an option.

  Irene touched my shoulder as we approached. She must have seen the look in my eyes as she said, "No hitting."

  "No promises," I told her. I glared at him from a foot away. "What are you doing here?"

  He pushed his glasses up his nose with one finger and grinned at me, showing off a dimple in his left cheek that might have been adorable had he not been stalking me. "Hi, Marty. Nice to see you too."

  I clenched my fists at my sides. Something about how calm and jovial he was made me all the more angry.

  "Down, girl," Irene mumbled to me.

  "And this lovely creature," he said, turning to Irene, "must be the famous Irene Adler. Charmed to make your acquaintance."

  "Did he just call me a creature?"

  "No hitting," I told her.

  "No promises," she said.

  "Look, you, there are laws against stalking, you know," I told Wiggins, wagging a finger at him.

  "Oh, come on. You can do better than that, Marty. I'm just doing my job as a member of the fourth estate."

  "Come off it. You're a blogger. You're one step up from a meme," Irene shot back.

  Wiggins put his hand over his heart in mock pain. "Ouch." Though the self-satisfied grin stayed firmly in place.

  "What do you want?" I asked again.

  "You know what I want, Marty. A story."

  "Not interested."

  "Not even if I were willing to trade for it?"

  I paused, ashamed that he'd piqued my interest. "What do you mean, trade?"

  "The Disappearing Diva. I know you're looking into her death."

  "We were only hired to find her body. We did. Case closed," I lied. The less Wiggins knew, the better I felt.

  "Right." He winked at me. "Then why are you here?"

  I opened my mouth to try my hand at lying again, but Irene jumped in first.

  "We're here to see Watson. Marty's dating him."

  I blinked at her. "I'm not dating—ow!" I rubbed my arm where she'd elbowed me.

  "So you are dating the ME." Wiggins turned his gaze on me, and for the first time I saw that smile falter a bit. "Pity."

  I felt my spine straighten. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "You're hot. You could do better."

  I froze mid-mental comeback. That was so not what I'd expected him to say.

  "I'll have you know that Dr. Watson is the finest ME on the West Coast," Irene defended.

  "Really." Wiggins finally turned his attention away from my shocked face and toward Irene. "Then how did he miss the fact that Rebecca Lowery was murdered?"

  Irene's turn to look shocked. "How on earth do you know that?"

  Wiggins shrugged and leaned back against her car again, ankles crossed. "I have my sources."

  Oh brother. I barely resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

  "Look, clearly you know something about the case. Enough with the coy stuff—what is it?" I said.

  "I'd be happy to share." He paused. "If I get my exclusive story out of it."

  I glanced at Irene. She had the same look of mild disbelief I was feeling. It was possible Wiggins did know something. It was also possible he was bluffing and would play us for fools before breaking the story that Sherlock was a myth from the start. I bit my lip. Wondering which was worse—complete public humiliation or working with Wiggins?

  "How do we know you're not bluffing?" Irene asked, narrowing her eyes at him as she voiced my thoughts.

  "You don't. But I can tell you her death involved a Vincent Gordon." He paused for dramatic effect.

  Irene gave me a look. I nodded.

  "Fine," she conceded. She glanced behind her toward the uniformed officers coming and going from the building. "But we're not doing this here. Follow us to my house, and we'll see what we can work out. And you'd better not be wasting our time."

  "I wouldn't dream of it," he assured her. "Uh. I won't have to worry about your actor friend waylaying me this time, will I?"

  "We'll see how things go," Irene called over her shoulder.

  Once we were in her car and pulling away from the curb—with Wiggins in his gray sedan close behind—I turned to Irene. "We aren't actually going to share info with him, are we?"

  Irene shook her head. "But if we agree to work with him, we can spoon feed him the information we want him to have about Sherlock Holmes and not what he might find if he keeps digging on his own."

  I hadn't thought of that, but it made sense. Irene could probably concoct an entire life framework around Sherlock Holmes, right down to an ex-wife and estranged kids, and every bit of it would be utterly believable. But if we left Wiggins to his own devices, Sherlock Holmes's unmasking would likely go viral overnight, and our complicity right along with it. I'd lose my dignity. I'd lose my reputation.

  I'd lose Watson.

  "He is cute though," Irene said, cutting into my thoughts.

  "Who, Watson?"

  She frowned at me. "No, Wiggins. Where was your brain at?"

  I shook my head. "Nowhere good. You sure you want my stalker knowing where you live?"

  She shrugged. "That's what trespassing laws are for."

  As if a member of the fourth estate would obey those.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  "Nice place," Wiggins said a half hour later as he looked around Irene's smarter-than-most-PhDs house. "I'm impressed. Sure beats Marty's place."

  I stuck my tongue out at him.

  "Thanks," Irene said, tossing her keys on the counter and grabbing a trio of water bottles from the fridge.

  "This is your place, right? Not Sherlock's?"

