Under the Rose

by Nolan, Kathryn

  Was she nervous to work this case because of our history? Or nervous to be in the field? Because Freya had been the most promising undercover agent at the Academy before she dropped out. Nothing made her nervous.

  “That’s it?” I said. “That’s all the prep and information we’ve got?”

  “Welcome to the wild west of private investigating. You’ll get used to it,” she said.

  “I’m sure I will get used to it,” I boasted. “Quickly too.”

  “You sure about that?” she asked, tilting her head to one side.

  The action—and even the sentiment—was so fucking familiar my chest ached.

  “Why are you staring at me?” she asked.

  “I’m not staring at you.”

  Years of rigorous training were yanking at me, urging me to get in the car and speed away toward our suspect. Cases were won and lost in these spare moments. But the force of my history with Freya was stronger.

  “You’re still staring at me like a weirdo, and we need to go,” she replied.

  “I know we need to go.” I cleared my throat. Cleared my head. “We’ll take my car. You direct me to Dahl’s location.” I stormed down the narrow stairs, through the dusty bookstore, and out into the bright light of morning.

  “How about we take my car, and you give me directions,” Freya said.

  “I’ve always been a better driver, and you know it,” I growled back.

  She snorted. “Seven years and your ego has only tripled in size, huh? Pretty soon, they’ll be able to see it from space.”

  I stopped in the middle of the street, grabbing Freya by the elbow. She looked down at where our bodies met, startled. Shook her arm away.

  “I didn’t know you’d be here, okay?” I admitted. “You know how much I admire Abe. It’s why I agreed to keep him informed of what the FBI was doing, help him when I could. When the opportunity came up to work with Codex on a few cases, I jumped at the chance. But I didn’t know you worked here. If I had, I would have turned it down.”

  She eyed me warily. “Why are you here, Byrne? The FBI doesn’t loan out its top agents for low-level private detective work.”

  Because I’m being punished.

  “Because we…because we all want to crack down on antiquities theft. Helping Codex helps the Bureau. I can lend a different perspective, bring added resources.” I tightened my cufflinks and avoided her sharp gaze.

  “You’re lying,” she said.

  “The last thing I want is to be your partner,” I said. “You know that’s not a lie.”

  Hurt sparked behind her gaze before vanishing. “Same here, buddy. I’d rather do that Quantico ropes course in a tutu than work with you. It’d be torture, but less torture than trying to get you to do things my way.”

  “I could do that ropes course in a tutu and still beat your time, Evandale. And we’ll be doing things my way.”

  Freya’s face brightened for a brief, beautiful second. “You in a tutu is an image I’m going to keep close to my heart. Better to laugh than to howl angrily into the void, right?”

  We’d reached my car—as had been my intention. She was always easy to distract with bickering. Holding out the keys, I pressed the button and unlocked it.

  “Oh, look. Here we are,” I said evenly.

  She glared at me.

  “Get in the damn car,” I said. “You want to solve this case or what?”

  Annoyance radiated from her entire body, but she complied, sliding into the passenger seat and slamming the door. Because Evandale and I had one major thing in common.

  A desire to win. No matter the cost.

  6

  Freya

  We sat in strained silence as Sam drove us toward Jim Dahl’s apartment. The car was free of any identifying traits—no air fresheners or pre-tuned radio stations or books lying about. It was factory clean, devoid of personality—just like its owner.

  Sam cleared his throat. “So. Anything you need to tell me from the last seven years?”

  “Nope. You?”

  “Nope.”

  “Take the next two right turns.”

  He did.

  And the silence descended again. I could feel both of us trapped between our compulsive urge to fight and push and fight even more. But I was distracted by my own internal meltdown at being sent out in the field, back to a place where I felt neither strong nor confident.

  And with Byrne, of all people.

  One month before my graduation from the FBI’s training academy, I told my supervisor I was dropping out, blowing up my life and the career trajectory I’d meticulously mapped out. The last time I’d seen Sam, I found him at our usual table in the library. Informed him I was quitting. The man I’d been aggressively competing against since eighteen merely sat there, impassive.

