Behind the Veil

by Kathryn Nolan

  “She thinks it puts us on her level,” Henry said. “Potentially.”

  Freya tapped her temple. “Office nerd saves the day again.”

  I tore my breakfast sandwich in half, placed it in her lap. “You deserve this more than me.”

  “The gala is in five days,” Abe said evenly. “If this works, she needs to invite you to her home within a week of the gala. And that book has to be there. Or we miss whatever sliver of a window we had.”

  “Last time I checked, we were chasing down the right lead,” I repeated, the words flying out in a nervous jumble.

  “I believe that,” Abe said. “I truly do.” He knocked his knuckles against the whiteboard behind him—square in the middle of the 13. “We just can’t forget this. The clock is ticking.”

  I couldn’t look at Henry. I hadn’t expected trusting my partner to lead me to this temptation. Twenty minutes ago, I’d been straddling him on a mat as the precious hours we had to find this book slipped away.

  “Pull out all the stops on Saturday night,” Abe ordered. “You need to get her eating from the palm of your hand. The more you stroke her ego, the more information Victoria Whitney will cough up.”

  “If she thought the two of you were madly in love before, wait till she sees you at the gala,” Freya added. “Dial everything way the fuck up. You’re two wealthy private collectors who are desperate to worship her. And you have a love that rivals Romeo and Juliet.”

  “But don’t die at the end. I’d like to make that perfectly clear.” Abe considered the three of us, as if sizing up our potential. “Let’s get back to work.”

  24

  Delilah

  Freya and I sat on the curb at a taco stand on South Street, watching the late-night revelers stream by. My muscles ached from self-defense training with Henry and the mounting tension of the day. Avoiding my blossoming feelings for my fake husband—and the impending pressure of Saturday night—had me rigid with nerves. And Freya, with all the awareness of both my friend and partner, had steered me here as soon as we’d locked up for what she called “taco therapy.”

  “I can’t eat another,” I warned, licking salsa from my fingers.

  “Oh, but you can,” she said, handing me another taco with a triumphant grin. “I have twenty more behind me, so don’t worry about holding back.”

  I rolled my eyes—watched an insanely cute couple on a date walk past us on the sidewalk. I imagined Henry doing that with another woman and felt such a sharp pinch of jealousy I almost dropped my food.

  “Hey, I got us tickets to the flower show next month,” she said, cutting into my jealous reverie.

  “You didn’t,” I cheered. “Thank you.”

  In the years that I’d lived away from my lush, verdant home, I’d filled my Philly row home with an abundance of greenery, even tending to a rooftop garden that Freya loved to visit. I liked feeling like my house was endlessly in blossom; roots, leaves, and dirt were the textures of my childhood. A few times a year, I dragged Freya to flower shows—the only caveat being she was allowed to name every new plant after a wizard in Harry Potter.

  “It’ll be a nice treat after this fucking bonkers case.” Freya handed me another cup of salsa. “A celebration for all of your hard work.”

  “I’ve got to get the book back first,” I sighed.

  “I’m pretty sure you will though.” She winked.

  We ate in companionable silence for a minute, content to people-watch as the city unfolded around us. “So,” she said, nudging our shoulders together, “how was seeing Mark last night?”

  I sighed again, but it came out more like a growl. “He was smarmy as fuck, as usual. There to schmooze Victoria for some bullshit reason, but really I could tell he was networking.”

  “Looking for his next set of victims,” Freya concluded.

  “He’s disgusting,” I said softly. She studied me for a minute before placing another taco on my plate. “I wish I didn’t…”

  She didn’t interrupt, let me trail off.

  “I wish I didn’t relive the day he fired me so many times.”

  “If my supposed ‘boyfriend’ fired me from my fucking job so he could get a promotion, I’d relive it every day.”

  I turned toward her. “I don’t see you ever making a mistake like that, though. You’re so…self-assured.”

