The Detective and the Woman by Amy Thomas Page B

speed with which he affected the transformation in his clothing made him wish his final objective could be accomplished with the same ease.
    Holmes left a badly-written note on the shop door and walked to the grove in the afternoon. It was a walk of several miles, but he wanted to be unencumbered by horse or wagon. He skirted the perimeter of the grounds, moving around the rows of trees to the place where the office stood, approaching it from behind. He hid to the side of the structure, in the middle of a morass of the wooden crates the harvesters used to store picked fruit, crouching down and looking through a gap in the wooden slats. He waited, listening for any suggestion that the office might be occupied. As his ears adjusted, he caught the clicks of a typewriter and low voices. Thankfully, none of the outdoor labourers came near the building or the pile of boxes, but no one emerged from the office, either. Holmes was used to long periods of waiting; he had trained his mind to remain concentrated on the task at hand, but also to go elsewhere and reason through the facts of the case. His body rested, but it was poised to retreat or repel attack at a moment’s notice.
    The sun signaled late afternoon before he detected any movement. The voices he’d heard intermittently came nearer the door, and a young woman emerged, the source of the typing noises he’d heard earlier. He noted from her clothing and hands that she was a secretary, likely only required on occasion, since she hadn’t been in evidence during his previous visits. She walked by Holmes’s lair without looking at it. Typical, he thought. People saw things but didn’t notice them.
    Holmes heard the bang of doors opening and closing and things being moved about before the large figure of Bill the foreman finally left the office. He was more vigilant than his predecessor, as if he was worried that unhappy employees might be lurking in the shadows to accost him. He glanced toward the pile of wooden crates, but didn’t appear to see anything amiss and moved on, whistling as he moved further away from the shed.
    The building and the area around it were finally silent to Holmes’s ears, but he did not move for some time before creeping out of his hiding place and moving slowly around the shack, staying low to the ground and stopping to take cover behind trees and detritus every few feet. He supposed the shed to be empty now, but he had ascertained, from his knowledge of its layout, that he would not be able to hear anything emanating from Sanchez’s personal office unless he was on the other side of the building, which presented very little opportunity for cover. Holmes waited until the half light of dusk before skulking well under window height across the back of the structure and to the corner where Barnett’s alter-ego conducted his business. The only cover available was a spindly sapling, but Holmes took his chance, knowing that darkness would soon hide him completely. He listened, but no sounds emanated from the dark building, and he began to feel more certain about its emptiness. No one emerged into the growing darkness for another half hour, and when daylight had finally disappeared completely, Holmes waited for his eyes to adjust and then crept to the wall that enclosed the windowless back office. Still no sound.
    Confident, the detective quietly made his way to the front door. The flimsy building had no lock on its outside, so he easy pushed it open and slowly made his way inside, his right hand on the gun tucked into his waistband. He moved through the empty building warily, his eyes darting around for any sign of movement, but there was none. Finally, he reached the door of Sanchez’s office, which was locked. The great man required more security than his associates, then. Holmes took his picklocks from his pocket and made short work of the silly thing.
    Sanchez’s field office was tiny and bare, containing only two chairs and a large desk with a