In the Clear (Codex Book 3)

by Kathryn Nolan

  Abe’s inflection held a fair amount of warning. “Henry Finch is innocent and was cleared of all suspicions. If he hadn’t been, I wouldn’t have hired him.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” I said. “Seems like he was a private detective in the making.”

  “And an ethical and brilliant man,” he said.

  My chest tightened at the devotion in his voice—my lonely soul recognized a similar one in Abraham Royal. He appeared to be fiercely independent. But a tiny part of me felt jealous that he had a… a team. A team he clearly admired.

  I leaned in, dropped my voice. “You’ve been hot on Bernard’s heels for months now. It’s why you’re here, in London, using a fake name and meeting with Bernard’s closest friends and colleagues. If you’re my competition, I want to know who I’m racing against. And if you’re not, and you have pertinent information I could use, I’d gladly take it, per our deal.”

  He picked up the glass of whiskey and took a long, slow sip. His steel gaze remained on my face the entire time until I felt heat in my cheeks. “I abhor loose ends. When I arrived in London and learned about Bernard’s role in the Society, I followed my instincts to that lecture. The auction of the Doyle papers intrigued me, so I used an undercover name.” He set the glass down. “It was a mistake. A minor detour in my vacation plans. That’s the truth, as much as it pains me to admit it. My team could tell you that leisure isn’t my strong suit.”

  “I don’t believe it was a mistake or a minor detour,” I shot back.

  “Believe what you will, Ms. Argento. I’m not your competition. And you can follow me, tail me, steal from me, stay in the hotel room next to me… I won’t break. Although I’m glad to finally understand why you wouldn’t leave me alone.”

  It might have been my imagination, but Abe seemed briefly hurt. Which caused a corresponding sensation in my own body. I just didn’t think it right, in this moment of tense truth-telling, to grab him by the face and admit my all-consuming lust had a fair amount to do with my actions too. This yearning I had to be around him was equal parts exhilarating and baffling. The sheer urgency of this case hovered between us—my timeline, my contract, the stakes, everything. I’d already bared my name and a handful of other secrets. He didn’t need to know about his erotic presence in my dreams or my many, many fantasies.

  “I was seeking your sources,” I said. “And I’d like the record to show that you’re full of shit.”

  His chuckle was humorless. “That might be true, but you are free to pursue Bernard Allerton at your leisure. I am a private detective, not a vigilante. If I had a case, a contract, a client, this would be different. The books that are stolen are, above all else, my investigative priority. Taking down Bernard is one piece of a system that’s gone rotten. My interest is in the whole system, not just one man.”

  My lip curled with a swift anger that shocked me. “Bernard is the system. He’s a psychopath who deserves to be in prison.”

  A softness entered his gaze. A pause. Then, “We don’t disagree.”

  Abe twisted the glass back and forth, ice hitting the side. “Bernard Allerton is no longer my purview. So you can be happy catching that psychopath.”

  “Do you have information that could help me?” I asked, feeling like a buzzard, picking for scraps. Yet the smallest detail could make the difference for me.

  “I surely do not,” he said mildly. “You don’t have a team at your firm that could help you?”

  “It’s only me. Always has been.” And always would be. “Why?”

  He plucked at his cufflinks. “Seems like you were maybe asking to partner up and go after Bernard together.”

  I took the glass of whiskey from his fingers. Placed my mouth directly where his had just been and took a satisfying sip. “I’ve never worked with a partner before. Don’t worry, that wasn’t my motivation here, Abraham.”

  A sense of loss was already lodging itself in my sternum. I pressed my palm there, attempting to sooth the newness of feeling so raw. Every single second of my time spent with Abe these past thirty-six hours had been like diving through uncharted waters. A tiny voice in my head whispered you’re going to miss him.

  “Okay then,” he said. “Now that we’ve fought off an attacker together and I’ve learned your true identity, we can go about our business separately. I’ve got plans the next few days to enjoy all the rich culture that London has to offer. I doubt we’ll see each other again, except coming and going at The Langham.”

