“Good man,” he said. I turned and gawked at him, surprised. “Bernard was going to blackmail you. Try to send you to prison for a crime you most definitely didn’t commit. Who wouldn’t want revenge?”
“True,” I said. “But revenge isn’t really my style. And I’m mostly angry with myself.”
“In my career, I’ve worked with many victims of fraud, Henry,” Abe said. “People who were scammed in pyramid schemes or were conned out of their life savings. It’s like talking to a sleepwalker; the way they suddenly awaken to the manipulation. You’re not the only one, believe me. But my question to you is: what are you going to do about it?”
“I’ve done everything I can,” I protested. “The evidence has been handed over. I’ll go in for questioning, like you said, give them everything I have. I can’t go after him. This is the end of the road.”
Abe flashed a secretive smile. “At Codex, we fit puzzle pieces together, using a combination of research and gut instinct. Sometimes it’s thrilling. Sometimes it’s boring. You’ll sit in a car for six hours, waiting for a suspect to leave their job. Or maybe you’ll go undercover to gain someone’s trust.”
A shiver raced up my spine, a buzz of something wild and unruly.
“Our entire job is to recover a stolen piece of history. Bernard took something you loved.” He held the card in front of me, and I took it. “How would it feel to get it back?”
“Are you asking me what I think you’re asking me?” I said.
Another tiny smile. “My flight leaves tonight. I’ll call you when I get back in the States. For what it’s worth, I think you’d make one hell of a private detective.”
Abe vanished as quickly as he’d appeared, leaving me alone with my chaotic thoughts. I pictured Bernard, smirking at his table: It’s only a crime if someone gets caught.
And Abe: Who wouldn’t want revenge?
If Bernard could be a respected academic and also a book thief—who was to say a librarian couldn’t become a detective?
4
Delilah
Three months later
Philadelphia, PA
The art gallery was packed with thieves.
I could sense them all around me.
Abe had ordered us to the opening of the Smith Sampson Gallery in Center City—a glitzy event that attracted Philadelphia’s wealthiest art patrons and philanthropists. Freya and I stood in the corner of the wide, brightly lit room, clutching glasses of champagne, smiling. And trying to decipher who our target was.
Freya kept tugging on her dress with muttered curses. Her trademark blonde bun was a little less messy than usual—her version of dressed-up.
“One hour,” I said, holding up my finger. “One hour and you can put your yoga pants back on.”
“Thank God.” She pushed her glasses up her nose. “Yoga pants are the uniform of a proper Saturday night.”
I took a sip of expensive, bubbly alcohol. And my eyes found Henry Finch, our newest Codex detective, standing near a vivid blue painting in a tailored suit. He was studying the canvas like it held a secret he’d very much like to know. We’d barely worked together these past few months—I knew that he was thirty-five, spoke four languages, was brilliant, and had studied his entire life to be a rare book librarian.
And, according to Abe, Henry’s former boss was a notorious book thief.
I watched Henry adjust his glasses as he accidentally caught my eye across the room.
I looked away quickly.
Patrons decked out in pearls and mink coats buzzed around us, chattering, laughing, gossiping. Like moths, attracted to the glittering light of wealth.
A few were talking loudly about the upcoming Copernicus exhibit at The Franklin Museum three weeks away. It was a Philadelphia high society event all right. And we were searching for a thief that had stolen the twenty-third copy of Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451. Codex had been hired yesterday to track it down, and Freya had spent all night in online underground markets where the provenance of items was of less concern to the potential buyers than their rarity.
“I got pretty cozy with a seller who was very excited to share they’d recently come into a first-edition manuscript of a ‘famous book about fire.’” Freya used air-quotes with an arch of her brow.
“Clever,” I said. “Did they use the code?”
Freya nodded, eyes traveling through the crowd. Henry had moved on to the next painting, which he examined as deliberately as the first. “Didn’t we once meet each other at Reichenbach Falls?” she quoted. It was a reference to the famous Sherlock Holmes story where he fakes his own death. “But when I tried to pin him down on meeting him tonight for a buy, he’d only direct me here.”
“We’ll find him,” I promised, body already vibrating with adrenaline. There was nothing I loved more in this world than the hunt. “I bet I could flash him my gun and he’d run off scared as a rabbit.”
Freya gave me an approving look. “Are you carrying beneath that dress, Delilah Barrett?”
I shrugged, sipped champagne. On instinct, my hands moved to a side-holster that wasn’t there—a habit I hadn’t lost, even though it’d been two years since I’d left the police force. Instead I forced a smile, discreetly nodded at my leg.
“Thigh holster,” I whispered. “I’m never not packing heat.”
Freya tapped her temple. “Computer nerd. I’m never not packing heat.”
I swallowed a laugh. She might have been Codex’s resident hacker and a self-described Quantico washout, but she could still kick ass like an almost-FBI agent. It was why we made such a good team.
I scanned the crowd for anything strange. I recognized a few of Philadelphia’s famous rich people—most notably Victoria Whitney, the wealthiest woman in the city. An eccentric heiress, a beloved philanthropist, a lover of all things antique and rare. She was standing in the middle of a group of avid listeners, pontificating about a piece of art like she was Julius Cesar.
