But Abe forged ahead, unperturbed. “Codex can recover it. You know how high our close rate is. Higher than the FBI.”
“Yes, and it will cost me a small fortune,” Francisco replied. “Right?”
Abe lifted a shoulder. “You know our prices. Would you rather pay Codex or lose a priceless manuscript for good?”
Francisco pushed himself up from the chair. “Don’t patronize me, Abraham. You know which option I would prefer. But I can’t just pay you. I need the treasurer to sign off on your exorbitant fee.”
“Don’t let the treasurer tell Victoria,” Freya put in. We all turned to look at her—her head was cocked, giant glasses glowing in the dim light. “If we suspect it’s Victoria, it’s best if she doesn’t know about Codex. That will only impede her trust. From the way she was talking tonight, she clearly thinks what law enforcement has done so far is a joke.”
Abe gave her an approving look. “Yes. What she said.”
Francisco sighed irritably. “If I employ Codex in the recovery of this manuscript, are you seriously going to entertain the absurdity of Victoria Whitney as your suspect?”
“Who we entertain as our suspect is not within the client’s responsibility,” Abe said. “Absurd or not.”
“You go after Victoria and you’ll only end up embarrassing yourselves.” Francisco’s harsh tone had me itching to jump to Abe’s defense. But he was still collected, merely shrugging as if going after the most notorious woman in Philadelphia was neither here nor there.
“I’m serious, Abraham.”
“As am I, Francisco.”
Another stare-down ensued until Francisco finally caved. “Give me until the morning. And I hope I don’t have to remind your staff of the intensely confidential nature of this ordeal.”
“They won’t say a word,” Abe promised.
In a fog, I followed everyone back through the dark hallways and out the side door, the spring wind whipping through my curls. I’d felt so confident back at Codex, but now that we faced the possibility of tracking this book down, I was doubting every single thing I believed I knew.
Freya wrapped her arm around my shoulders and gave me a squeeze. “We’re a dream team, remember?”
I tried to smile at her but I could tell my worry was in plain sight.
“So…good meeting,” she joked. “Guess we’ve got a new case. Any ideas on how we get into Victoria’s good graces?”
Abe ran a hand through his hair, staring out at the skyline of Philadelphia, which glittered brighter than the few stars we could see. When Henry’s phone rang, it startled all of us.
“Unknown number,” Henry said, staring down at the screen.
“Put it on speaker,” Abe instructed.
Henry did, and when he answered an unfamiliar voice responded.
“Good evening. Am I speaking with Henry?”
“You are,” he said smoothly. “And you are…”
“Cecilia. I’m Victoria Whitney’s personal secretary. She gave me your number this evening and asked me to invite you to attend an art auction with her next week. You and your wife—” There was a muffled sound. “Delilah?”
I took a step back. Abe stared at us both like we’d been dipped in solid gold. He circled his finger in the air, as in keep going.
“Um…oh, yes,” Henry replied. “Delilah is my wife.”
His eyes on mine were apologetic.
“Wonderful. And I didn’t quite catch your last name. Henry and Delilah…”
He searched desperately for inspiration. A few seconds ticked by. “Thornhill,” he finally said. “Henry and Delilah Thornhill.”
An almost illicit feeling shivered up my spine at the thought of being a wife. His wife.
“I shall add your name to the list for entry. It’s very exclusive, you understand. I will call to confirm later next week. Good evening.”
The line went dead—Henry looked like he’d seen a ghost, parading up the museum steps. Freya hummed the “Wedding March” again.
Abe assessed Henry and me with narrowed eyes as if sizing us up. “Looks like we’ve discovered the way into Victoria Whitney’s good graces. Henry and Delilah are getting married.”
8
Delilah
Abe and I perched on the top of the stairs at the Franklin Museum. My stilettos were in my hand, bare feet on cool concrete. My dress was wrinkled, my makeup smudged, while Abe seemed prepped for a photo shoot even at one in the morning.
He’d asked me to stay back and sent Freya and Henry home.
“I can tell you’re angry with me,” he said.
“I’m not,” I replied, flexing my toes.
He pinned me with a knowing stare until I relented.
“I’m not angry. I’m confused.”
“Whether you’re confused or angry,” he continued, “leave it at home on this case, Delilah. We’ve taken the biggest job in Codex’s short history, and I need everyone sharp and unemotional.”
When Abe had hired me, I’d been gone from the police department for barely six months. I’d spent half that time recuperating with my fathers—both park rangers who lived four hours away in a nature reserve. Back home, I could slip into who I used to be: the girl who grew up in a rural, small town and understood the forest that surrounded our cabin more intimately than breathing.
But as soon as I’d come back to Philadelphia, I ached to my core. I wanted a badge, a gun, criminals to hunt down without mercy. The world was filled with a universe of wrongs and making them right was my life’s purpose. Freya was the partner—and friend—I’d always yearned for.
Abe was the kind of boss who garnered your respect within the first five minutes of meeting him. So I knew he was right.
And I was still mad. And confused. “Henry’s first day in the field was six hours ago.”
“And how did he do?”
