Louisa rubbed her forehead, looking slightly more sympathetic. She was an older white woman, with short red hair and red glasses, and highly respected at Oxford. It had been unsettling to watch her facial expressions around me transform from ‘hopeful’ to ‘concerned’.
“I’m sorry if I’m coming off as a bit cross. I know it’s subtle work. I know it’s how you succeeded with the Audubon case, which is exactly why I hired you. You can imagine my frustration that eleven months after being made aware of Bernard’s crimes we still haven’t caught him.”
Frustration was a feeling I knew intimately. And craving punishment was a feeling I understood even better. I’d been manipulated, used, and lied to for eighteen years by two expert con artists. The lies were like walking around every day with a bandana covering your eyes, obscuring your sight, limiting your senses on purpose.
“I understand,” I said firmly. “I expect a break in the case any day now. I’m attending a lecture by Eudora Green, the president of the Society, back in London as soon as I leave your office. We’re also meeting tomorrow morning. My instincts are she’s close to Bernard.”
I couldn’t tell how assertive my tone was—Louisa’s face remained pinched with worry. And I couldn’t really blame her.
Three weeks ago, Louisa Davies had hired me to hunt down Bernard Allerton—a famous librarian who once oversaw the McMaster’s Library and their special collection of rare books. He managed their conservation efforts, had unparalleled access to some of the rarest manuscripts in the entire fucking world. Add in his academic prestige, and Bernard’s long con was one of the most epic forms of deceit I’d ever seen.
Honestly, my parents would envy it.
Louisa had been Bernard’s boss, and since he’d gone missing, she had been impatiently waiting for the authorities to catch the man. When she called me, she explained that it was time the McMaster’s Library took matters into their own hands. Apparently, hiring me was the first step in what she hoped would bring about justice. The minute Louisa had finished telling me the story of Bernard’s high crimes and misdemeanors, the hunger was there, the urgency was there, sweeping through my veins. I’d flown to London from New York City for my first international case.
Nothing brought me greater joy in this world than to hunt down a man like Bernard—it pissed me the fuck off that he’d lied for twenty years and was currently getting away with it. Contracts like this—clients like this—were the dream for me; they were the sole reason why I started my own private detective firm five years ago.
Recently, I’d helped a library in upstate New York recover a stolen collection of illustrations from John James Audubon’s famous folio, Birds of America. What I’d assumed would be a minor, run-of-the-mill case had brought me a bit of notoriety in the world of antiquities theft. And Louisa happened to be good friends with that library’s Board President, who’d been over-the-moon with my work and happy to recommend me to her colleagues.
Before, my cases had consisted largely of cheating spouses, in-depth background checks, and tedious stakeouts. Good work. Steady work. But not the kind of work that made my mind race with exciting possibilities.
Unfortunately, this exciting contract had a deadline and a countdown—only twelve days remained before it was yanked. Hunger only got you so far when going toe-to-toe with a mastermind.
“Bernard’s crimes are bigger than this,” Louisa said, tapping my contract. “So if you hit the deadline on this contract and you haven’t found him, I have no problem hiring the next private detective on my list. Time is of the absolute essence here.”
I managed a tiny smile. “I understand. This is a business. It’s not about ego. It’s about catching a very bad guy.”
It was very much about ego for me, though. Ego and money. Argento Enterprises was still young—and had only a single person on staff. Me, which was my absolute preference. Putting myself through college and clawing my way up through the quicksand of my past had incurred debt and loans and bills that desperately needed to be paid.
The pay—and the prestige—of this contract was beyond my wildest fucking dreams. And if, like Louisa had explained, both Interpol and the FBI couldn’t catch this guy, I sure as hell would. The feeling of revenge—of catching manipulative thieves in the act—was utterly satisfying. There was a delicious crunch to it that fulfilled my deepest cravings.
“Since I’m here, I wanted to ask you a few questions about…” I checked the name one more time. “—your former employee, Dr. Henry Finch? I’ve been researching Henry and his possibility of being a suspect, given he was Bernard’s assistant for ten years. Seems an interesting coincidence that he’s now a private detective too.”
