Original subtitles

Whew! I'm beginning to think

that some clients aren't worth the 20 feet in the cold.

Maybe it's time to un-nail that basement door, huh?

That's the sex blanket.

I have asked you not to call it that.

Who is she and what time is she coming over?

How would you like to spend the next three days

at the Hotel Lutece, enjoying the finest pampering

that Western civilization has to offer? On me,

of course. Already booked you a room.

Actually, it's the least I could do, considering

as I was about to request-slash-advise

that you make yourself scarce for a few days.

A few days?

Her name-- to answer your initial question--

is Agatha Spurrell.

She's an esteemed British climatologist.

She's in New York to deliver the keynote at a global conference.

We met several years ago, when she was consulting Father

on a land deal in the Brazilian rain forest.

At about the same time, I was investigating a man

who'd thrown his wife in the Splugen Pass

in the Swiss Alps. Agatha

helped to prove that visibility was quite good on the day

in question, and that the wife's death was not

the accident that the husband claimed it to be.

She's proven herself quite useful on a number of occasions.

And we also find ourselves

compatible in matters of the flesh.

Wait, are you cleaning up?

Do not mistake caution for sentiment, Watson.

I'm just moving a few breakables out of the way--

some rare volumes.

We do have a tendency to... spread out.

I'm impressed.

A sex partner you're not kicking out the minute you're done.

But... mixing pleasure with an irregular?

It seems a little risky,

you know?

Agatha is not your regular irregular.

We both have the mental discipline to compartmentalize.

Anyway, I'm having the woman

over for her benefit, not mine; there's a good deal

of pressure surrounding her speech.

I merely offer myself sexually to help her de-stress.

And I will take the hotel.

I'm gonna go pack.

¶ ¶

(loud thump)

You got to be kidding me.

What the hell, man?!

(tires screeching)

No! No!

(groaning)

(engine revving)

No! Wait, no!

(screams)

Even you cannot deny the hypocrisy-- the world's elite

swarming into the city via their private jets and luxury SUVs

to decry the dangers of global warming.

Celebrity is a microphone, Sherlock.

People like that will fly their private jets regardless.

Better they put their privilege to good use, don't you think?

Wailing Goggle Man alone

must burn enough fuel in a year

to send a rocket to Mars.

Wailing Goggle Man?

Yeah, you know, the Irishman with the songs.

Bono. His name is Bono.

(phone ringing)

Detective?

I'll inform Watson, and we'll meet you there presently.

You must forgive me.

Duty calls. You have a key.

The brownstone is yours to come and go as you please.

Actually, I was hoping we could discuss something this morning.

My schedule's so full for the rest of the week,

I'm not sure we'll get another chance.

I promise I won't take long.

(indistinct police radio chatter)

Hey, where you been?

Stalled train. I take it that's the lion's share

of the crime scene being carted off.

It's going to the garage at the precinct.

The body's on its way to the morgue.

This street feeds right into the tunnel.

If I had held the scene any longer,

we'd be getting calls from the mayor's office.

The victim's name was Galen Barrow-- 26.

He was a driver for one of those ride-sharing companies.

Zooss? It's like the Greek god, but with two Os and two Ss.

The dot-com mavens will not rest

until every word has been mangled.

That's "word" with one "O."

Looks like the killer was driving a yellow cab.

Paint transfer all over the victim's car.

Multiple impacts--

no way this was an accident.

BELL: There has been a lot of tension between

the cabbies and the ride-sharing guys

the last few months.

Some bar fights, a few other tangles,

but, far as I can tell, this is the first murder.

(mutters)

(sniffles)

(Holmes sniffing)

Smell that. The pavement?

Vomit. That doesn't look like puke.

That's because the vomiter was drinking on an empty stomach.

(sniffs)

Gin. A particularly cheap brand of gin

called Pascal's. You can tell

from the distinct blend of impurities and flavorings.

I'll take your word for it.

So you think the killer threw up.

Leaning out of the driver's seat would leave him about there.