  This was what I wanted—to clear the air between us, uncover his real purpose, and get back to the hunt. So I wasn’t sure why my emotions felt so out of control as we reached the natural end of our… whatever this was. What was it?

  I pointed at the vial that had held GHB meant for both of us. “What would you like to do about our imminent brush with illegal drugs?”

  He reached across the table, stole his whiskey glass from my fingers. Took another generous sip. “Tourists get drugged and mugged all of the time. It’s natural to read into things when you’re in the thick of an active investigation. We were two loud Americans getting intoxicated. We were a target for a crime of opportunity.”

  “Would Bernard know what you looked like, Abe?” I asked.

  There. Another flicker of curiosity—more than that. A tangible passion. He was desperate and denying himself. “Why would he know that?”

  I lifted a shoulder. “You currently employ the man who sent him underground. I’d know what you looked like.”

  He tapped the glass. “We were targeted for a crime of opportunity. I’d drop it.”

  That didn’t match what my instincts were telling me at all, but if Abe Royal was going to be this stubborn and prideful, we’d reached the end of the road.

  I stood, pocketing my things and tossing some cash down onto the table. “Consider it dropped,” I said. I took the little vial with me though. “Have fun on your vacation.”

  His entire body flexed and tensed, as if he was bound to his chair by invisible rope. With a curt nod, he said, “I shall see you around. Neighbor.”

  I yearned for a pithy response and came up empty, feeling flipped upside down by the surge of anger, frustration, need, lust coursing through my veins.

  And hurt. That was there too, buried beneath the other, more vocal, emotions. Since graduating from NYU, there hadn’t been much effort made on my part to meet people or make friends beyond the occasional one-night stand or brief fling. My love life centered around anonymity—I preferred my partners to know as little about me, or my past, as possible. And in college, attempting to make those friendly connections was like trying to learn a brand-new language not a single person had ever taken the time to teach me.

  On the occasions that I attended a campus party or a study group or a dining hall rendezvous, their experiences and memories were bizarre to me—the little coded ways they spoke to each other, their teasing and affection. I believed this social comfort came from people who grew up with siblings or friends, who went on field trips or had backyard birthday parties. More often than not, I’d leave feeling embarrassed or at the very least confused. At the end of the day, I found it easier to not try at all.

  So I opted for turning on my heel and striding out of that pub without a clever goodbye for Abe Royal. And as I walked down the street, heading back to The Langham Hotel, I recognized the familiar feelings of embarrassment and confusion, of longing for something I didn’t understand. Maybe, just maybe, I had been trying to partner with Abe on this case.

  Those were deceiving thoughts. I was better off alone anyway.

  13

  Abe

  The lights in the Royal Opera House dimmed. The luxurious red-and-gold curtain opened on the stage, revealing the symphony orchestra and their instruments. The conductor bowed to the audience and turned to her musicians, who held themselves still, awaiting instruction. The long note of silence echoed in the hushed room—perhaps the most beautiful room I had ever seen. The domed ceiling sparkled with go
lden designs that mimicked a Renaissance classic.

  The opening strings of Bach’s Concerto for 2 Violins in D Minor sang throughout the grandiose room, growing louder as the rest of the instruments joined in.

  I closed my eyes, let the rich sound wash over me, stirring feelings I’d rather not explore. This moment in time was true leisure, true pleasure—a true vacation.

  Every note from the violin loosened the hard coil in my chest that contained my anger toward my father’s betrayal.

  Every note soothed the remnants of work stress, calmed the edges of my anxieties about cases and close rates and worrying that my team would get hurt while undercover.

  Every note made me feel more like a man, less like a workaholic that generated outputs. Surrounded by London’s elite, seated in a building known for its opulence, it wasn’t easy for me to turn off the part of my brain desperately seeking criminals. Yet in the face of such gorgeous music, couldn’t I enjoy myself for a change?