  Irene didn't miss a beat. "Sherlock lives outside The City."

  "Huh." I could see Wiggins mentally filing that tidbit away for later.

  "Have a seat," Irene offered, indicating the stools lined up at the granite-topped center island.

  I sat on the far right. Wiggins sat next to me. Uncomfortably close. I-could-almost-feel-the-heat-emanating-from-his-body close. I cleared my throat, scooting over a few inches. Instead of looking like he took it personally, Wiggins gave me that amused smile of his again.

  Irene leaned her elbow on the counter opposite us, fixing her green eyes on Wiggins. "So spill it. What do you know about Rebecca Lowery and Vincent Gordon?"

  "Well, I can tell you Vinny Gordon is not a nice guy."

  "It doesn't take a crack detective to figure that one out," I said, laying the sarcasm on thick.

  Wiggins shook his head at me before addressing Irene. "This one's feisty, isn't she?"

  I narrowed my eyes at him. "Just try me."

  "Start talking," Irene cut in. "We haven't got all day."

  He sipped from the water bottle, drawing out the moment. "Okay, here's the deal." He pushed up his glasses and leaned forward on his crossed arms. "It's hard to find the details on Vincent Gordon, but I've run across him a few times in the course of my investigations. The stories about how the guy does business are not pretty."

  "For example?" I asked.

  "For example, one night a Lyft driver named Henry Harvey picked up this old guy someplace in The City. Harvey was never seen again. They found the burned-out car a week later in East San Jose." He paused for effect. "Harvey had been set to talk to the feds about Vincent Gordon in connection with money laundering."

  "I didn't read anything about that when I looked into Vinny," Irene said, frowning.

  "It's not public record. No charges were ever brought against him. Not enough evidence."

  I shivered. Irene and I had our doubts about how legit the Gordon bothers were, but hearing Wiggins' story made me realize just how bad news these two could be.

  "There are more stories like that," Wiggins said, "but they're pretty similar. Vinny's been the subject of numerous legal investigations, but nothing ever comes of it. And it's not because Vinny's the luckiest guy in San Francisco." Insert smirk. "It's because witnesses have a habit of retracting their statements or getting short memories. Or disappearing." He sipped his water. "You get on Vinny Gordon's radar, and you won't need to worry about getting gray hair, because you won't live that long."

  A tiny frown of concentration knit Irene's forehead. "What about his brother?"

  "Dominic?" He shook his head. "Dom's got his own problems. He's been hauled in a few times on minor league stuff. Flashing women in the park, creeping around peeking into windows, that kind of thing. Perv stuff."

  "That fits," Irene said. "What'd he get in the way of punishment?"

  "Not a thing," Wiggins said. "Dom may be the luckiest guy in San Francisco, because Vinny's his fixer. Vinny stepped in, and the problems disappeared, just like that." He snapped his fingers.

  "A lot of things seem to disappear around Vincent Gordon," I noted.

  "Including Rebecca Lowery," Irene added. She turned to Wiggins. "You said Vinny was involved in her death. How?"

  He paused, looking from Irene to me. "I am going to get a story out of this, aren't I?"

  I blinked innocently at him. "Of course." I had to admit, the reporter had good instincts.

  He took a sip of water again, eyeing us. Finally he must have decided he had no choice but to trust us, as he set his bottle down and leaned his elbows on the counter again. "Okay, Rebecca Lowery's boyfriend is on the take from Vinny Gordon."

  I gasped out loud.

  There went Wiggins' self-satisfied smirk again.

  I shut my mouth with a click. "Are you sure?"

  Wiggins nodded. "I'd bet money on it."

  "Whoa," Irene said. "That paints a different picture."

  No kidding. So much for my theory about Vincent being Rebecca's secret lover. If what Wiggins was saying was true, Vincent would hardly be worried about Bryan finding out he was the one sleeping with his girlfriend. He'd just fix him.

  "How do you know all this anyway?" I asked Wiggins.

  "I looked into Bryan Steele as soon as I saw you visit his house."

  I blinked at him, letting that implication sink in. "You followed me to Bryan Steele's house too?!"

  Wiggins gave me a well, duh look.

  "Great! Is there any place you haven't followed me?"

  "I haven't seen you shower yet." Wiggins grinned, sliding his gaze up and down me in a way that told me he wouldn't look away if the chance arose.

  "Back to Bryan Steele," Irene prodded.

  Wiggins turned away from me (reluctantly) and toward Irene. "Right. When I figured he had something to do with the Disappearing Diva, I looked into him. He's on suspension for roughing up a suspect."

  "That much we know," Irene told him.

  He looked surprised for a moment, as if shocked we weren't totally deficient detectives.

  "Well, I recognized the name of the suspect he beat up," he went on. "He's a member of Vinny's crew."

  "Why would Vinny pay Steele to beat up his own crew member?" I asked.

  "These guys do that all the time. Look, they don't have dental plans to ensure employee loyalty. When someone messes up, the enforcers come in and make an example of them."