Yeah. I saw an empty bottle of Pascal's

on the curb around the corner.

Hadn't been there for very long.

Could be the cabbie threw it out the window after he did this.

I'll have our guys bag it

and get a swab of that. (phone chirps)

The department reached out to the TLC

to try to find out if any cabs

came in with front-end damage this morning.

Looks like we got a hit at a fleet in Queens.

MAN: Driver said he lost control on some ice

and hit a pole.

He brought it in like this at around 6:00.

Well... I'd say he's telling the truth.

Uh, the car we're looking for would be more banged-up,

but we appreciate you letting us take a look.

I wish your guys said on the phone

that someone killed a Zooss driver.

I'd have saved you the trip. Why is that?

The driver did this-- name's Rasheed.

He leases by the week and sends everything he makes

back to his family in Bangladesh.

Guys like that don't care about Zooss

or Goober or whatever they're called.

Fleet hacks aren't having any trouble picking up fares.

All right, then who is upset about Zooss?

If you ask me, you're looking for a private owner.

A guy who took out a mortgage to buy a medallion,

and that cab is how he puts food on the table.

Those medallions cost, what, a million dollars now?

They did, but the price is going down

thanks to the ride-share companies.

In other cities, it's already bad,

and people here see the writing on the wall.

It's like the market for your house dropping out.

A lot of these guys,

they're up to their eyeballs in debt, and now...

they're underwater.

I'd kill over that.

BELL: Hey. Thought you'd still be at the morgue.

Mr. Barrow's body was a disappointment.

It was devoid of any clues as to his killer's identity,

so I came here.

Your trip to the fleet was, of course, equally fruitless.

And how did you know that?

This is a chrome bumper strip.

It is not from Galen Barrow's car,

but rather from the cab-- a Ford Crown Victoria.

It became wedged into the wreckage

and then pulled off as the cab backed away.

It's significant because the last model year

when Ford Crown Victorias had chrome bumper strips was 2003.

Would you care to guess

how many active yellow cabs are Ford Crown Victorias

manufactured in 2003 or earlier?

Something tells me you already checked.

Five. And all of them have been accounted for.

I don't understand. Are you saying it wasn't a cab?

Not an active cab, no. But a retired one?

The dispatcher we talked to thought the perp

might be a private owner, someone who was still driving.

I'm beginning to think the killer

is not a cab driver at all.

The attack happened when Galen Barrow

was beginning his shift.

That's a predictable time and place to find him.

The killer was driving a more than decade-old

retired cab-- a vehicle whose presence

is far less likely if left to chance.

So you think someone killed Barrow for another reason,

but then wanted it to look like it was an angry cab driver.

It's a possibility I think we should at least explore.

If it's true, it stands to reason that the killer

acquired that vehicle expressly for the task,

so you should refocus your search to identify

recently-sold cabs that match

the aforementioned make and years of production.

I'll pull the sales records and let you know what I find.

I'll attempt to gather information about Mr. Barrow.

We can meet later at the brownstone to review it.

Uh, what about Agatha? All that de-stressing?

I think a homicide takes precedence, don't you?

Oh, you must be Agatha.

And you must be Joan. Oh, no, no, please, sit.

I was hoping we'd cross paths at some point.

When Sherlock told me he'd exiled you

on my account, I was mortified.

If the Lutece is exile, I will take it. Anyway,

he's making up for it with the crème brûlée bill alone.

But I promise you I will be out of your hair before you know it.

Oh... he's made too much of that, I'm afraid.

We're not teenagers.

At any rate,

no need to rush.

Sherlock's too busy to socialize tonight-- busy with the case.

Is he here?

He said he'd be in the office if I need him.

The office.

The one downstairs in the basement?

Are you hiding?

Excuse me?

Are you hiding here in my office?

From Agatha.

As you are well aware, I find changes in environment

conducive to my process. And what reason

could I possibly have for hiding from my own guest?

I don't know.

Adhering to my theory that Galen Barrow's murder

is not related to the Livery War of 2015,

I began to look at other aspects of his life.

