Chapter 46: Mr. Foul Mouth
By this point, even Andy, who'd been pretending to work on spreadsheets, was getting curious. At Ron's direction, he'd spent a few days hanging around with Toretto and handling Ron's various social obligations.
He'd always gotten the impression that Ron was a difficult personality. Even Toretto, the undisputed king of LA's street racing scene, looked uncomfortable whenever Ron's name came up. This was the first time Andy had seen Ron genuinely intimidated by another person.
"Boss, if this individual can truly assist us, occasionally swallowing your pride is the mature approach," old Andy advised, sounding like a wise butler from a British period drama.
Seeing Andy weigh in, Hank quickly jumped on the bandwagon. "Exactly. Where is this private investigator? If it's awkward for you, I can reach out to him directly."
"Fine, here's his contact info."
Ron pulled out his iPhone and slid it across the desk. Hank grabbed it immediately. The contact name read "Mr. Foul Mouth," which spoke volumes about how much grief Ron had endured.
What shocked Hank most was that the phone number wasn't American - it had a UK country code!
"Wait... he's British?" Hank was slow on the uptake. "Has he been working cases in the States?"
"No, he's never set foot in America. He's still got his place in London, 221B Baker Street. You still want to contact him for me? Go ahead, I can expense your round-trip ticket to Heathrow~"
The defeated expression had completely vanished from Ron's face, replaced by the smug satisfaction of messing with his subordinate.
"London? That's like a ten-hour flight each way. Should I book something tonight?" Hank had no clue he was being played with, which just frustrated Ron even more.
"You're actually serious about going?" Ron snatched his phone back. "Forget it. I mean, you don't need to fly over there, and he doesn't need to come here. Too much hassle."
"But if he doesn't come here, how can he help us? Does this private investigator have some kind of intelligence network that reaches LA?"
"His brother might have that kind of reach, but definitely not him." Ron shrugged and slumped back in his chair. A look of reminiscence crossed his face, but it was clearly unpleasant memories.
"This guy can help us without actually being here?" Hank was skeptical.
Ron took a deep breath. "If I told you he could solve our case using pure deductive reasoning without ever seeing the crime scene, would you buy that?"
Hank and Andy exchanged the same "is this guy insane?" look. If it weren't for Ron's proven combat abilities, they'd be calling for a psychiatric evaluation right about now.
"Ah, the limitations of ordinary minds when faced with true genius," Ron mocked his subordinates. "You might not grasp this, but some brilliant individuals can actually reconstruct entire crime scenes in their heads based on your description alone, then work backward from there. Well, for the sake of that bonus money, I'll give you a demonstration today."
Ron grabbed his phone and walked over to the window. He took several deep breaths, trying to center himself, before hitting dial and putting it on speaker.
"Ring... ring..."
The phone barely completed two rings before someone picked up: "Let me guess - what moronic blunder has my dear little simpleton committed today? Have you stumbled across another elementary case that's beyond your limited capabilities and decided to phone the grown-ups? I must say, you've made the intelligent choice for once."
"And that's exactly why I hate talking to you, Sherlock." Ron could have fired back, but instead deliberately softened his tone, hoping to secure a favor.
"The feeling is entirely mutual. Compared to you, I much prefer your brilliant brother. Though we work in different fields, genius recognizes genius across all disciplines. As for you, I suspect you lower the collective IQ of whatever zip code you're currently occupying."
The voice on the other end continued testing Ron's patience, and you could see a vein pulsing in his forehead.
Steady, steady! Ron's hands clenched into fists. If that arrogant bastard were standing right here, he'd definitely introduce him to some good old-fashioned American justice. Unfortunately, there was an entire ocean between them.
"I should point out, Sherlock, the distance between us right now isn't just a neighborhood - it's the entire Atlantic Ocean."
A brief pause from the other end. "Ah yes, you've managed to lower the IQ of the entire Atlantic Ocean."
"Pfft..." Hank finally lost it and started snickering, but Ron's death glare shut him up immediately. Oddly enough, even though this mysterious consultant hadn't demonstrated any actual skills yet, Hank found himself instinctively trusting him.
Maybe anyone who could roast Ron this effectively had to be legitimate?
Ron gritted his teeth. "I need your help."
"Obviously, or you wouldn't have called. Do proceed. I've been so desperately bored I've resorted to nicotine patches. I'm hoping the case you're bringing me will provide some actual stimulation."
"Alright, Hank, you're up." Ron handed the phone to Hank, who proceeded to give a detailed account of the entire Heisenberg drug investigation from the very beginning to the present moment.
"So, Mr. Sherlock, what's your take on this case?" Hank asked, equal parts nervous and hopeful.
All the way across the Atlantic at 221B Baker Street in London, Sherlock Holmes, riding high on his nicotine rush, leaned back with the blissful expression of an addict getting his fix. He quickly ripped off all the patches, tossed them on the floor, and grabbed the phone. "Morons."
"Excuse me, what did you just say?" Hank was sure he'd misheard.
"I said morons. As expected, I shouldn't have bothered hoping for competence from you people. A moron's subordinates can only be morons," Sherlock replied icily.
Hank immediately understood Ron's attitude, because his own hands were now clenched into fists: "Now listen here..."
Ron reluctantly took the phone back. He didn't want to waste time listening to Hank and Sherlock trade insults. International calls were still pretty expensive, and every dollar saved was a dollar earned.
"Sherlock, cut the theatrics. I know you've already figured this out. Give me your deduction. I think my guy provided you with plenty of details. Even I couldn't give you more information than that."
"The information is more than sufficient." Sherlock's condescending voice crackled through the speaker: "Before I begin my analysis, I want to make something clear. There's a reason I called you morons.
The criminals are operating practically under your noses, and you haven't even noticed. As expected, I shouldn't have higher expectations for American law enforcement. You're just a bunch of knuckle-draggers who think every problem can be solved with bullets."
P.S. Too bad nobody guessed correctly in time. Maybe I didn't give you enough clues.
End of Chapter
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