  Freya snorted. “Well, thank you for that compliment, but believe me, I make mistakes left and right, especially when it comes to matters of the heart.” She dipped a tortilla chip in guacamole, chewed it thoughtfully. “Because I’m human, just like you.”

  “I hate making mistakes.” I propped my chin on my hand.

  “I know, doll,” she said. “We all do.”

  Mistakes like Mark poked at my black-and-white worldview, and I didn’t like it. Where did Henry’s actions with Bernard fall? Where did Victoria and her charitable giving fit in?

  If Henry had touched his lips to mine today—like I’d desperately wanted him to—I would have kissed him back, without regret. I knew that kissing coworkers always made things complicated. But I still would have done it, willingly.

  “Can I talk to you about something serious?” Freya asked.

  When our eyes met, I knew all hope was lost. If Victoria believed Henry and I were madly in love, then surely Freya could see our smoldering attraction to each other.

  “Of course,” I hedged.

  “You seeing Mark got me curious to see how Philadelphia’s Slimiest Police Commissioner was doing.”

  “Oh,” I said, simultaneously relieved and more nervous.

  “I found a website,” she said. “It was launched last week. Do you remember another police officer named Margaret Pierce?”

  “Yeah, I worked with her,” I said, brow furrowing. “Same station, but different units. She was in Narcotics.”

  “She’s claiming that Mark did to her what he also did to you, about a year after you were fired. And she says three other women have come to her, claiming the same thing. It looks like they all either worked in your unit or with him in previous units. But it’s the same pattern, Del. Lure women in, use them, fire them, use it for political gain.”

  I’d been a bright-eyed new recruit when I realized the full extent of the corruption in my unit. Misuse of funds, romantic relationships, tax dollars being wasted. But I’d been there for a job—to catch bad guys. It was my dream, and it was far too easy for me to exist in that dream, ignoring everything else around me. When the local papers started to report on our unit, I ignored it, believing I was doing the right thing.

  Until the local papers were reporting on me, of course.

  “I found the mayor’s speech when he appointed Mark to his position,” Freya continued. “Cleaning up corruption was the golden reputation he’d reportedly garnered over the past two years. Climbed that ladder right on up, using women like you as stepping-stones.”

  “Such a fucking bastard,” I said, nostrils flaring.

  “I know,” she said. “Would you want to tell her about your story?”

  My anger shriveled up—along with my courage. How come chasing down suspects in dark alleys didn’t make me feel afraid but this did?

  “I don’t know.” Freya’s expression was open, kind. “I mean, it sounds like they have some other testimonies if they’re building a case against him?”

  “They do. Might be nice to add your voice to it, is all.”

  I held myself by the elbows. “Do you think I’d end up back in the papers again?”

  “Possibly,” Freya said. “Unless you chose to remain anonymous.”

  I swallowed around a suffocating tightness in my throat. “No,” I said clearly. “I don’t want to do it. It’s been two years, and I sincerely hope last night was the final time I ever see him.”

  “I hope so too,” Freya said. “And I think your decision is the right one for you.”

  I laid my head on her shoulder. “Thank you for telling me. I’m happy someone’s going after him
. Margaret’s a tough cookie.”

  “Just as tough as you,” she said.

  She handed me another taco, and we sat like that, side-by-side, as South Street swelled with bar patrons and tourists. And I found myself thinking not about Mark—not at all.

  I was still thinking about Henry.

  25

  Henry

  The Philadelphia Natural History Museum had a long red carpet extending down the sidewalk, as though this was the Oscars. White rose petals dotted the carpet, crushed beneath the expensive shoes of the museum’s patrons. Strains of string music wafted out from the open doors.

  “This is always what I pictured prom night to be,” Delilah said. “I never went.”

  “Really?” I asked. I kept my eyes trained on the velvet carpet, beckoning us inside. Delilah wore a floor-length black gown with a slit high on her thigh. The long sleeves were sheer with beaded petals.

