Hollywood Taxes: A Tycoon in TV Land

Chapter 46: Mr. Trash Talk

Even Andy, who usually liked to act busy while doing absolutely nothing, had grown curious at this point. He'd spent a few days working with Toretto under Ron's arrangement and had also handled some of Ron's social obligations.

In his impression, Ron was always the one who gave others a headache. Even Dominic Toretto—the kingpin of L.A.'s street racing scene—seemed visibly frustrated every time Ron was mentioned. This was the first time Andy had seen Ron himself troubled by someone.

"Boss, if that person can help, then bowing your head once in a while is what a gentleman should do," old Andy advised, speaking like a seasoned butler.

Hank quickly joined in. "Exactly! Where is this private detective? If it's inconvenient for you, I can go invite him on your behalf."

Ron tossed his phone onto the table with a contact pulled up. "Here. This is how you reach him."

Hank picked it up immediately, only to see that Ron had labeled the contact: "Mr. Trash Talk."

That alone told Hank all he needed to know about how mercilessly this guy must've roasted Ron in the past.

But what surprised him more was the phone number—it wasn't American. It was a London number.

"Wait… he's British?" Hank asked, blinking. "Did he just recently move to the States?"

"No," Ron replied. "He's never even set foot here. He still lives in London, at 221B Baker Street. You wanted to invite him, right? Go ahead. I'll reimburse your plane ticket~"

Ron now looked far less annoyed. In fact, he was downright smug, enjoying the moment as he toyed with his subordinates.

"London, huh? A round trip would take four to five days at least. Should I head out now?" Hank asked, utterly earnest.

Ron stared at him, feeling a bit deflated. "You… were seriously going to go?"

He took the phone back from Hank. "There's no need. No need for you to go there, and no need for him to come here either. Too much hassle."

"But if he's not coming, how can he possibly help us from across the Atlantic? Are you saying his intelligence network can reach all the way to L.A.?"

Ron shrugged. "His brother might be able to do that. But he? Definitely not."

He leaned back into his chair, eyes reflecting a touch of painful nostalgia—clearly not a fond memory.

"So this guy can help us without even being on-site?" Hank asked skeptically.

Ron took a deep breath. "What if I told you that he doesn't need to visit the crime scene at all? He can help us solve it just through deduction. Would you believe that?"

Hank and Andy gave him matching expressions—ones that screamed, Are you messing with us right now?

If Ron weren't absurdly strong, they might've dragged him straight to Arkham Asylum.

"Sigh… The minds of mere mortals truly can't comprehend the world of geniuses," Ron sighed theatrically, before continuing, "You probably won't understand, but some geniuses really can build a mental reconstruction of an entire crime scene just from a description. They deduce the whole thing in their heads. But fine—since there's a reward on the line, I'll let you see it for yourselves."

He walked over to the window, took a few deep, calming breaths, then dialed the number and put the call on speaker.

Ring… ring…

The phone only rang twice before being picked up.

"Let me guess," a dry, posh British voice said immediately, "my dear idiot friend has done something idiotic again? Stuck on some laughably juvenile case and now calling his intellectual superior for help? I must say, you've made a surprisingly wise decision."

Ron grimaced. "This is exactly why I hate talking to you, Sherlock."

He could have snapped back, but he needed something from the man—so he softened his tone instead.

"I hate talking to you too," Sherlock replied flatly. "Compared to you, I actually prefer your genius younger brother. Even though we work in different fields, true brilliance always resonates. As for you… you singlehandedly lower the IQ of everyone within a five-block radius."

The verbal abuse continued, pushing Ron's patience to its limit. The veins on his forehead began to bulge.

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Ron's fists clenched—tight. Real tight.

If that bastard were standing in front of him right now, Ron swore he'd wipe that smug look off his face.

Unfortunately, an entire Atlantic Ocean stood between them.

"I should remind you, Sherlock," Ron growled, "we're not just separated by a street anymore. We're separated by the entire Atlantic."

There was a slight pause on the other end of the call.

Then came the reply:

"Oh. Then you've managed to lower the IQ of the entire Atlantic."

Hank couldn't hold it in anymore—he burst into laughter.

One sharp glare from Ron shut him up immediately, but he couldn't help it.

Even though Sherlock hadn't shown any real skill yet, for some reason, Hank was starting to trust him.

Maybe being able to roast Ron like that was a sign of strength?

Ron gritted his teeth and got to the point. "I need your help."

"Well, obviously. You wouldn't call otherwise," Sherlock replied casually. "Come on, tell me what it is. I've been so bored I started slapping nicotine patches all over myself. Hopefully, this case of yours will give me something worth my time."

"Alright. Hank, you explain," Ron said, handing the phone over.

Hank took the phone and thoroughly reported every detail of the Heisenberg drug case—from its beginnings up to the latest developments.

"So, Mr. Sherlock, what's your take on the case?" Hank asked nervously, but with growing anticipation.

Back at 221B Baker Street in London, Sherlock Holmes leaned back, head tilted, eyes half-closed in a nicotine-induced haze. Then suddenly, like a man waking from a trance, he ripped every nicotine patch off his skin, tossed them on the floor, and picked up the phone again.

"Idiot."

"…Sorry, what did you just say?" Hank asked, unsure he heard correctly.

"I said idiot. I should've known better than to expect anything from you. An idiot's subordinates are bound to be idiots too," Sherlock replied coldly.

In that moment, Hank finally understood exactly how Ron must've felt earlier.

His own fists were now clenched. Hard.

"Hey, watch it—"

Ron snatched the phone back before things escalated. He wasn't about to waste time listening to Hank and Sherlock throw insults at each other.

International calls weren't cheap, after all.

"Sherlock," Ron said, sighing, "enough games. I know you've already figured it out. Just give me your deduction. My guy's given you all the details we have—more than I could've managed myself. If that's not enough for you, then no one can help."

"It's enough," Sherlock's voice came through the speaker, laced with scorn. "But before I begin, let me make one thing clear: I called you idiots for a reason.

The criminal has been operating practically under your noses, and none of you noticed a thing. Honestly, I should've never expected more from American law enforcement. You're just a pack of brutes pretending to be investigators."

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