  The final note held, sustained, captivated every person in the audience. As they cheered and clapped, I shook my head and smiled to myself. Music, culture, history. Maybe it made me odd, but a reminder that I actually had hobbies now and again was a good thing. They were easily forgotten in the sheer intensity of my thirst for justice.

  The crowd quieted, and the next song began. To my right, a young woman with jet-black hair walked down the narrow aisle and sat. I smiled once more, wider this time, already preparing to feign surprise that Devon—Sloane—was tailing me again.

  It had been two days since she’d sauntered out of that pub without a goodbye. I’m sure it wasn’t possible to miss someone you barely knew. Yet during those days, I’d felt slightly lop-sided and disappointed at every tourist location I visited only to find myself… alone.

  Every minute of that strange evening had been a combination of thrilling, frustrating, illuminating—and sexually arousing. After pocketing the tiny vial of GHB, I’d rushed around the front of the pub and heard sounds of a fight from the alley. It was Sloane, fighting off a giant attacker with a set of skills that rivaled my own. The very first puzzle piece began slotting into place then. And by the time I was picking up her private investigator’s license, it finally all made sense. A charming personality, a fake name, sly motivations, and a palm-strike straight from a Bureau textbook.

  She was a detective. And not just any. Sloane had the job I’d desperately wanted eleven months ago, the job stolen from me because Louisa had opted to bring in the formal authorities. It was hard to fault her decision. Bernard was a criminal mastermind and technically should have been handled accordingly.

  Except goddamn if my pride hadn’t taken notice that Louisa was now, potentially, regretting her decision. Not enough to re-hire me, no. She had sought out a bright, young, talented detective who could absolutely do the job asked of her. Including what I would have done if I’d suspected another detective was on my same trail—follow him until he gave up a clue.

  I shifted in my seat and tried to catch Sloane’s eye in the row far ahead. That curtain of black hair shone in the golden light and obscured her face. She had displayed her secrets for me, and I’d purposefully refrained from sharing all of my information. The email, the start of all of this, was private, and it would stay that way.

  Even if you should tell your team about it?

  I coughed, cleared my throat. Closed my eyes to focus on the music again, the slide and pluck of every note from the cello.

  Maybe… maybe I should have cautioned Sloane that the Kensley auction of Doyle’s private papers was the incident that had really captured my attention. Maybe I should have shared the code words or my old reports. Maybe I should have added that Eudora Green appeared shifty and morally gray to me, and if there was anyone to watch, it’d be her. Maybe—

  I gripped the arm rests and manually forced my mind to listen to every fucking musical note. Sloane had resources, time, and access to the intimate documents of Bernard’s life. She had made it clear that if I couldn’t disclose any details for her, there was no reason to continue our cat-and-mouse. Whatever attraction she might have felt toward me was clearly not the priority. Her priority was to catch Bernard using everything she had. I absolutely could not fault her for putting her client, and her contract, first.

  And I absolutely wanted her to be following me now for a better, more personal reason.

  The tone of the music shifted, turned slow and elegant. A melodic tease for the senses. I sank back into that space of leisure granted me by every note. I’d been correct in my intuition that the goddess wasn’t a Devon. Sloane fit her like a glove; Sloane was a better descriptor of her earthy sex-appeal and sultry allure. And Sloane hadn’t vanished from my thoughts after coming clean and revealing all of her mysteries. Instead, she had taken up permanent residence in my hourly sexual fantasies and tormented my every dream.

  All night long, she had taunted me, crawling up my body with her hair wild around her face, trailing the silky ends across my stomach. Over and over I palmed breasts cupped in pink lace, ran my tongue along the column of her throat as she moaned. The last image I remembered was her lithe body—pinned beneath mine—as we rocked against each other in a furious, uncontrolled rhythm. I woke with my face buried in my pillow, grinding my hips into the mattress in a vivid interpretation of what I had been doing to her in my dream.