More than coincidence actually. I’d been pulling through background checks and employment records for any person who’d worked closely with Bernard, and the existence of Henry sent an air-raid siren through my investigative instincts.
The fact that an accomplished rare book librarian had turned PI? It didn’t add up. And anything that didn’t add up was a goddamn clue. Yesterday, I’d stumbled upon a picture of Henry and Bernard together in the mountain of paperwork Louisa had relinquished to me. It was an award ceremony from years ago. Bernard and Henry were posed together, holding a plaque. Bernard was a white man in his seventies with a distinguished-looking mustache. His eyes betrayed a clever intelligence, his body language depicted frailty.
Next to him stood Henry Finch—a handsome black man in a tailored suit and square-rimmed glasses. I knew he had a doctorate degree in Library Science, had lived across Europe, and was fluent in four languages. Wouldn’t Bernard use an assistant to steal for him or cover his tracks? And what would compel such an accomplished academic to throw away his degrees to work at a small detective firm?
“You’ve been looking into Henry Finch?” she asked.
“Of course,” I replied.
Louisa was shaking her head. “It’s not what you think. In November of last year, Henry Finch came to me in the middle of the night with a story many in this community did not want to believe. He’d become suspicious of Bernard, had been gathering evidence and watching him for more than a month. Henry confronted Bernard, told him he was going to the authorities, ran to me after Bernard threatened to forge his signature on documents that made Henry complicit in his crimes.”
Ah. Really, Bernard was too obvious. “Henry was his backup fall guy.”
“It appears so,” she said.
I looked back down at the picture—at the enthusiasm shining through Henry’s smile. Did Bernard take advantage of this man’s devotion for ten years? The thought was stomach-churning.
“I didn’t believe Henry’s story at the time,” Louisa said. “It’s hard to imagine now, but Henry could have been telling me the Easter Bunny existed for how outrageous his story was. I didn’t report Bernard. I did hire a firm called Codex to recover the stolen book that had precipitated everything.”
I cocked my head. “That’s the firm Henry works for now.”
They were located in Philadelphia, well-known and respected. The owner was a man named Abraham Royal.
“It’s how Henry got involved,” Louisa explained, with pursed lips. “Abe Royal hired him out from under me.”
This Abe sounded like a smart man. “And Henry’s officially been cleared of all suspicion?”
“Absolutely, he has,” Louisa said. “If I’d listened to him, called the authorities sooner…” she trailed off. “Every second counts, and we lost a lot of seconds while I buried my head in the sand.”
I sat back, re-crossed my legs. I was in an every second counts frame of mind too, since I had only twelve days left to catch this guy and no solid leads. Yet I was hesitant to let the Henry Finch angle go, given how little I had to grasp onto.
“You have to convince yourself the world is fracturing right in front of you,” I said. “You’re not the first client who didn’t want to believe the truth, trust me. Even after producing photographic evidence of affai
rs, I’ve had spouses who had hired me refuse to believe me.”
Louisa nodded, drummed her fingers on the desk. “Yes, well, here we are. Eleven months later with nothing to show for it.”
I hid a wince, re-plastered my smile on. “I know three weeks feels like a long time, but I’m working around the clock. That’s why my close rate is at 100%.”
I had never—ever—not closed a case in the last five years. I wasn’t going to start now.
“Codex is a phenomenal firm,” Louisa said, avoiding my statement. “They recovered one of our stolen manuscripts two months ago. They’re an investigative force to be reckoned with. Trust me, Henry’s not your guy. He’s on our side.”
I swallowed past the spike of jealousy. “And you didn’t want to hire Codex for this?”
Louisa’s cheeks pinked, and she seemed slightly embarrassed. Her fingers tugged at her sweater sleeves. “Well… no. I did not. Plus, it’s vital to employ fresh eyes and new ideas. You are my fresh eyes, Sloane. I thought you might see details the rest of us have missed.”