  That’s fine, he’d said, shrugging as if I’d told him the weather forecast. You’re making a big mistake though. You’ll regret it.

  The snap judgment in his tone had me turning on my heel without so much as a chilly wave goodbye. And I’d never, ever admitted what I’d actually wanted to do. Which was press my face into his stupid superhero chest and cry.

  I ached to admit how badly I’d been struggling. How alone I’d felt in my pervasive anxiety. Sam and I spent every single day with each other—bickering, sparring, studying, testing. Oddly enough, if I’d trusted anyone at that point in my life to hear my most secret fears, it would have been Sam.

  That’s fine. You’ll regret it. My cold response to his bored tone wasn’t completely his fault. He had no idea he’d voiced the exact words I was hearing in my head.

  “This it?” he asked, breaking through my scattered memories.

  “Sure is,” I said, climbing out of his car before it had even fully stopped. We were on Second Street, in Philadelphia’s Queen Village—an artsy, beautiful neighborhood with historic brick rowhomes and wide, tree-lined parks. At the far end of this block, Dahl’s apartment was on the second floor over a store that sold fancy kitchen supplies.

  Sam and I began pretending to window shop. His reflection was annoyingly competent: aviator glasses, black peacoat, broad shoulders. He all but screamed government employee with a special set of skills that could kill you.

  “What’s the plan?” Sam muttered.

  I peered into the window, pretending to check the price tag on a framed picture. “Knock on the door. See if he’s home.”

  “That’s a terrible plan,” he replied, side-stepping a pot of petunias.

  I gave his reflection the middle finger. He rolled his eyes.

  “That was a joke, Byrne.”

  “I’m trying to do our job here,” he bit out. “I’m fine with staking out his apartment, per our orders. Attempting to blend in. Sound okay?”

  I paused. “Yeah. Fine, whatever.”

  We were nearing Dahl’s apartment. Sam and I had studied the picture of the museum intern that had arrived in my inbox: he was a bland-looking, youngish, blond man. Boring features that made it possible for him to blend in.

  “Uh…how are things going at the FBI?” I finally said.

  “Fine,” Sam replied. His fingers were curled into fists at his side, but his face was completely stoic.

  “Working art theft was your goal when we were at the academy.” I pretended to wave to a shop’s owner. “You must be happy there.”

  “We do important work,” was all he said. We’d neared the kitchen supply store, and my senses sharpened.

  Sam faced the window, so I watched the street. He assessed the sidewalk. I was prepared for Dahl. We had never been good partners. But we shared a strange intuitive connection. Even now, we couldn’t help dropping into position like ballet performers who’d been dancing together for years.

  “Didn’t expect to find you being a private detective,” he said quietly.

  “Why not?” I asked. “Because I’m a dropout?”

  His expression was an enigma behind those goddamn aviators. “No. I didn’t know what
your plans were after you told me you were leaving. We never spoke again.”

  “I’m doing a techy job,” I shrugged. “I’m mostly a behind-the-scenes girl.” My ears picked up a door opening and closing—a door overhead. Sam caught the sound too.

  His hand landed heavily next to my head, bringing him much too close for my liking. The scent of pine trees on a winter’s night invaded my senses.

  Sam’s smell.

  “What are you doing?” I whispered. “If you pretend to kiss me right now, my knee is going to visit your balls.”

  “I’m not pretending to kiss you,” he whispered back. “I’m guessing this door right here leads from the upstairs apartment to the street..”

  I sniffed, turning my head back to the sidewalk. “I guess that’s semi-believable.”

  “I’d prefer not to get a visit from your knee. I still have bruises from our sparring sessions.”

  My cheeks flushed at the stray compliment. “Just because you’re bigger doesn’t mean I can’t kick your ass.”

  “I actually think it’s the other way—” Sam stopped when the door opened with a loud squeal.