As it turns out,

Internet journalist was his vocation of choice.

Only started driving for Zooss a couple of months ago,

probably to supplement the paltry sums

he was paid for his blogs. What?

You are totally hiding from her.

Something happened this morning.

Agatha made a rather... imposing request of me.

She wants to make it official. I knew it.

I knew it was only a matter of time

before one of these women fell in love with you.

You cannot maintain multiple

long-term physical relationships

without one of them turning serious. I don't care how good

you think you are at compartmentalizing...

Agatha is not in love with me.

Oh. Then what's the problem?

She's asked for a donation.

What, to an environmental group?

To her uterus.

She has asked for my... issue.

She wants to have a baby with you?

She's asked only for my genetic material.

Her expectation as to my involvement in the child's life

would end there.

What did you say?

Do I exude the traits of fatherhood to you?

(phone ringing)

Detective.

BELL: Well, that suggestion of yours paid off.

We looked into recent sales of retired yellow cabs

and found an '03 Crown Vic that traded hands last week.

A couple of detectives went to the buyer's house

to check it out; guy told them it had been stolen.

And his reason for not reporting the theft?

They asked him the same question,

and he tried to bolt out the back door.

They're bringing him down to the station now.

Gordon Meadows, I'm Detective Bell.

This is Mr. Holmes, Ms. Watson.

We've just been informed

that you're a registered sex offender.

You were arrested for trading in child pornography in 2008.

We're curious. What's your affiliation with Galen Barrow?

Why'd you buy that taxi last week?

It was too old to put into use.

I needed a car.

And the price was right.

And your reason for running from the police?

How long have you had that irritation on your skin?

I don't... I don't know.

It's called airbag dermatitis.

Usually clears up in a couple of days.

Which means that you were recently in the front of a car

whose airbag deployed.

BELL: See, that's interesting.

Especially considering how Mr. Barrow died.

We're also pretty sure

whoever killed him threw up at the scene.

We're just waiting on the DNA.

Your DNA's already on file.

So maybe it's time you got out in front of this.

I didn't have a choice.

To do what?

All of it.

Buying the cab, driving it into that man.

They-they made me do it.

I had to drink a half a bottle of gin

just to work up the courage.

Are you saying you were coerced?

A few months ago, I started going to...

...a schoolyard

in, uh, Washington Heights,

somewhere where no one would recognize me.

I swear, I-I didn't do anything.

I just... I just wanted to look.

But it was still a violation of your parole.

I started getting texts.

Photos of me

at the school.

Someone was blackmailing you.

They said they wanted $5,000 or they would tell the police

what I was doing.

I knew that I would go back to jail, s-so I paid.

Everything was quiet for a while.

Then, a few days ago, I get a new text.

A picture of that poor man, Barrow,

with a bunch of instructions.

They were telling me

where he would be, when he would be there.

That I had to use a cab.

The cops who came to my house,

they have my phone.

Look at it, please.

It's all there. You'll see.

I'll have the phone brought up,

but that guy seems pretty confident

it's gonna back his story.

Seems unlikely he would have preemptively fabricated evidence

of a blackmailing just in case he was arrested.

So we might have caught the killer,

but someone else wanted Barrow dead.

He was just the weapon.

WATSON: Mrs. Guerrero, Galen Barrow was a regular writer

for your Web site, wasn't he?

It's such a shock for everybody here.

We're all still trying to get our heads around what happened.

The news said it was a hit-and-run,

but now you think he was targeted?

There is evidence that supports that, yes.

We have the driver in custody. It looks like he was coerced.

Now, the person responsible sent instructions

using burner phones.

Those numbers are no longer in use.

(scoffs) Everyone liked Galen.

We didn't know much about his personal life.

Mostly, our contributors work from home.

But it's hard to imagine anyone

wanting to hurt him.

Is it possible that his work here put him in harm's way?

Perhaps during his research for an article,

he witnessed something untoward.

Honestly, he would have loved that.

He was ambitious.

He saw himself doing

real investigative journalism one day.

