In the Clear (Codex Book 3)

by Kathryn Nolan

  Distracted, I leaned forward in my seat, elbows on my knees. The musicians were picking up bows and arranging string instruments. The conductor walked out to applause and the remaining patrons sat back in their seats.

  Would Bernard Allerton know what I looked like?

  I swiped my thumb across my phone, pictured flying my team out here only to have us lose Bernard for the fourth fucking time. I winced inwardly, remembering how cheerfully Sloane had called my bluff. You are full of shit. This woman barely knew me, yet she could sense my desperation for vengeance regardless of how forcefully I denied it.

  My father had been like this, even before he’d walked out the door that fateful night. He was vindictive and imperious, always needing to get what he wanted regardless of the harm it caused in the process.

  The not-Sloane woman sat down in her seat. I caught her giving me a strange look. I settled back, let out an exhale as the cello released a note of sweet melancholy.

  I deserved this vacation. I deserved this time. Louisa had moved on and hired Sloane Argento, who would probably be the person to actually capture Bernard. Whatever dreams I’d entertained of being the one needed to be let go of once and for all.

  14

  Sloane

  Forty-eight hours after leaving Abe in that tiny pub, and I was back in it. I was on day two of a long and boring stakeout. And the skies above threatened thunderstorms. I had a troubling and total fear of thunder—a bone-deep, primal reaction that led me to shake and panic. London had been rainy and dreary, but I’d avoided a thunderstorm so far.

  I swallowed around a lump of nerves and nursed my martini.

  The long and boring stakeout had started yesterday afternoon. In the morning I’d woken energized and focused. And whatever strong feelings of longing or lust I might have felt for my hotel-room-neighbor I mentally crushed with my stiletto-heeled boot.

  I had nine days left, a fact Louisa made sure to remind me of when I called to check in with her that morning. The auction of Arthur Conan Doyle’s private papers was in four days. Abe had offered little in usable information, and so I went back to my first juicy clue: the bartender.

  If my instincts were correct, the bartender and the Big Guy who had attacked us were working together. Find one, find the other, find out who was paying them to scare and threaten two private detectives searching for Bernard Allerton. So now I sat at the window, watching Mycroft’s Pub across the street and hoping I didn’t look too obvious.

  The amount of money I’d be paid if—when—I caught Bernard played on a loop in my brain. Money, opportunity, freedom. Recovering those prints from Birds of America for The Murphy Library had been the crucial entrance into this world. And catching Bernard was the ticket to bigger clients, better jobs, and a chance to be free from any financial burdens holding me back. As disappointed as I’d been after leaving Abe that night, I’d reminded myself that this meant if I discovered a straight shot at Bernard, I’d be the one to take it.

  There was a rumble in the distance that could have been a train. I took a fortifying sip of vodka, enjoyed the burn in my chest. The bookstore, Adler’s, was lit full of patrons tonight. I’d watched from the side window as they came and went in the past two hours, and now a small circle was set up with people on chairs. A bearded white man, maybe mid-thirties, was leading a discussion and pointing to a book at the same time.

  A door opened in the back of the pub and my eyes darted to the sound. Seemed like regulars, laughing with each other, cheering about a sporting event. I watched them as covertly as possible, drinking my martini. They appeared harmless. Yesterday I’d camped out here, ordering drinks and meals every few hours, and no one had noticed or at least hadn’t cared. Today, it was more obvious I was sitting here, by myself—not talking to a single soul. I’d come undercover as Devon, carrying Sherlock Holmes mysteries and prepared to give a story to any Society members that could spot me here, somewhat out in the open. Just resting my feet after a few frantic days of sight-seeing!

  No one had bothered me, yet. For every second I observed Mycroft’s for movement, I kept one ear trained on my surroundings. I was no stranger to the shady underbelly that existed in the brightest of places.

  My first case, when I was barely twenty-three years old, was a simple cheating spouse. I’d been given a presumed location by a scorned wife and found myself in a run-down motel parking lot awaiting this woman’s husband and his mistress.

  I’d barely concealed myself as the pair made their way past parked cars and toward room #6. My entire childhood was spent engaged in illegal con tricks with my parents, where every day was cloaked in a malicious secrecy. But being a PI was legal, and I was performing a contractual service, all of which numbed my senses to fear. In the broad daylight, surrounded by a busy street and a handful of strip-malls and photographing a middle-aged man, I felt not a hint of threat.