  She was, quite possibly, the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

  Five days had passed since I’d had the pleasure of Delilah’s lithe body pinned beneath mine on that mat. After our wake-up call with Abe and Freya, we both stayed friendly, but professional—I sensed her desire to keep things cool. A desire I felt as well.

  And every single night she appeared to me in dreams that burned like a fever—bodies naked and slick on that floor, my hips thrusting between her spread legs in a rhythm that drove us both mad. Even in my dreams, she’d flip me, ride me, sinuous and strong. She’d squeal as I’d drag her by the waist up the length of my body, positioning her right over my mouth.

  Was it so wrong to want to worship the muscles of her inner thighs, the ones she’d flashed at me over and over in our self-defense training? If I used my teeth, would she laugh? If I used my lips, would she moan?

  But now we were here—Henry and Delilah Thornhill. And our romantic directive, per Freya, was to turn everything way the fuck up.

  “My little town was too small,” Delilah said, rocketing me back to the present. “We didn’t have enough kids in my graduating class to have dances.”

  “I should have brought you a corsage.” I chanced my first real look at her—she was smiling.

  “Maybe next time.” She was staring up at the museum like a giant puzzle she was trying to put together with only her mind.

  “Nerves?” I asked my partner.

  “Yes,” she said honestly. “A whole fuck-ton of nerves.”

  I glanced at my watch, surprised, as always, to find a wedding band on my finger. “We should probably go in.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m going to hold your hand. Is that all right?” But before I could move, she entwined our fingers together. Gave my hand a good squeeze. Her eyes focused, spine straightened. I hid my own smile—I loved watching her transform every time we went undercover.

  Delilah strode along the carpet like it’d been rolled out specifically for her, the long train of her gown dragging rose petals as I walked alongside her. The museum’s main hall was draped in silver and gold—the ceiling hung with glass sculptures of the nine planets. In the center, an impressive chandelier was designed to look like the sun, bursting with rays.

  The infamous drawings in the Copernicus manuscript floated through my memory—the celestial shapes, the deliberate paths of orbit around the brightest star. Fifty tables were covered in shiny flecks of metal and flickering candles. A large dance floor dominated the middle of the room where the string quartet played.

  “This is better than prom, I promise,” I said low against her ear.

  A tuxedoed gentleman found our names on a list. “With Ms. Whitney?” he asked, clearly surprised. “Please, come this way.”

  Banners hung from the walls displaying the event sponsors—Victoria was the presenting donor. We meandered through a crowd decked out in diamonds until we reached the most central table, located right beneath the sun-chandelier. Victoria was standing, surrounded by guests, draped in a white gown and a fox fur.

  “My new favorite couple,” she crooned, clapping her hands together. She shooed away her other guests like flies from a plate of food. When she air-kissed Delilah, she paused to squeeze her wrist. “And how are you feeling my dear? Did your husband take care of you after the other night?”

  “Of course he did,” she promised, laying a hand gently on Victoria’s shoulder. “There’s a reason why I married him literally on the spot.”

  I stood back, smoothing down the black vest of my tuxedo. When Victoria presented her hand to me, I kissed her ring as usual.

  “We brought you a gift,” I said, indicating the finely-wrapped book I held in my hand. “Is there somewhere private we can give it to you or is right here fine?”

  She tilted her head. “Right here is fine. No one would dare do anything to me here, Mr. Thornhill.” I nodded, presented the book into her waiting hands.

  She made an approving sound, unwrapping the packaging with manicured fingers dripping with rings. The cover of A Room of One’s Own revealed itself, looking out of place in a room overflowing with such grandiose decadence.

  I suppressed an urge to snatch it back.

  “First edition. Signed by the author. We thought it would make a nice addition to your private collection.”

  A look of recognition flitted across her face—in the wake of the Los Angeles theft, there’d been a brief renewed interest in Virginia Woolf’s literary legacy. I guessed Victoria Whitney was the kind of woman who had the papers read to her every morning as she sipped her espresso.