“Message received,” I said. Noting the time—every second counts—I stood, shook Louisa’s hand, promised to call her tomorrow. “It’ll get done. You don’t need to worry. I’m happy to bring you those new ideas.”
“I am worried,” she replied. “Truly worried. The reputation of this library is at risk, as is the reputation of the antiquities community. We don’t appear to be a community of integrity at the moment.”
Another tough swallow. Another fake smile. Louisa would hire another firm if I didn’t come through. She could even hire this other agency. And Henry might not be a lead, but the fact that this Codex firm hired a librarian to work for them was too fucking intriguing to drop it.
“You hired the best, make no mistake,” I said. “You won’t regret it.”
By the time I made it out to her hallway, I had to clench my hands in my skirt to stop them from shaking. Leaning back against the wall, I let out a ragged exhale and a whispered, “Fuck me.”
When I’d taken on this contract, there’d been no tremble in my fingers, no anxiety racing in my chest. I’d survived too much, worked too hard, needed this opportunity too badly to feign nervousness. Leaving Louisa’s office twenty days ago, I’d felt calm excitement and an eager ambition.
Now, I was struggling to admit the hundreds of threads to Bernard Allerton’s life were so complex—and so shrouded in secrecy—I had no concept of where to go or what to do. The Sherlock Society loved him and believed that he was on a long, off-the-grid sabbatical and would return at a later date. In my many, many afternoons spent having tea, Bernard was swooned, fawned, obsessed over. I couldn’t tell if these people were hiding him in their attics or honestly thought he was a librarian.
As I walked back outside and down the wide steps, I hoped beyond hope the lecture with Eudora tonight would shed light on the direction I should be racing toward.
And after that? I’d need to do more research on Codex.
4
Abe
In the ballroom at The Langham Hotel, long rows of chairs were rapidly filling with chattering Holmes aficionados. In the center, on a stage with a podium, was an older white woman with wire-rimmed glasses and long, gray hair. She wore a deerstalker hat—the same as the notorious detective being discussed this evening.
As I sat in the very last row, I noticed most of the audience wore the same hat. Or were fully dressed as Sherlock Holmes.
“How interesting,” I muttered. Crossing one foot across my knee, I settled back in the chair and fought an unusual urge to take a picture of these elaborate costumes and send it to everyone back at Codex. Strange that I almost… missed… the endless clamoring of Freya, Delilah, Henry, and Sam. Barely twenty-four hours had passed, and I couldn’t stop thinking of things they would like, jokes they’d find amusing, food they’d enjoy.
I was also irritated that they’d all disobeyed my express orders thus far. I’d received not a single call or email regarding work or our cases.
The sensation of missing someone wasn’t one I entertained often. Disappointment readily followed in its wake. It was much easier to wall off your heart than risk the painful consequences of letting people in.
The lights dimmed, and the audience hushed their chattering.
“Welcome, everyone,” the woman at the podium said in a crisp British accent. “My name is Eudora Green, and I am the president of the Sherlock Society of Civilized Scholars.”
The audience hooted softly like owls. Eudora, removing her deerstalker hat, gave a mysterious smile. “For any non-members in the audience, the Sherlock Society is the oldest, and most respected, society of Holmes scholars in the entire world. We’re quite a passionate lot, and part of our monthly programming is to conduct discussions on the latest research and theories surrounding Arthur Conan Doyle and his most perfect creations: Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.”
More light clapping, and she demurred, humble. But there was glee behind those wire-rimmed glasses, a preening.
“It’s no secret our beloved Doyle felt that Sherlock Holmes had become a sort of albatross ‘round his neck. The public demand for Holmes and Watson had reached a fever pitch, although Doyle himself no longer felt inspired to continue their adventures.”
Sighs of irritation huffed through the audience. More than 120 years later, Holmes fanatics were still outraged that their beloved detective had been tossed over a cliff. Fictionally.