  The cheating couple was on top of me a second later, their violence born from the terror of getting caught. The husband ripped the camera right from my hands and smashed it to the ground. The mistress was a force to be reckoned with, and I’d only escaped her clutches by using the self-defense moves I’d been practicing at night. Later, back at my apartment, I realized how extremely lucky I’d gotten. I didn’t believe in nine lives. Just this one.

  I didn’t make a mistake like that ever again. And if I wasn’t going to have the extra safety of a partner—Abe—then I couldn’t afford to lose focus.

  Another rumble in the distance. I twisted in my seat, bringing my ear closer to the windowpane. Definitely a big truck. I released a breath, pressing a loose strand of hair back into my high bun. If there was a storm tonight, would I go to Abe? Knock on his door and beg him to… what? Take care of a practical stranger who had stolen from him and followed him around like a weirdo?

  Besides, I’d never told anyone about the night my parents had left me alone in a motel even dingier than the one where a cheating spouse had tried to beat me up. I had been seven, and my parents were working a long con on a rich couple in the area, attempting to gain access to their circle of wealthy friends so they could commit identity fraud. My parents loved this kind of manipulate-cheat-dash lifestyle. We were staying in a midwestern city in Tornado Alley. My parents had left the TV on for me, tuned to the weather channel, and they hadn’t returned until the early morning. All night, the scariest thunderstorm I’d ever seen thrashed the tiny motel, rattling the windows. Water leaked in from the bathroom window, and the electricity went out. Right before, the newscaster had been talking about dark, greenish skies and potential hail.

  Signs of an impending tornado. And my parents didn’t return until breakfast the next morning. I only recalled the starkest, iciest terror I’d ever known. Alone, at seven, convinced a tornado was going to destroy the motel and kill me.

  The door at the back of the pub slammed closed, and the sound made me jump. I winced, cursed. Thinking about my parents never did any good except to fracture my focus. As if to prove a point, at that exact moment the goddamn bartender stepped out of Mycroft’s Pub.

  With Big Guy.

  They were on the move, and so was I. Leaving my half-empty glass, I yanked a hat down onto my head, low over my face, and slipped out of the bar, careful to not let the swinging door make a sound. Their body language was casual yet attuned to their surroundings. No conversation, simply heads down and on the move. I’d worn all black for the occasion—it was both my usual attire and worked well for sudden, covert stakeouts. I kept to the shadows, body pressed to each building, ducking into every alley I could as I kept my eye on them. Big Guy was still big; the bartender still looked like a Brooklyn hipster.

  Neither of them noticed me. I hoped. About a quarter of a mile down the road they stopped. The buildings were mostly non-descript offices and stores. Nothing stood out. They slipped into a side alley to speak and I crept down a long wall to get close. I searched for fire escapes or open windows to sneak into. Their conversation was completely muffled b
y the sounds of London at night—cars, horns, more trucks rumbling. Glancing once behind my shoulder, I slipped out a pocket mirror, angled it towards them. Body language still casual, as in non-threatening. But Big Guy appeared upset, and the bartender appeared neutral.

  A little closer. Then a little more. A group of loud locals walked past me—I acted quickly and pretended to be texting on my phone. They were noisy and obscured the secret conversation. Right near them was a little hedgerow of bushes about ten feet from where they were speaking. Before I could doubt my choice, I leapt, ducked behind the bushes, crouched low. A gust of wind muted their conversation. I pushed my ear directly to the bush, looking like an extreme nature enthusiast.

  “He wasn’t fucking happy…”

  I inhaled sharply. Tightened my fingers in the branches.

  “Whose fault is that, hey?”

  If they were talking about Bernard, was he pissed about the other night? Technically, Abe and I had foiled their plan. We hadn’t been drugged, and we’d beaten back our attacker. Maybe what this meant was—

  “Devon Atwood!”

  I was so focused on the conversation I didn’t recognize my own undercover name for a moment. Whoever had yelled it had a voice that boomed like an explosion even down a busy street at dinner time.

  “What on earth are you doing in the bushes?”

  I turned, swallowed a gasp at the sight of Humphrey fucking Hatcher lumbering toward me with a giant grin and an expression of total delight. I couldn’t have been happier, except I was hiding in the bushes to eavesdrop on a conversation between two men who had conspired to drug and attack me. Instead I froze, crouched in the bushes, staring at Humphrey with my jaw dropped open.

  Think Sloane. Think.

  I stood up, tore off my hat, dislodging leaves from my hair and on my clothing. Dislodged my earrings and cast a wary glance behind me.