“I didn’t know Victoria would be here,” I said, senses prickling. “I always expect her to show up to these events with a white tiger on a leash.”
Freya snorted. “Me too.” She lowered her voice even further. “What are we supposed to do with Henry again?”
I let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m on babysitting duty per Abe’s express orders. I need to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”
Henry had been hired on a probationary basis a few months ago—and while he’d been studying and passing his private detective exam, he’d been helping Freya with research and authenticating manuscripts when we recovered them. He’d been supremely useful in that area, but Abe had suggested he come along tonight, even though it was way too early to let a complete newbie out in the field.
“Yeah, you should probably…go do that.” She grabbed another glass of champagne from a passing waiter wearing a bow tie. “Bring this to him. It’ll settle his nerves.”
I watched Henry’s large palm smooth down his tie as he slid his other hand into his pocket. He was chatting amiably with an older couple, and his body language was loose, open. Oddly enough, the former librarian looked comfortable in this high-wealth crowd.
“On it.” I grabbed Freya’s elbow. “Go mingle, listen, try to start conversations about Sherlock Holmes. Our target will bite.”
She winked and tossed me a fake salute. “See you in a few. Have fun babysitting the nerd.”
“You’re the nerd.”
“Oh, that’s right.” She tapped her temple again before fluttering away. I passed Victoria Whitney as I walked, her chin tilted and brows raised as she lectured. Henry saw me approach and smiled before he caught himself.
“Drink,” I said, handing him the glass.
“I’m sorry, am I supposed to acknowledge you?” he whispered. “Doesn’t that blow our cover?”
“We don’t technically have a cover,” I whispered back. “Just…talk to me. Like normal. We’re here enjoying whatever the fuck this thing is.” I waved my hand at the
painting behind him. This time he smiled for real—a slow reveal of full lips and perfect teeth.
“Are you…doing okay? You seem like it.” I said, a little envious of his ease. Crowds like this made me itchy.
His shoulder lifted. “I spent the last ten years charming people so they would donate to libraries. I know this world.”
I nodded. “And art?”
“I have a minor in art history,” he said. “But modern art I know nothing about.”
I watched him assess the painting behind me—face open, as if taking in every detail. “You like it, though,” I said.
He thought for a minute. “I do.”
As if previously choreographed, we started to wander through the rows. Up close, Henry smelled like old books and cedar.
He dropped his head closer to mine. “Should I go up to people and ask them if they’re fans of Ray Bradbury?”
I grimaced. “No. That’s very obvious.”
“Then should I go up and ask them if they’ve ever been to Reichenbach Falls? I feel like I should be doing something and I’m just standing here.”
“That’s our job,” I said quietly. We were rounding the corner—Victoria came into view. I felt that same prickle again—like electricity zipping along my scalp. “Yours is to listen. React. Don’t draw attention.”
“Okay,” he sighed. “I’m a little more nervous than I’d care to admit, Delilah.”
He had a deep voice that curled around the syllables of my name.
“Don’t worry. You hide it well.”
He narrowed his eyes at me behind his square glasses—but his lips twitched in amusement.
“So it sounds like I should ask if anyone here has stolen something recently.”
“That’s the spirit,” I replied, looking around him at Victoria. Although the seventy-year-old was diminutive in size, her entire being screamed power. Another man was trying to get her attention, and his profile was eerily familiar.
Through the crowd, I spotted Freya staring daggers at the man.
For the tenth time that night, I cursed Abe’s insistence I bring Henry along. I knew he needed field training but I also needed Freya by my side. Something was about to happen—I could sense it.
With as much grace as I could muster in stiletto heels, I moved close to Victoria Whitney just as the man reached forward to grasp her elbow.
Henry opened his mouth to speak. My hand landed on his chest as I shook my head imperceptibly. His brow furrowed.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, the words like a shout in the hushed room.
Victoria glanced our way, concerned. I managed a weak smile and tried to temper my annoyance.
Freya and I had been field partners for two years at Codex—I’d forgotten how easily we read each other’s body language.
As Henry stared at me, I tucked a strand of my short hair behind my ear and tapped it. Listen, I mouthed.
“Victoria, how nice to see you this evening,” the man said. Just like that, his name came screeching into my brain: Charles Kearney. I didn’t even have to look at Freya—Codex had had Charles on a short list of potential targets for a year now. He was an oil tycoon with sticky fingers—he kept getting fined by the police for being in possession of stolen art. But every time he blamed the seller, claiming he never knew they’d come into the piece illegally.
“You as well,” she said mildly. A crowd was beginning to gather around her again, and it was obvious she was preening on purpose. “How may I help you, Charles?”
“A fine evening,” he mused again.
“Yes, yes,” she said. Two people jostled into my back, and I tipped forward. Henry grabbed my shoulders, steadying me. This time he didn’t speak, and I shook him off, stepping back.
“I haven’t seen you in a while. In fact, the last time was at the falls, wasn’t it?” Charles asked.
Henry and I both went rigid.
“And which ones would that be, my dear?” Her voice was half-interest, half-threat.