“He’s smart. He knows a ton about the world that Victoria operates in.” I remembered the way she’d gazed at him—the way she’d fluttered and purred like a woman on a first date. “He charmed her,” I admitted. But didn’t want to admit that I knew one of the reasons why: my fake husband was devastatingly handsome.
“Then that’s our way in, whether he’s ready or not,” Abe retorted. “Victoria is now fascinated with Henry and Delilah Thornhill, so that’s who you will become.”
“But he’s also never been undercover before. He’s…he’s awkward, slow to respond. He can’t read me, we have no flow. No chemistry.”
“And Victoria wants to show off the books she’s potentially stolen to people she perceives as being antiquities experts. That is not you. Or Freya. You have a very specific set of skills, Delilah,” he continued. “Henry complements them with the fact that he speaks four languages and knows more about rare manuscripts than anyone else I’ve ever met.”
“He can’t be my partner,” I said, exasperated.
“Why?”
“Because he’s not Freya.” Freya and I fit. In the middle of an undercover case, she could arch an eyebrow at me and I’d know what she meant. What we needed to do. “There’s no trust there. He can’t shoot a gun. He doesn’t know hand-to-hand combat. He can’t watch my back, and he can’t protect himself.”
“Last time I checked, Delilah Barrett was perfectly capable of protecting herself,” he said gently.
I glanced over at him. Abe was smiling—a rare gesture. “I’m not trying to be insubordinate. I’m just concerned.” I blew out a breath. “I might have convinced you to go after a case that doesn’t exist.”
He let a comfortable quiet hang between us—he’d known me long enough to understand when I was processing my thoughts.
“Do you ever think a person’s instincts can disappear for good? If they’ve been wrong—really wrong—in the past?” I asked, finally.
My boss knew which parts of my past I was talking about.
“I don’t believe that at all. Our instincts never disappear, regardless of what may have happened. You’re still th
e most brilliant detective I know.”
“I’m the office Jezebel, Abe.” I could still remember the sickening shame that had invaded my body the first time I saw those words in print. And they weren’t a quote from the reporter. Mark had said it. “And I might have led us on a giant wild goose chase,” I said grimly.
“For the record, Freya and I are more than willing to beat the living shit out of Mark for calling you that.”
“You’ve made that clear, thank you,” I said. But I did smile at him.
“And secondly, your instinct led us to Francisco, who confirmed our suspicions almost immediately.” He nudged my shoulder. “Your suspicions. And believe it or not, Henry’s background knowledge attracted Victoria to the two of you. I’d call that a good partnership.”
“You’re not nervous about what happened back there?” Because I certainly was.
Abe was silent—staring out at the sea of city lights like a ship’s captain, alert for hidden dangers beneath the surface. “I wouldn’t have done any of this if I didn’t trust both of you to handle it.” He stood up, placed a hand on my shoulder. “Now you need to figure out how to trust each other.”
9
Henry
The first time I’d examined a rare manuscript, I’d felt a sense of awe infuse my very bones. I was newly graduated, interning in special collections at the Oxford Library, translating a sixteenth-century German journal that had been recently discovered.
It was small, bound in vellum, the pages dry and almost too fragile to turn. I hadn’t grown up in a religious household—my parents worshipped at the altar of academia. But sitting in that room, with the scent of history all around me, I’d felt something akin to grace.
I searched for that feeling now as I carefully removed the bindings that protected the recovered copy of Fahrenheit 451. It was the morning after we’d fled to Francisco; the morning after I officially became fake married to my coworker, Delilah. I’d woken up feeling jostled, thoughts scrambled—as if I need to run or jump or scale a tall building. Abe had encouraged all of us to head home, get a good night’s sleep—that we’d make a plan as soon as we were back in the office.
But in the space of a few hours, I’d gone from office researcher to undercover agent. It was so beyond the edge of my understanding it was like trying to leap to the moon from the earth. It felt, quite simply, impossible.
So I’d come in early instead, attempting to reconnect with the feelings of awe that had shaped the majority of my life until now.
“Hey.”
I looked up to find Delilah, leaning against the doorway. She was dressed neatly in a gray pencil skirt and sleeveless blouse, the streaming dawn light setting flames to her black hair.
“Good morning,” I said.
“You’re in early.”
“I know Abe wanted this done. And I needed some quiet reflection after the night we had.”
She crossed her arms. “So I guess we’ll be working together on this Copernicus case, huh?”
“It looks like,” I replied. “You don’t seem too happy about that.”
“I’m used to working with Freya,” she explained. “We’ve been partners for two years. And you’re…”
“Terrible?”
“No,” she said quickly. “Just new. Green. This is going to be high-profile, and we’re going to have to be fully undercover as a married couple. We barely know each other, let alone having the kind of trust we need to work this case.”
I crossed my arms, mirroring her pose. “Tell me what you mean by that.”
“It’s the reading of the other person, their gestures, their body language. Like you can read their mind. That’s what I have with Freya. If you and I had been partners for years, this would be fine. But we can’t fake that kind of intimacy. It comes with time.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “Delilah, I want to do a good job on this.”
“I know you do,” she said. Her posture was hard, unyielding.