Mostly what we had for him was gallery openings,

city council meetings.

His last piece was on craft beers.

If you wouldn't mind, we'd like to review his recent work.

Oh, of course. Anything I can do to help.

Hmm, this might be something.

A couple of months ago, Galen interviewed

a fashion designer named Bobby Alacqua.

Do not doubt my ability to multitask.

Bobby Alacqua.

Might be something. Well, the interview

was just a puff piece, but I recognized the name.

There was an arrest at his boutique last week.

One of his employees was trafficking cocaine

and using the store as a front.

So maybe Galen saw something he shouldn't have.

Yeah.

So how'd it go here last night?

Agatha and I did not have sex, if that's what you're asking.

Did you talk more? About me helping to create another human life?

No, we did not. Is it really so...

Yes. But I don't...

What facet of my being would suggest

that I have any desire to reproduce, hmm?

Is it my optimistic outlook?

Or perhaps the nostalgic fuzzies

that you hear me spouting about my own upbringing?

Well, you're reading about Agatha.

She's obviously on your mind.

I'm attempting to understand what could have caused her

to so egregiously violate our sexual contract.

Until last week,

I hadn't seen her for months.

So perhaps she had a brush with death

or suffered a traumatic brain injury.

So now you have to have brain damage to want a baby?

Your words.

Agatha's what, 36? 37?

If you intend to reduce this to some tired clock analogy...

It's a thing. It happens. If that's all this was,

she could've gone to any number of banks for her spermatozoa.

Instead, she turned to a confirmed misanthrope

and recovering drug addict.

I ask you, Watson, who in their right mind

would favor my genetic material over...

Yes?

You were right.

You should look into that cocaine-et-couture shop

you mentioned-- sounds promising.

Where are you going? Calls to make.

Personal matter.

Who dresses you, girl?

(chuckles) I dress myself.

You ought to come work for me. You had an employee

who was arrested here for moving drugs in the store.

Ricky was a good worker. Organized, self-starting.

If it wasn't for the part about him dealing coke,

I'd have made him manager.

Anyway, I thought he cut a deal.

What else is there to talk about?

Actually, I was investigating a different crime,

but it might be related.

There was a reporter named Galen Barrow who interviewed you

for this Web site called TownSoNice.

I remember. Cute.

Was there any chance that he was in contact with Ricky

or any of Ricky's associates while he was here?

Nuh-uh. We didn't meet here.

I had some business uptown, so we met at a coffee shop

across the street from his apartment.

Uh, where uptown was this?

First Avenue, in the 80s.

I can look it up.

And you're sure he said this was his apartment.

That boy apologized about a thousand times

that he made me come to him; and when we wrapped it up,

I saw him go into his building. Why?

I received your texts.

You invited Ms. Guerrero in for questioning?

Galen interviewed Bobby Alacqua on the Upper East Side,

across from a building that Galen said was his apartment.

But then I remembered he lived in Brooklyn.

So you looked up the occupants,

and you found the name Lydia Guerrero.

This morning, she said she barely knew him.

Obviously, that wasn't true.

You think they were playing couch quail?

GREGSON: If that means having an affair,

yeah, we do.

So, Lydia's married to a lawyer at a big corporate firm.

Compared to what she's making at the Web site,

he's definitely the breadwinner.

Leaves us with a couple possibilities.

Either the husband found out about the affair

and he arranged the hit on Galen;

or Galen threatened to expose the affair,

and Lydia set up the hit.

Either way, your visit to her this morning

must have rattled her,

because I didn't invite her to come down here.

I was about to

when she called and she... asked to come in

with her attorney.

I know I wasn't...

completely forthcoming before.

I talked to my lawyer, and she's impressed upon me

that I need to tell you what I know.

Well, by all means.

We are avid fans of civic duty here.

BELL: But if you're here to tell us

you were sleeping with Galen Barrow, we already had a hunch.

How...

GREGSON: He was seen entering

your apartment on First Avenue.

That isn't your primary residence, is it?

It belonged to my mother.