  What happened next didn’t spring from any semblance of real, rational thought—more biological need. I rolled onto my back, took my cock in hand, let myself fall back into the fantasy. Except this time it was no dream, and I had full command. Which was my preference, anyway. My fingers worked, stroking up and down, while I entwined my fingers with Sloane’s in the ornate, metal headboard. Her legs wrapped high around my waist as I fucked her in a sweaty, panting, demanding rhythm. The fantasy could be called romantic if loud, bruising, animalistic sex was a person’s idea of romance. It certainly was mine. The Sloane I fucked in my fantasy felt the same way—her orgasmic euphoria had my hips thrusting off the mattress and come spilling down my fingers. I hadn’t been quiet either, and I prayed to every god I knew that she hadn’t heard me through our shared wall.

  The lights in the Royal Opera House slowly brightened, filling the room with a warm, glittering glow. Intermission had begun. I immediately searched for Sloane and caught a glimpse of black hair moving toward the lobby. Straightening my tie and re-buttoning my suit jacket, I walked confidently into the large room, filled with elegantly dressed patrons sipping from glasses of champagne. I located the goddess, moved past groups of people, reached out and touched her wrist.

  “I’ll remind you again, Ms. Argento, you can knock on my door if you want my attention. You don’t need to keep up this charade of following me everywhere.” I paused, waited for her to turn around.

  And when she did, it was decidedly not the gorgeous private detective. This woman’s mouth dropped, hand flying to her chest. “I’m sorry, what?”

  “My apologies,” I said quickly. “I thought you were a friend.”

  I walked back into the red-and-gold room before embarrassment could get the best of me. Embarrassment and disappointment, which was numbing the former effects of all that glorious, leisurely music.

  My phone buzzed with a text from Delilah—a picture of my desk with Sam sitting behind it doing an extremely dramatic glower I was sure was meant to be an impersonation of me. Freya and Henry were pretending to cower, hands above their heads, while Delilah grinned goofily right at the camera. Things are getting weird without you, Abe, she’d written. Don’t worry, Sam was happy to step into your role of Office Dad/Dictator. Freya and Henry were scared yet obedient.

  Another buzz. Another text—this one from Sam. We had been drinking, sir.

  I scrubbed a hand down my face, smiling at their antics. I started and stopped a dozen different replies before landing on: Happy to hear I’ve been replaced by someone with such a talent for Dictator-ing. Will be shopping for your souvenirs tomorrow. Send r
equests please and keep it PG.

  I withheld the rest, even though everything that had happened to me in the last days would have shocked them to their core. Would Bernard know what you looked like?

  Every feeling of guilt rose to the surface yet again. Until the magic of the symphony, I’d felt inklings of this the past two days and had restrained it as best I could, distracted myself with sight-seeing and fine whiskey. I’d been in the field of criminal justice for far too long. I knew when the facts presented to you, the story you told yourself, no longer made sense. It happened all the time at the Bureau; for whatever reason, an agent would latch onto a potential suspect even as their viability unraveled in the most obvious ways. The story no longer matched the facts.

  And these were the hard facts: in four days, a priceless collection of Doyle’s papers would be auctioned off at London’s premier auction house. Years ago, Bernard had desperately wanted to own Doyle’s papers, and they were taken from him, publicly. Louisa had dispatched a private detective to track down her former employee. The moment I met with one of Bernard’s closest colleagues, Eudora, and gave her the Reichenbach Falls code word, Sloane and I were almost drugged and attacked in an alley.

  There was another problematic detail I hadn’t mentioned to Sloane at that pub. I couldn’t trust what I’d seen because the alley had been dark, and my recollection was hazy. But the man, the attacker, was giant and broad and had a military-style haircut. Plenty of men fit that description. As did the Dresden guards, the rich-and-shady security company used by the famous heiress Victoria Whitney, Bernard, and The Empty House.

  On stage, the musicians began filing back into their seats. The lights flicked once, twice.

  And I seriously considered stepping out of the Royal Opera House and calling my team.

  We’d followed hunches before—most notably Delilah, who correctly guessed that Victoria had stolen a priceless artifact from The Franklin Museum. That had been pure intuition, and I’d been happy to trust her bloodhound instincts. All four of them would be here in an instant.