  A man stepped onto the sidewalk, mere inches from us. He wasn’t walking quickly; he wasn’t acting like a suspect. But when I caught his profile, my gut said Dahl. Next to me, Sam was stiff, ready to spring. He touched his glasses, nodded once at me.

  The man was meandering, walking toward a small parking lot.

  “Remember,” I whispered. “Visual. Nothing else.”

  “If that’s him,” Sam whispered back, “we should nab him now.”

  “Sam, no—”

  He was already off, walking quickly toward the man I assumed was Dahl. I had to jog to catch up, drawing attention to myself in direct violation of Abe’s instructions.

  “For someone who mocked my earlier plan, sure does feel like we’re about to confront our suspect plan-free,” I said, looping my hand through Sam’s arm to force him to slow his pace. “Did you notice he’s not carrying anything?”

  “What did you think he’d have? A bag that says Caution: Stolen letters inside?”

  “A bag or a crate marked with a skull and crossbones would be a nice touch, don’t you think?” I yanked his arm, using all of my strength, and managed to stop him in his tracks. Dahl was still breezily strolling along.

  “Visual,” I prodded. “What do we see?” I was already using the tiny hidden camera in my watch face, secretly snapping pictures of Dahl with a flick of my wrist.

  Sam sighed. “Potential suspect walking slowly. Nothing on his person indicates he’s carrying letters, and he’s not acting like he’s on the run or under pressure.”

  “Could be a cool cucumber,” I said. “Could be he’s not our guy. What else?”

  He watched Dahl for a minute while I cast my gaze to the balcony on his second-story apartment, searching for possible clues.

  “What do you usually do when you’re undercover?” Sam asked, careful to keep his voice quiet.

  “I’m not usually undercover,” I said. “I’m Delilah’s stakeout partner when she needs extra help. But I haven’t been in the field, truly, in a long time.”

  Six months earlier, I’d chased down Charles Kearney at a high-society event in Center City. He’d been holding a stolen copy of Fahrenheit 451. And with my usual threat of stiletto-induced groin violence, Kearney had given up the goods. I’d feigned confidence to Delilah and Abe—it was second nature at this point—but deep down, I’d been a hot mess of nerves.

  Sam narrowed his eyes at my answer, sensing bullshit, but didn’t press. “I don’t like the way Dahl’s walking toward the lot.”

  “You think his car is there?”

  My hand was still wrapped around his elbow. Beneath my fingers, his muscles flexed with restrained motion.

  “I think if we don’t move now, we’ll lose him.”

  “And if we spook him, we’ll lose our chance altogether.”

  “What chance, Evandale?” he hissed, finally losing patience with me. “Also, fuck, fuck, he’s getting in the car.” He started to run—looking like an FBI hero in an action film, and not like a covert PI.

  “Don’t spook him,” I called, louder than I intended. Shit. Of course, having a shouting match about spooking people caught the attention of the man we were surveilling. Dahl swiveled his head towards us. Then he jumped into the driver’s seat of a silver car and revved the engine.

  “Fuck-a-duck,” I said, frozen in indecision. Sam was already grabbing me by the hand and half-dragging me.

  “We’re going after him. Come on,” he said, breaking into a loping run.

  “What? No!” I said, trying to keep pace. We rounded the corner, and Sam was out-and-out running down the sidewalk now—arms pumping, back straight, stride perfect. Jesus Christ, could we draw any more attention to ourselves?

  “Byrne,” I barked, hitting the side of his car hard. “We need to stop and make an actual plan.”

  He shook his head, throwing open his car door and revving his engine like Dahl. “Get in,” he said through the window.

  I was out of breath and pissed. I slid in next to him and grabbed his arm. “Listen. We can’t just—”

  There was a loud, bracing squeal of Sam’s tires. A flash of silver right in front of us. The tiniest hint of a smile on Sam’s face.

  “That’s him,” he said. “Hold on tight.”

  The potential book thief’s silver car was rounding a corner toward the I-95 on-ramp. Sam gunned it.