When she passed, my husband and I kept it

so we could have a place in the city.

Was your husband aware that you were putting your pied-à-terre

to such classic use?

LYDIA: No, he never knew a thing.

You sure about that?

Positive.

You said earlier

that the man who killed Galen was coerced.

Coerced as in blackmailed?

Because I was blackmailed, too.

Funny, you didn't mention that this morning.

I was trying to protect my marriage.

I was afraid.

And I didn't do the right thing at first. I'm sorry.

Why don't you tell us about the blackmail.

(sighs) About six months ago, someone started sending

pictures of me and Galen outside the apartment.

Then text messages came demanding money,

instructions where to leave it.

Look and you'll see.

Did you comply with the demands? Whoever it was,

I just wanted to pay them off and be done with it.

The wording is pretty similar to the ones we saw yesterday.

Was Galen aware of the blackmail?

He hated that I was giving them money.

I begged him to just drop it.

But he investigated it anyway.

LYDIA: I thought I'd gotten through to him.

We had to break things off, he had to move on, but...

Then when you said that the man

who killed him was being blackmailed, too?

I don't think Galen let it go after all.

GREGSON: Mrs. Guerrero,

have you ever heard the name Gordon Meadows?

Your husband's firm do any criminal work?

Maybe Mr. Meadows is a client.

I don't think so, no.

Excuse me.

I'm sorry. Give us a moment.

Joan?

What are you doing?

Gordon Meadows's phone.

CCS already checked it out.

There was nothing on it that would help I.D. the blackmailer.

Not directly, no.

But we seek a connection between Mr. Meadows

and Ms. Guerrero, do we not?

An explanation as to how someone was aware

of the transgressions of a sex offender

and the dalliance of a cougar and her cub reporter.

And I believe I found one.

One that might also explain Galen Barrow's decision

to become a part-time driver.

Both the blackmail victims used Zooss.

This is ridiculous.

We don't have the kind of information

that you're looking for. No?

Does not each of your users sign away his or her privacy

the moment they install your app?

Have we not, every one one of us, volunteered

to carry around the most sophisticated surveillance

and tracking device known to man?

Brandon, would you please fire up Olympus?

This is a bird's-eye view of every car online in real time.

You call it "Olympus"?

Uh, it's an inside joke.

View from the clouds, the logo-- Greek mythology.

Oh, we get it.

I'm showing it to you to make a point.

This is literally all the information

we have on our users.

Where they are, where and when we pick them up,

where and when we drop them off-- that's it.

"That's it."

You're describing your level of omniscience

that's traditionally ascribed to God and Father Christmas.

BELL: Mr. Frazer, we think

someone in your company has been using

this data to find people with things to hide.

Cross-referencing users names, for example,

with criminal records

to see who might be doing things they shouldn't.

Figuring out who's having affairs based on where they go,

what time and for how long.

WATSON: Two of your customers were blackmailed.

In both cases, there was a direct correlation

between their usage of Zooss and the activities

the blackmailer was able to use against them.

BRANDON: For argument's sake, let's say

someone here could do what you're saying.

No one would.

He'd be an idiot.

Once you last a year here, you vest, you get stock options.

85% of our employees

are paper millionaires.

Nickel-and-dime extortion makes no sense.

"We are Big Brother incarnate,

but trust us because our motives are purely financial."

WATSON: Whether you believe

someone did it or not, we have that subpoena.

We'd like your employee records and data.

All due respect, this has got a pretty broad reach.

I'd like our lawyers to take a look at it first.

HOLMES: Indeed.

They might contest the invasion of privacy as being too ironic.

BELL: You want to drag your feet on this, feel free.

Just keep in mind,

this investigation could be handled quietly,

or it could show up on the evening news.

I don't know what that would do

to your stock options, but it's your call.

Brandon, could you please get these folks

everything they need?

It says, if we follow the same traject...

Agatha?

Sherlock. These two gentlemen...

More potential donors?

If she's asked you

to fetch mettle, gentlemen, I advise against it.

Her motives are impure.

Could you give us a moment?

