Vortex by Catherine Coulter

Mia and Sherlock

Cheesehead Coffee Shop

Houston Street

Thursday morning

A taxi dropped Mia and Sherlock off in front of Cheesehead Coffee Shop with its signature bright green-and-gold-striped awning, the only place downtown with nonfat cheddar cheese Danish, at least according to the owner, Quillie Rodgers, a longtime fan of the Green Bay Packers and a Cheesehead every Sunday during football season.

Milo Burns was already pacing outside the coffee shop when Mia and Sherlock spilled out of the taxi. He looked from Mia to Sherlock. “Good to see you again, Agent Sherlock. Let me say again, you gave us a great interview. It’ll appear in the Sunday Life section. Millie Jones is still dancing around the newsroom. Pain in the butt. Now, what are you doing with Agent Sherlock, Briscoe? I didn’t even know you knew each other. Let’s get inside before we freeze our parts off.”

There were only a few customers midmorning. Quillie herself showed them to a back booth and Sherlock eased Mia out of her coat. When the three of them were seated, coffee and tea ordered, Milo said, “Agent Sherlock, why are you with Briscoe here?” He gave Mia the stink eye. “She never said a word about knowing you.”

“We’ve only just met. It’s a friends-of-a-friend deal.”

Milo tapped his big blunt fingers on the tabletop. “All right, Briscoe, I’m here. You didn’t tell me a thing, insisted on talking here at Cheesehead’s. Since you’re with my reporter and you’re here with an FBI bigwig, I’d have to be an idiot not to figure something big is going on. That, and sorry, Briscoe, but you look like crap on a pancake.”

Mia sighed. “Disgusting visual even if true.”

Sherlock said, “It’s true. I did meet Mia through a friend. We’re here because Mia says she trusts you implicitly, Mr. Burns.”

“Just Milo,” he said. He looked at Mia, said slowly, “Talk to me, Briscoe, and don’t leave anything out.” He cocked a dark eyebrow at Mia. “Implicitly?”

“Saying it’s big doesn’t start to cover it, Milo. I asked you here to Cheesehead’s because there’s no way I could simply waltz into the newsroom with Agent Sherlock and pretend to everyone nothing’s happened. Look at me, I’m a walking bruise. Yes, Milo, I trust you, or it would be time to hang it up. I’m your reporter, and you should know what I’ve been doing. You’re expecting five thousand words from me on Harrington’s campaign for this weekend, but I’m working on something else, maybe the Guardian’s biggest exclusive since you started there.”

Milo sat back against the cushioned booth seat, looked from Sherlock to Mia and back again. “Still waiting, Briscoe.”

After two more cups of coffee from Roxy, a waitress who’d known Milo for years, Mia had told him everything. He asked her questions, made her backtrack, filled in more details until he was satisfied she’d spilled it all. Milo gave snorts and grunts, an occasional hmm, and a “You’ve got to be kidding me.” When she was finished, Mia felt limp.

Milo studied Mia’s face. “I saw those photos you gave Dirk, saw the meatloaf you gave him, too, so I knew the photos were important to you. It was making me crazy not knowing what you were up to. Alex Harrington, huh?” He took another sip of coffee, tapped his blunt fingertips on the vinyl tabletop. “All right. If you’re right about Mr. Alexander Harrington and Mr. Kent Harper, Mia, if you get ironclad proof, and I mean bulletproof proof, beyond-a-reasonable-doubt proof, we’ll publish it. Otherwise, you’d be setting up the paper in the middle of a huge scandal, with an X marked on our chests for all those big-money lawyers to shoot at, and they’ll come running faster than roaches out of the woodwork. Harrington’s supporters will denounce us in any case, call you a vindictive opportunist, maybe even a jilted lover. There’s so much wealth and power involved, it’s scary. And if there’s a trial, you’ll be front and center. You as well, Agent Sherlock.” Tap, tap, tapping his fingertips, he paused, assessed. “You, Agent Sherlock, have a big rep and you’re standing with Briscoe. That’ll mean something. You think one or both of these men has already tried to kill you and yet you don’t want to face them down, tell them what you know. I can understand that. But if I let you go forward with this and something goes wrong, people will think we were both barking mad.” He fell silent, picked up his coffee spoon, and began wiping it on his napkin so hard he could see his face. Sherlock and Mia said nothing, waited. He met their eyes. “But here’s the thing—if you bring down these men, prove they’re serial rapists, prove they murdered your friend Serena, maybe find her body—it could mean a Pulitzer for you, Briscoe, and a whole mountain of new advertisers and subscriptions for the Guardian. Some butt-kissing morons might proclaim me King of All Media.” Vintage Milo, but Mia saw a twinkle in his eyes. “All right, Briscoe, knowing all the problems, the risks, the possible payoffs, do you still wish to move forward?”

“Yes,” Mia said immediately.

He turned to Sherlock. “How are you going to be involved in all this?”

“I’ll be staying with Mia to keep her safe until our mutual friend, an FBI agent, gets here tomorrow.”

Milo slid out of the booth, stared down at the two women, and rubbed his hands together. “I’m picking up the tab. Talk about a justified business expense. Tell me what I can do and I’ll do it. But that doesn’t include any killing.”

“Thank you, Milo,” Mia said. “I promise, no killing.”

He started to pat her shoulder, stopped, and touched his fingers to her cheek instead. “You’ve looked better, Briscoe, but I gotta say, you’ve made my day.” He shrugged into his coat, paused to speak to their waitress, Roxy, and was fast out the door, coat flapping.

Mia was easing her arms carefully into her own coat when Sherlock’s cell sang out Shinedown’s “Monsters.” When she punched off, she smiled. “My FBI contact touched base with the NYPD detective running the investigation into your attack last night. She was allowed to look at all the CCTVs. She said the sedan that tried to hit you is a black 2020 Audi S8. The CSI team verified. They found a shard of headlight next to one of the overturned garbage cans, and yes, it was from a 2020 Audi S8.” She called up the car on her cell. “Look familiar?”

Mia said, “Maybe, but Sherlock, to me it only looked huge and black. I was scared out of my mind.”

Sherlock added, “If you hadn’t been scared, I’d worry about you. Neither Harrington nor Harper owns an Audi, which means there’s another person involved.”

“Was your FBI contact able to follow the Audi on the traffic cams?”

“Three blocks, then they lost him. They’re casting a wider net. There wasn’t much traffic at that hour last night what with the frigid weather so they’re hoping to pick him up again and see where he goes. Kelly will call me if they spot him.” She shook Mia’s hand. “We’ll get him. He’s the key. Mia, you’re going to the Guardian, right? And you’ll stay there until you take a taxi home this evening?”

Mia nodded. “Believe me, I don’t want to do any more dances with garbage cans. I remember you said you hoped to close the case about the murdering psychopath who’s a real estate agent. You’re going to do that now?”

Sherlock stared at her. “Your memory is formidable.” She looked down at her watch. “Yep, I’m off. After today, I’m hoping there’ll be one less psychopath on the streets. Be careful, Mia. I’ll see you later.”