  "So, you think Steele is one of Vincent Gordon's enforcers."

  Wiggins nodded. "He works the same areas of The City Vinny does. And according to public records, he's crossed paths quite a few times with other of Vinny's suspected associates."

  "So, maybe Dominic 'losing' Rebecca had nothing to do with the Fluffy Bunny after all," I mumbled more to myself than the room at large.

  Wiggins gave me a funny look. "Fluffy Bunny?"

  I waved him off, lost in thought. "Maybe Bryan Steele really did lose his temper with his girlfriend, kill her, then in a panic, thinking the police would find some evidence of his crime, he called his buddy Vincent to dispose of it."

  Irene nodded. "It's the classic you scratch my back, and I'll dispose of a corpse for you."

  It all sounded frighteningly plausible to me. Of course, while it was a nice theory, there was still one little problem. "How do we prove any of this?"

  Wiggins looked at me with a blank stare. "That's your job—you're the detectives. I just spin the stories."

  "No, that's Watson's job," Irene insisted. "If Steele was afraid, something about Rebecca's body would give him away. That evidence has got to still be there."

  "Which means we're banking on Lestrade convincing Watson to do a full autopsy." I paused, thinking back to our conversion with the detective. "You know, there's still one thing bothering me."

  "One thing?" Wiggins asked.

  I shot him a look.

  "What is it, Marty?" Irene asked, playing referee again.

  "Who is Jane Doe?"

  "Right." Irene nodded. "You think she was killed too?"

  I nodded. "Maybe if we knew more about her, it would lead us to some evidence of who killed both women."

  "But we never even saw her," Irene said. "We don't even know what she looks like, expect that she was the same age and coloring as Rebecca."

  "I wish we'd thought to look while we were at Gordon's," I mused.

  I glanced up to see Wiggins grinning at us both like a Cheshire cat again.

  "What?" I asked him.

  "Well, good thing I did look. And I've got the photo to prove it." He held out his phone, displaying a picture of a blonde woman lying peacefully in a casket. Dominic Gordon had been right about the two women looking similar. At first glance, she certainly could have been Rebecca, though the more closely I looked, the more I could see subtle differences—the shape of the ears, the tilt of the nose, the shape of the eyebrows.

  "Where did you get this?" I asked.

  He shrugged. "Like you're the only person who can break into a mortuary."

  I blinked. "You followed us there too?!"

  "Honey, I've followed you everywhere."

  "Except the shower," Irene added, on the verge of laughter.

  I shook my head. "Okay, so we have Jane Doe's picture. Maybe if we show it around, someone might recognize her?"

  "'Around'?" Wiggins did air quotes. "Exactly where would that be?"

  "To our suspects," Irene said. "Maybe they'll let something slip. Or maybe someone saw one of our suspects with her?

  I mentally ran through the list. Vinny, Dominic, Bryan Steele. A conversation with any one of them sounded dangerous. "Let's start with Tara," I suggested.

  "I'll drive," Irene said.

  * * *

  Parking was scarce today at the Bayside Theater, forcing us to park two blocks down and around the corner before hoofing it back toward the theater. Luckily, the wind had died down, though the sunshine was still struggling to burn off the fog rolling in from the bay. As soon as we stepped into the theater, I realized why the street was so parked up. Dozens of people filled the audience as well as the stage and the orchestra pit. It appeared a full-scale rehearsal was going on, complete with several costumed divas on the stage, including Tara Tarnowski. She stood front and center in the spotlight, though she wasn't singing today. Instead, she was simultaneously yelling at Diana, the wardrobe woman, about the tightness of her bodice; someone named Elli, about her wig being crooked; and her male costar dressed in tights, about standing too close to her spotlight.

  "Is that the understudy?" Wiggins leaned in and asked.

  I nodded.

  "Delightful," came his sarcastic opinion.

  I couldn't help a grin. That was about my assessment of Tara as well.

  "You again." PS Rossi spotted the three of us standing in the aisle and charged toward us, his hands balled into fists at his side. Though whether he was truly that excited to see us or just frustrated at his star, it was hard to tell. Granted, every time we had come to his theater so far, we hadn't exactly been the bearers of good news.

  "We're sorry to intrude again," Irene said, stepping forward.

  "What do you want this time?" he asked. His tone was irritated and urgent, as his gaze pinged from Irene to me to Wiggins. "Who's this? Another investigator?"

  "Something like that," Irene glossed over. "I know you're busy, so we won't take up too much of your time."

  The frowns etched in Rossi's forehead smoothed a bit at that promise. "We've only got a week left until we open, and rehearsals are not exactly going smoothly." He gestured his head behind him and rolled his eyes.

  "Tara isn't the easiest coloratura to work with?" I asked

  "Let's just say she's no Rebecca." He glanced to Irene again. "What is it you said you needed?"

  "We wanted to talk to Tara—" Irene started.