(whispering): What the hell are you doing?

You really think I wouldn't realize? Realize what?

You've entered into another arrangement with my father.

Only this time, instead of approving a land deal,

you're expected to produce an heir.

I know that his foundation has funded

your research through 2023.

That's quite a commitment.

Only, I think you could have done better.

It's going to take a lot longer to raise our love child.

I think you're confusing correlation with causation.

And I think you're confusing procreation with masturbation.

Father is thinking of himself and no one else.

I represent the end of the Holmes line,

and that just won't do.

You're right.

The idea did originate with your father,

but there's no quid pro quo.

The funding has been guaranteed.

Do you honestly imagine his lawyers won't be able

to bind up that generous request

behind some trumped up technicality?

My research is a good investment, even for him.

You don't know him the way I do. I know you.

I have been thinking about a baby for almost two years now.

I realized at a certain point that while I did not want

the fuss of a marriage, I did want to be a mother.

I hadn't planned beyond that.

I was just glad to have made the decision.

And then, quite coincidentally,

I happened to run into your father.

I'm surprised he didn't offer to seed you himself.

He got me thinking.

And the more I thought about it,

you are, without question,

the most remarkable man I've ever known.

You're brilliant, strong.

You've made a career out of helping people.

There should be more of you in the world.

You think I'm being selfish--

this urge to create a new human life,

one that's a part of me.

But you're being selfish, too.

You have these gifts, Sherlock, this goodness.

So share them.

See what happens.

Might not be as wretched as you think.

What are you doing?

I know you're territorial about this setup.

I know you don't like me to touch it.

A judgment you have repeatedly validated.

I was just trying to hook up the Olympus data

from Zooss, but it doesn't look like we have the right wiring.

(claps hands) Oh.

Come on.

(sighs)

Thank you. Ooh.

(sighs)

What about the personnel files they turned over?

Have the police found anything?

Well, no one has a record, if that's what you mean.

That's why I wanted to look at the Olympus records.

I thought maybe we could trace Gordon Meadows

and Lydia Guerrero's moves the last few months.

See which employees logged on at what times.

So, how did it go with Agatha?

Oh, I was right. My father is the instigator.

Oh. I'm sorry to hear that.

Do you plan to reproduce?

Excuse me?

Are you going to procreate at some point?

I don't know. I mean, I think about it sometimes.

I don't... Why?

(sighs)

(computer chimes) How did you do...?

Don't be ashamed. We can sign you up

for a remedial course at a senior center.

(phone chimes)

Marcus. He says he just got a call from a woman

whose brother was a programmer at Zooss.

Right up until... he was murdered last month.

I recognized him when I saw the news.

He came to see me after what happened to Patrick.

And he questioned you?

I didn't know he was a driver for the company.

He said he was a reporter.

He was both.

We believe he started driving

because he was digging into Zooss.

What did he want to know?

Mostly about Patrick's job,

like if I knew about any problems Patrick had at work.

I didn't.

Your brother's case is unsolved.

The detective wrote that it was a robbery gone wrong.

Did you think it was more than that?

Not until today.

Somebody attacked him outside of his apartment,

stole his wallet.

They had a pipe.

We thought that he was gonna pull through.

Maybe if someone had found him sooner.

Oh, he was in the hospital for a few days.

Were you able to talk to him before he passed?

They had him in a medically-induced coma.

There were complications.

He never woke up.

We thought it was

like the cop said-- a mugging--

but when I saw this guy was killed, I just...

I thought I should say something.

It seemed like too big a coincidence.

Now, uh, it's possible that Patrick detected

the presence of a blackmailer inside Zooss.

That's why he was targeted.

It would be very, very helpful for us

if we could look at his cell phone and his computer.

Do you still have those?

All his stuff is still at his place in Cobble Hill.

I've been meaning to go back there.

It's just,

that's where it happened, out front.

It's been hard... going back.

Yeah, yeah. Perhaps we could go for you.

I mean, the longest conversation that he and I ever had was

probably when he interviewed to take the room.