“In The Adventure of the Final Problem, Holmes fights his archenemy, Professor Moriarty, on the cliff at Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland. Watson, rushing to the scene later, famously encounters two sets of footprints to the edge of the cliff. No sets returning. The story ends with Watson presuming Holmes and Moriarty have both perished—Holmes, courageously so, as he had finally defeated a criminal mastermind and quite literally saved the day.”
Heads nodded vigorously. Two women next to me puffed on unlit pipes. I scanned the crowd for suspicious behavior—shifty eyes, sudden movements. Another habit from my FBI days I couldn’t seem to shake. Another habit former girlfriends had despised.
I tugged at the knot in my tie, fighting a tightness that hadn’t been there a second ago. Work was a familiar passion, as comforting as a good book with an ending you’ve already read. But now I was forty-one years old, on my first vacation in years, and I didn’t know how to just… be.
“And yet, as all of us here know, our great and noble Holmes did not die.” There was a resounding cheer from the crowd as Eudora continued. “The public mourned the death of the detective so voraciously that Doyle succumbed to the outspoken pressure and resurrected the great Sherlock Holmes. Once again proving the detective to be beyond comparison. In The Adventures of the Empty House, Watson is startled when an elderly bookseller approaches him and reveals himself to be none other than Sherlock.”
My pulse noticed the mention of The Empty House.
“This is not the first time Sherlock Holmes had successfully hidden in plain sight. This was a common theme throughout each story—the most obvious facts were often the most disingenuous. Simplicity is buried within the most complex of human situations. That was the job of Holmes—to hide in plain sight when necessary. And to uncover the facts hidden in plain sight as well. True coincidences rarely exist.”
The door behind me creaked open. Every head in the audience swiveled to take in the newcomer. I hesitated, took a moment to gauge their facial reactions to the person interrupting the talk. A few whispers, a flurry of arched eyebrows, some friendly faces waving at the intruder.
When I finally turned in my seat, my gaze landed on the ornate doorway bathed in light. A woman was framed by the glow—a woman with the regal bearing of a queen. She was tall, chin raised, posture proud. Jet-black hair was piled into a bun, high on her head. Large golden earrings dangled from her ears. The deep V of her black jumpsuit revealed tan skin that shimmered. Luminous, midnight eyes that found mine immediately lingered, drew me in,
tempted me, called to me. My jaw threatened to drop, so I grit my teeth instead. The queen’s brow lifted, blood-red lips curving ever-so-slightly.
She knew every goddamn person in this goddamn room was staring at her.
She knew I was staring at her.
Openly admiring a stranger wasn’t my style. I preferred cool detachment, not the white-hot blaze emanating from her very being. With languid motion, the woman walked toward the only empty seat in the room.
The one right next to me.
“And as I was saying,” Eudora began, but whatever words came next faded into a muffled background noise that didn’t dare penetrate the experience of watching the queen glide across the room, hips swaying, eyes still locked on mine.
“May I?” the woman asked, pointing at the chair. She had a voice like bonfire smoke, rich and earthy, tinged with ember.
And she was, interestingly, an American.
I nodded, gave her space, watched as she sank down with grace. For a dangerous few moments, we simply stared at each other, barely a foot apart, and the full force of her astonishing beauty engulfed me. She was young, certainly younger than me, long-limbed, and full-lipped, and her hair was rich, black satin.
Her red mouth gave up its teasing curve, became a full smile with white teeth. Her throaty laugh incited a primal urge deep in my body.
Not a queen. This strange woman was too brutally captivating. More like an ancient goddess legions of people would drop to their knees and pray to. A powerful deity who blessed your crops and gave you rain and inspired love and lust for the heartbroken and lonely.
Or the sleep-deprived workaholics who can no longer have fun.
The raven-haired goddess was the first to break our stare-down, turning toward Eudora with an enigmatic expression. I flexed my fingers, dragged myself back from the delirious vision I’d been thrust into. Eudora’s speech reached me as if through miles of water.
In the Clear (Codex Book 3) Page 3