My hands curled into fists at my sides.
“Reichenbach, of course,” Kearney said.
I looked down at the ground—listening, running through scenarios. This didn’t make sense. If Charles had the stolen Bradbury in his possession, why would he assume he was here to meet Victoria Whitney?
There was a long silence—so long I thought Victoria might have wandered off. But when I chanced lifting my head, she was staring at Charles like he was an exotic bird she wanted to kill and mount on her wall.
“We’ll talk about Reichenbach another time,” she said, turning her smile back toward the audience that was gathering.
Behind her hung a painting with an entirely black background and blood-red shapes in the middle. I noticed for the first time her regal accent—something I suspected she picked up at various boarding schools. “It’s all interconnected you see,” she began, as if understanding we’d all been waiting for her to speak. “The violence inherent in this work is the same we would see in some of the Northern Renaissance’s most famous pieces, although they are centuries apart.”
Next to me, a look of recognition moved over Henry’s face. He was staring at Victoria with laser focus.
“Take the infamous Judith Slaying Holofernes,” she continued. “The lines here recall the body of the general, the blood, the sword. There’s a dreadful darkness here, even without human subjects.”
Impressed, I watched Victoria Whitney raise her arm in explanation while gripping her glass of champagne. She wore sophistication like it was going out of style.
“An homage, perhaps?” Charles suggested, not taking the hint.
“That’s certainly what I see,” she said.
Charles was nodding as if he’d won a prize. “It’s nice to see a painter reference Caravaggio in a piece like this.”
A frown slashed across her face. And before she could open her mouth to respond, Henry said, “Not Caravaggio. Gentileschi.”
Victoria turned regally. When her eyes landed on Henry’s tall form, she examined him like a lioness. “Artemisia Gentileschi?”
Henry nodded respectfully. “The greatest female painter of her time. Her painting of Judith and Holofernes is less celebrated than Caravaggio’s. Although I would argue her version is superior.”
Charles was petulant, clearly unused to being interrupted. He opened his mouth, but Victoria cut him off.
“Many critics would say she was a far better painter than her male peers,” she said to Henry.
“Those critics would be correct,” he replied.
I glanced up at Henry—saw him backlit against the lights of the gallery. His suit fit his tremendously tall, broad body like a glove. He had dark-brown skin and close-cropped black curls, and when he let loose that charming smile, I felt the audience sigh in response.
Victoria the Lioness looked like she’d spotted her next meal.
With one last lingering look at my coworker, she readdressed her audience, regaling them with a story about Renaissance painters that was probably only half-accurate. Distracted by Henry, I hadn’t noticed Charles slink off—until Freya was a blur of movement heading out the front doors.
Shit. We usually handled meetings together, and I wasn’t sure how she felt confronting him alone. Maybe if I—
“Hello there.”
When I turned, Victoria Whitney was standing right in front of us. Her silver hair was swept in a low bun, and her lightly lined face was alabaster white. The diamonds in her ears could have paid my rent for a year.
When neither Henry nor I responded, she extended her hand, fingers dripping with rings. “Victoria Whitney. I’m sure you’ve heard of me.”
“Delilah,” I said quickly, taking her hand before Henry could. I didn’t want him to say his last name. “This is Henry.”
“Good evening,” he said smoothly.
She fluttered her lashes, touched her hair. “You have my attention, Henry,” she said. “I didn’t expect someone to bring up Artemisia Gentile
schi in the middle of a modern art exhibit.”
“She’s a favorite.” He leaned in slightly, as if sharing a secret.
“Mine as well.” She straightened the mink around her shoulders. “I loved how she never shied away from the brutality of the act of decapitation. The blood, the fear, the grotesqueness…” Her light eyes gleamed.
“She was far better than Caravaggio,” he replied.
She regarded first Henry, then me. “I like him,” she purred.
My mind was racing back and forth like a ping-pong ball.
“I like him too,” I finally admitted. Henry was bemused. “What, um…what brings you here this evening?”
The last time Freya and I had gone undercover was months ago—I was rusty.
“I am expected to be here, because it is expected I will purchase one of these pieces of art.”
“And will you?” I asked.
“I could purchase each one ten times over,” she sighed. “But these bring me no joy. Now if an original Artemisia was hanging here, I’d buy it in a heartbeat.”
My scalp prickled again as I raced to put together the pieces: the code, Charles’ presence, Victoria’s prestige.
“It’s a shame then,” I ventured, “that every surviving piece of hers is in a museum somewhere, locked up from the private collectors.”
She eyed me over her champagne, lifting one delicate brow. “It’s the greatest shame, indeed.”
She waved at someone behind me and almost made a move to leave.
“I’m a collector as well,” Henry said. “Rare manuscripts, antique books. My collection pales in comparison to yours, I’m sure.”
Victoria beamed.
And how did Henry know Victoria Whitney? I knew Henry was from Philadelphia, but he’d lived in Europe for the past decade.
“You’re aware of my collection?” she said, smiling at him from under her lashes.
Henry balked; gave me a beseeching look. “I’m a rare book librarian. Many of us are familiar with you.”
Behind the Veil Page 3