“And it seems like we’ll need to convince Victoria that we’re in love.” I thought I saw the faintest blush in her pale cheeks. “That means trust, right?”
She nodded. “Trust is the single most important thing. I need to feel like if I fall, you’ll catch me.” She tilted her palms up, like a plea. “I’m not sure I can get us there in the amount of time that we have. It feels impossible.”
“That’s interesting,” I said. “I had the same feeling when I woke up this morning.”
A painfully awkward silence stretched between us.
“So what do we do?” I asked.
“We have our marching orders.” Her tone was brisk. “Abe wants us to be fake married, so I guess I better have Freya photoshop a picture of us dancing under rose petals in the middle of Ireland or whatever.”
I laughed, surprised—and her lips curved in a cautious smile.
But then the smile quickly disappeared.
“So the auction is in a week,” she said. “We should start working together on some things. Get to know each other better so that our undercover roles feel more comfortable and less stilted.”
“I can do that,” I said. “Speaking of, do you want to see the book I’m working on?”
“Yeah,” she brightened. She took a few steps closer. I moved out of the way so she could view it—the wings of the book were splayed open to the title page. Delilah came even closer—it felt like I was trying to get a skittish fawn to eat from my hand.
“Ray Bradbury signed the first fifty copies of Fahrenheit 451 in 1953 and had them bound in asbestos. A protection against fire.” Without touching, I indicated the line of italic text beneath the title: It is specially bound in Johns-Manville Quinterra, an asbestos material with exceptional resistance to pyrolysis. “According to the library that reported the theft, there were two things that made number twenty-three especially rare. The nick in the spine. And the fact that he signed it Ray. No Bradbury.”
“I wonder why,” Delilah said. Our eyes met and I held her gaze. “Seems like a pretty important thing to forget.”
“I guess that’s one of the guiding reasons why I do what I do. Inventory mistakes, misprints, all the unique variations that make each book distinguished in its own right. Each error tells a story.”
Delilah bent down to examine the signature more closely. When she exhaled, I felt her breath on my fingers. “Maybe he was about to sign his name and a delivery guy came with the biggest, greasiest, cheesiest pizza he’d ever seen.”
“Or…he looked out the window. Saw a bluebird and thought about spring.”
“I like your idea better,” she said. She stood back up and crossed her arms again, revealing edges of muscle in her shoulders. I knew she practiced on the punching bag out front—but I’d never seen her in action. “Do you do that a lot? Come up with stories for each mistake you find?”
I nodded. “Or sometimes I’ll imagine the daily life of the people who last touched it. Not private collectors like Victoria. But the original owners.”
She tilted her head, and a curl slid across her forehead. She brushed it away with fingernails painted the same shade as her mouth.
“What?” I asked.
“Just thinking something through,” she said. She looked back down at the book, and a wave of happiness moved across her face. She positively glowed with it.
“You must really love Ray Bradbury,” I said
“I actually don’t read much,” she admitted. “Does that make you hate me?”
“I am breaking the Librarian’s Code by talking to you.”
Her eyes brightened—like she wanted to laugh but was holding herself back.
“What made you look at the book that way?”
“Justice. Righting what’s wrong. Catching bad guys. It’s why I first became a police officer.”
I studied her for a second. “But we don’t have the power to arrest people as private detectives here at Codex. Isn’t the justice in the recovery of a book to its rightful owner, regardl
ess of who stole it?”
Her voice was steady. “Abe has an old contact at the FBI Art Theft department. Any evidence that we legally gather that could help their investigations, Abe sends to that contact for them to take action on. And occasionally, if the FBI is stalled on a case, Abe receives crumbs of information that could help us in our investigation.”
I mulled that over. “Is that why you can do this job? Because suspects are always being arrested in the background, even if you’re not doing the arresting?”
“That’s exactly why,” she said.
“So it doesn’t matter that what we recover are vital pieces of our cultural history? All that matters is the bad guy gets punished?” Even as the words left my mouth, Bernard appeared in my mind again, waving my forged signature in the air with that pompous grin. Had I given any thought since that night about the manuscripts he’d taken? Or had I only been focused on punishing him?
“Of course this matters,” Delilah said. “This book is important. But all of this—the thefts, the shady black-market websites, the wealthy thieves with connections—is bigger than rare books. When people like Bernard have unlimited amounts of money, they start buying and selling more than just books, Henry.”
I hadn’t thought of that. Bernard, with his multiple houses and piles of money, could certainly be involved in something even more nefarious than just antiquities. How far did all of this go?
How much had I missed?
“Since we’ve been paired up on this case, what’s your goal?” I asked. “What’s the end game here?”
“Our orders are to gain Victoria’s trust to recover the stolen Copernicus.”
“But what’s your priority?”
“Depending on what we uncover, legally, the FBI could receive a lot of incidental evidence from us. They could use it to eventually arrest Victoria. She’s all but admitted to us that she dabbles in this world. One incriminating photograph is all it would take.”
I took her words in, part of me knowing she was right. But my eyes landed on the Bradbury, and my entire career unfolded before my eyes, tugging at the core of my being. “My priority is the book.”
Behind the Veil Page 6