  “Virginia is one of my favorites,” she said. “How did you know?”

  We hadn’t, so I culled my knowledge as quickly as I could.

  “A pioneer, a feminist, a woman who understood the crucial role of her independence,” I hedged. “There are some parallels to what you’ve done in your life.”

  Victoria brightened, leaning in conspiratorially. “She was quite lonely, you know. Her writing brought her a kind of divine madness.”

  My gut twisted. Bernard had said the same thing once.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Yes, I believe it did.”

  She reached forward, touched first my arm, and then Delilah’s. “What a thoughtful gift.” She held up a single finger, and Sven appeared seemingly out of nowhere. “Prepare this for safe transport.” He took it without further instruction—I thought again about that portable case and all of its nefarious possibilities. She held up a second finger and cocktails arrived.

  “To Virginia,” she toasted. “And new friends. That book must have cost you a pretty penny.”

  “Not in the traditional sense,” Delilah said. Victoria’s gaze sharpened. “We took a little trip to Los Angeles.”

  The recognition on her face returned—but this time it was filled with greed. “How interesting. And how were the falls this time of year?”

  Delilah’s secretive smile was more real than feigned. “Quite lovely. And certainly a little more notorious than Henry and I usually like. But we thought you would appreciate this more than most, given the impressiveness of your collection.”

  Victoria sniffed—as if receiving gifts of stolen books was an everyday affair. “Yes, well, you would be correct.”

  I stretched my arm behind the back of Delilah’s chair, stroking my thumb across the back of her neck.

  “We hoped we could trust you with a gift like this,” I ventured.

  “Trust, my dear Henry, is the most valuable social currency in the world,” Victoria said. “I’ve lived a very bold life. Bold and a little reckless at times. But life is short, and coloring outside the lines makes things so much more interesting. Don’t you agree?”

  Coloring outside the lines was an interesting way to say break the law. But we nodded loyally, which seemed to please her. The opening notes of “Round Midnight” drifted through the crowd and it made Victoria sigh. “This song always makes me think of Bernard.”

  Goosebumps broke out across the nape of Delilah’s neck. I stroked my thumb in circles, att
empting to soothe her even as those words put me on the same high alert.

  “Victoria,” Delilah said, leaning in close, “did you and Bernard date?”

  Victoria’s coquettish giggle proved Delilah’s instincts—and my memory—correct. “Oh, years ago. Nine to be exact.”

  Just as I’d remembered. One year into working with Bernard and he’d returned from a vacation sullen and weary, with no further explanation. He didn’t speak about his “Lady Love” after that.

  “And it wasn’t that much of a thing, darling,” Victoria mused. “Merely a whirlwind few years. I’ve had many suitors in my life.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” Delilah tilted her head with a teasing smile, causing her hair to slide through my fingers. “I told you when we met that I figured you for a heart-breaker. Have you ever been engaged? Married?”

  Victoria gave us a sly look over her martini. “Engaged five times. I’ve never been married.”

  “Who was your favorite fiancé?” Delilah asked. She placed her hand on my thigh, squeezing.

  “Reginald,” she said immediately. “He owned exotic animals. Taught me how to tame a lion once.”

  A few men—all dressed in top hats and carrying canes—were moving through the crowd with their eyes set on Victoria. “It appears as if you have a few new suitors coming for you now,” I murmured.

  She touched her hair discreetly. “I always do.” She glanced toward the open dance floor, where couples were beginning to sway to the music. “When was the last time the two of you danced? Was it your elopement?”

  “Last night in our kitchen, actually,” I said.

  Delilah dipped her head, as if to hide a blush. Victoria practically squealed.

  Three men arrived at Victoria’s chair at the exact same time, and she examined them with a critical eye. She selected the one to the farthest right. As he held out his hand to escort her, she turned to us. “You lovebirds should join us on the ballroom floor.”