  “Wait, wait, wait—”

  But he was turning to me with an actual grin on his face. A grin that set my heart racing—and not from the hard sprint down the sidewalk.

  “Relax, Evandale,” he said. “It’s a good old-fashioned car chase.” We hit the on-ramp going twice the regular speed, Dahl’s car only a bit ahead of us. Four lanes of highway traffic awaited us, and each lane seemed to have an inordinate number of silver cars.

  I memorized Dahl’s license plate and turned to my smug partner. “What are you doing?”

  Sam wasn’t smiling anymore—but he did seem oddly calm as he wove around cars, going faster than I would have liked. “You know what I’m doing. We did it in academy training a dozen times, at least.”

  The city skyline beckoned ahead, the glass shimmering golden in the autumn light, the river curving next to us.

  “We’re not federal agents. And this isn’t a Colombian drug cartel with a kidnapping victim in the trunk. This is a guy who stole love letters,” I said.

  Sam appeared way too competent behind the wheel of a car going 85 miles an hour. Dahl, interestingly enough, was staying ahead of us. Which didn’t bode well for his presumed innocence.

  “I know it’s not a Colombian drug cartel. Even though I’ll remind you that I scored top marks in that simulation,” Sam countered.

  “Top mark,” I corrected. “You scored one point higher than I did.”

  This time, he actually laughed under his breath.

  “Is Mars in retrograde? I think I saw a smile earlier. And a laugh. Never known Special Agent Sam Byrne to express human emotion.”

  “Are you making jokes, Evandale? Or focusing on this case?”

  “Oh my god, shut up—”

  Dahl’s car moved over three lanes, toward the exit to Center City.

  “Shit,” Sam grunted, executing a series of perfectly timed merges and gliding down the ramp, directly behind Dahl now. A trio of bicyclists came out of nowhere, blocking our passage as Dahl turned left down Broad Street.

  “Come on, come on, come on,” Sam chanted, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. “Are you watching Dahl?”

  I was pressed far to my right, practically on the dashboard as I watched our suspect. “Broad. Middle lane. Crossing the street. Kimmel Center.”

  Squeal. I flew across the car as Sam took a sharp left once the cyclists had cleared the lane. I hit Sam’s shoulder, which felt like hitting a brick wall.

  “Hey, are you okay?” h
e asked. He looked uncharacteristically concerned.

  “Yeah, whatever.” I swallowed, tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “You see him right there?”

  Dahl was making another right turn, and we were all the way in the left lane. The light changed. Dahl sped right, and we moved straight.

  “Goddammit,” we cursed in unison. But I caught a flash of movement as we drove past.

  “Wait,” I said, tapping Sam’s arm. “Wait, wait, I think he’s parking down the alley.”

  With another curse, he swerved down a side alley and slammed on the breaks. We both jumped out, scanning the busiest street in Philadelphia. Tourists, people walking dogs, runners, food carts—it was the usual downtown chaos, and I was trying to spot a man I’d only seen once.

  “What’s the plan?” I asked. “Are we doing a foot chase after all? Or should we—”

  I turned around to an empty spot where my partner should have been.

  “Sam?” I called out, whirling around. But all I saw was the same chaos—people walking to work as the subway whooshed beneath my feet. “Sam?”

  I leaned back against the hood of the car and tried to breathe through my fury. My partner had just committed a grave offense from an FBI standpoint. Never leave your partner behind.

  But Sam wasn’t my partner. Not really. He was the man who irked me to no fucking end and would until the end of time.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the fluttering of a white banner. Turned toward it, realizing immediately where we were. Every hair on my body stood on end, a pull low in my gut.

  The Grand Dame hotel reared above me, dark brown and etched with Art Deco patterns and gargoyles flanking the upper-most floors. It was a renowned Jazz Era hotel—and every year it famously hosted one of the biggest book festivals in the entire world.

  Dahl.

  If I was a book thief, wouldn’t I run with my stolen wares to the 60th Annual Antiquarian Book Festival?

  7

  Sam

  I had missed the thrill of the hunt.