Um... when he wasn't working,

he was just watching basketball.

Like, 24/7.

I don't think the murders of Patrick Kemp and Galen Barrow

are related after all.

That was fast.

Given the nature of Kemp's wounds,

I'm sure you concurred, as did I,

with the NYPD's initial assessment.

It was not an intentional murder.

With a little more luck, he might have survived.

Now I think we know why.

Sports almanacs?

I'd wager-- pun intended--

that Patrick Kemp was attacked over gambling debts.

I'm not getting a very sporty vibe here.

Precisely.

His roommate said he was obsessed with basketball,

but there's not a whiff of fandom in here.

He's a collector of statistical almanacs

and team schedules, spreadsheets of games won and lost.

But there's not so much as a T-shirt with a team logo on it.

No, it seems that his interest was purely financial.

Well, maybe he just preferred shirts with collars.

If I'm wrong, where is his guitar?

Where are any of the creature comforts

that you might expect an upwardly mobile

young programmer to acquire?

I submit that he's

pawned them all in an ultimately unsuccessful attempt...

to keep up with the vig...

and perhaps buy an unusual amount of burner phones.

Actually, that makes sense.

I think you're right.

Patrick Kemp wasn't killed by the blackmailer at Zooss.

He was the blackmailer at Zooss.

Kemp died over a month ago.

Galen Barrow died three nights ago.

If Kemp was the blackmailer,

who had Barrow killed?

Sherlock?

HOLMES: Up here!

(footsteps approaching)

(sighs) What's all this?

The view from Olympus.

Or views, rather.

This is from last Monday,

Tuesday, Wednesday,

so on and so forth.

But we only asked for this data

so we could help identify the blackmailer.

We already know it's Patrick Kemp.

The same Patrick Kemp

who died four weeks before Galen Barrow was murdered.

We know that Barrow sought to undo

a blackmailer at Zooss, but it occurred to me,

what if he'd stumbled across some other secret along the way?

I thought that tracing his movements might point us

in the direction of the orchestrator of his murder.

You think he was getting too close to someone else?

Someone who knew about Kemp's activities.

Someone who also had something to lose.

The cars are moving

so fast-- did you accelerate the feed?

What better way to trace the movements

of several thousand Zooss users over several months?

Wait. You watched everything they gave us in one night?

As you can see, I'm almost entirely caught up.

What happened to just studying Galen's movements?

I defy you to look at the city from this vantage point

and not discern certain patterns.

What do you mean?

Bryce Newsome-- he is a scoundrel.

Quite prone to one-night stands.

There is hope, however, 'cause he's taken to seeing

a therapist every Tuesday night at 7:00.

Leon Kennard, ad executive.

He requires a change of scenery.

Why else would he be paying visits

to his company's competitors during his off hours?

April Lindgren.

Her comings and goings are the very definition

of predictable, or at least they were until several weeks ago.

Her son has been diagnosed with some form of cancer-- leukemia,

judging by the experts she's conferred.

She's been spending

the bulk of her time at the hospital.

Although she did pay a recent visit to a funeral home...

presumably to make arrangements.

Why did you just put yourself through all this?

(sighs) Actually, I didn't intend to, but...

once I started...

Okay, say you're right.

The person who killed Galen Barrow had something to lose.

Maybe someone at Zooss figured out he was poking around

and had Galen killed to protect the company.

Like I was saying... If you think that someone from Zooss

is behind Galen Barrow's murder, you're right.

But you're wrong-- it's not to do with protecting the company.

What are you talking about?

Olympus. It gave me the answers that we seek several hours ago.

I know who the killer is.

We're going to see him this morning.

My assistant just told me

you were here; she said you have more questions.

Mr. Falchek, have a seat.

Should I get Eric and the others?

No, no. We'll be speaking with them presently.

Does the name Felice Armistead mean anything to you?

No. Why would it?

She's a Zooss user.

Has been since September 2013.

I'm confused.

Is this the person you think killed Galen?

No. It's the person we think he was killed over.

