It was already afternoon. The warm late-autumn sunlight streamed through the bay window into Sherlock Moriarty's home, falling across the private detective's face and making the lenses of his gold-rimmed glasses gleam golden, concealing his eyes behind them.
After a long while, he could no longer hold back his laughter. He lowered his head, the corners of his mouth twitching beneath his beard, while the abdominal muscles wrapped in his vest and shirt trembled.
"Ha ha, divination, a divination expert... Ha ha, s-sorry." Under Angel's stern gaze, he reined in his laughter. "Then, Miss Divination Expert, could you show this ignorant detective what you can do? It's not that I don't believe you, it's just..."
Her attempt at a stylish display had been mercilessly mocked, making Angel's already unpleasant mood even worse. Without hesitation, she refused Moriarty's request.
Fortunately, the detective quickly returned to the matter at hand. Perhaps he had realized that the person sitting opposite him was also a Beyonder, or perhaps he was curious about the truth behind the O'Neill family's "suicide." He swiftly took out pen and paper, wrote down the location of the gang hideout where Emily had been rescued, and circled a street on the map.
"Right here, Winster Street in Cherwood Borough. It's a building with shops on the ground floor and residences above."
After thinking for a moment, Moriarty rose from the sofa, straightened his clothes, and walked toward the coat rack by the living room door.
"I'd better go with you, in case you get the wrong place." Beside the coat rack, he turned back and said, "But I'm a private detective. This counts as a commission, so I'll have to charge you."
Is this forced buying and selling?
Angel put away the map and the note with the address, looking