HOLMES: As a customer,

I'd classify her usage as mundane.

Her pickups and drop-offs were almost exclusively...

Hey!

...from her home or her office.

She utilized your cars to frequent

a number of, you know, bars and restaurants,

as well as a fairly tight circle of...

friends and family.

Then one day,

a deviation.

She used one of your vehicles to visit a police station.

Would it interest you to know

that of all the Zooss users in Manhattan,

only 36 people have used your cars to go

to or from a police station in the last six months?

The average citizen pays a visit

to a precinct once in a lifetime. Hmm?

They are places to be avoided.

So these individuals stood out like 36 sore thumbs.

As it turns out, 19 of them

work in and around the department.

Cops, attorneys, administrators.

Ten were witnesses who were asked

to give a statement, and the remaining seven

went there to report a crime.

Ms. Armistead was one of those seven.

GREGSON: She told a detective

about some disturbing e-mails

she'd been receiving-- some creep

with an anonymous server kept sending her messages.

"I'm watching you."

"I know what you're wearing."

"I know who you're with." Many of the e-mails

were a lot more explicit than that,

but that's neither here nor there.

The point is, she was being stalked--

stalked by someone who always seemed to know

exactly where she was.

And you're telling me this because...?

One night, her stalker got brave enough to break into her house.

He was picking through her drawers when she surprised him.

There was a struggle.

He broke her cheekbone before he got away.

HOLMES: The next day,

she took a Zooss car to go and stay

with her parents in Westchester.

Obviously, she failed to understand

that her stalker had been using Olympus

to watch her all along.

WATSON: Now, we found records that indicate

you cut off Patrick Kemp's access to Olympus

seven weeks ago.

Probably because you realized

he was blackmailing people-- you kept it quiet.

If you hadn't, you could've brought the whole company down.

HOLMES: Not that we think you did what you did

to protect your shares at the company. No.

You did it to protect your favorite peephole

into the life of your favorite prey.

I wondered when and where you first laid eyes

on Miss Armistead,

so I attempted to track your movements

using Olympus over the last several months.

Turns out, you don't partake of your own company's service.

Wonder why.

I want a lawyer. GREGSON: That's fine.

He can join us for the lineup

you're gonna be in at the station.

Miss Armistead didn't get a very good look at you that night,

but her description was enough to make me think of you.

I predict she'll have

little trouble picking you out.

I assume, since you asked to meet me here

rather than a room downstairs,

you've decided not to impregnate me.

At least, the old-fashioned way.

(sighs)

It's okay, Sherlock.

The things I said yesterday--

I put too much pressure on you.

You made some good points.

Not enough to sway you though.

You were right.

I am... remarkable.

That's precisely why I can't help you.

What does you being amazing have to do...

No, no, no. I didn't say I was "amazing."

I said I was "remarkable."

The things that I do,

the things that you care about, um...

you think that I do them 'cause I'm a good person.

I do them 'cause it would hurt too much not to.

Because you're a good person.

No, it hurts, Agatha.

All this.

Everything I see,

everything I hear, touch, smell.

The conclusions that I'm able to draw.

The things that are revealed to me.

The ugliness.

My work focuses me.

It helps.

You say that I'm using my gifts.

I say I'm just treating them.

So I cannot, in good conscience,

pass all of that on to someone else.

Sorry.

¶ ¶

(lock clicking)

(door opens)

(sighs)

So did Agatha really decide to go home one day early,

or did you just not want to pay for another night

at Lutece?

The bearskin rug is gone.

It is now safe to move about the brownstone.

Well, I'm sorry things didn't work out between you two.

No, you can't be sorry because there was nothing to work out.

And there was nothing to work out

because there's nothing between us.

I was just taking advantage of her absence

to dig through some cold cases.

Well... you want company?

No, thank you.

How about some ice cream?

You know, it's the stuff that people eat

when they're feeling a little down.

I have everything I need right here.

Okay.

What-what kind of ice cream?

I'll bring you a couple of choices.

Captioned by Media Access Group at WGBH access.wgbh.org