  Caught the bartender and Big Guy glaring at me. I wasn’t sure if they’d recognized my name. They sure as shit seemed to recognize my face. I blinked, and they vanished. The mistake of this moment, of getting caught, hit me like a punch to the gut. But I didn’t have a second to fret before coming toe-to-toe with Bernard Allerton’s closest friend.

  “Humphrey,” I exclaimed, holding out my hand for his aggressively friendly shake. He seemed genuinely happy to see me. “What a lovely surprise.”

  “What’s an enchantress doing hiding in the bushes?” he bellowed.

  I held my earring. “Fell right off, if you can believe it. I was lucky to find it in the dark.”

  “Lucky indeed,” he agreed. “Although I have a feeling you have a lot of luck in your life, Ms. Atwood.”

  “I’ve been very fortunate,” I said, lying through my teeth. Attempting to redirect the course of my mission. Yet again, I’d lost my fucking lead. Yet again, another had appeared in front of me, and I didn’t take this kind of opportunity lightly. “What are you doing skulking about? Don’t you have some place to be on a rainy Wednesday night?”

  “I do actually,” he said, tucking his fingers beneath his suspenders. “I’m off to Mycroft’s for a drink with Reginald.” His eyes grew wide. “And you shall join me. I will not take no for an answer.”

  I laughed—and it was a real laugh. Until my mind caught up. “I was just coming from that way. Weren’t you only there two days ago giving a talk?”

  Humphrey leaned in. “I know. It’s a bloody tourist trap, though I do love it. Used to be Bernie’s favorite pub for lamb stew.”

  “Bernard’s?” My smile became fixed.

  “The one and only,” he beamed.

  I pulled a final leaf from my hair. “Well then, sounds like I have a date with you and whoever Reginald is. I’m assuming he’s a gentleman, like yourself?”

  “An absolute gentleman, and I should know.” Humphrey waggled his eyebrows. “He’s my husband.”

  “I have a million questions for him,” I replied. “Shall we?”

  He held his arm out, and I hooked my hand through his. I wasn’t sure what to do with, well, the all-consuming, tangible presence of Humphrey Hatcher. He was like a sharply dressed British Kool-Aid man, and I was helpless to resist his natural charm. Was this what it was like to have uncles and brothers and family friends? People who made you laugh and feel better after a hard day?

  “You could call your Mr. Fitzpatrick,” Humphrey suggested as we walked.

  “What?” I asked, confused for a moment.

  “The handsome devil you left looking lonely at this pub the other night,” he said.

  Oh, Abe.

  “Maybe,” I said, trying to dodge the question. “Or maybe it should be you, me, and your husband.”

  “Are you having a lovers’ quarrel?” he asked.

  Again I was briefly confused. He meant lovers’ quarrel between me and Abe? I did have several quarrels with him, namely that he wouldn’t provide the help I needed. And the act of asking for that help had stripped several layers off my soul, leaving me tender in a way I hated.

  My other dispute was less with him and more with my own libido—which couldn’t stop filling my mind with endless sexual fantasies about the man. And dreams too. Sexy, erotic, vivid dreams of slick, naked bodies and entwined fingers and Abe’s full lips, gasping my name.

  “Devon?”

  I blinked, flushed. “I’m quite fine to spend the evening without Mr. Fitzpatrick.”

  The look Humphrey gave me was cunning in a friendly way. “I’ve been in your position, Ms. Atwood. Love is a rocky path, and partners must navigate the pitfalls together if they hope to succeed. There is no stronger pairing than a couple that faces life’s challenges head on and declares, for all to hear, that they are an unstoppable force of valiant passion!”

  I huffed out another surprised laugh. “Well… Reginald must be a happy man.”

  He barked a laugh. “We’ve faced our own rocky paths, believe me. Perhaps you and Daniel need to face things together.”

  I shook my head, smiled. Caught the glow of Mycroft’s Pub ahead and hoped no one in there had spotted me spying on them from across the street for two straight days.

  And really hoped the bartender and Big Guy weren’t planning on returning.

  Luckily, Humphrey appeared loose and chatty and happy, and maybe this was the kind of night where I uncovered the real dirt on Bernard’s location. Regardless of what he claimed, a close friend could ultimately reveal the man’s hiding place.

  “Thank you for the relationship advice. And for the invite,” I said.

  He clutched his chest. “Like Mr. Fitzpatrick, we are all mere mortals, beholden to your siren song.”

  He pulled the door open, and I stepped inside. “I promise to keep the singing to a minimum.”

  Although I’d use whatever tricks I had in my arsenal to uncover the truth.

  15

  Abe

  Not a single star shone in the London sky by the time I left the Royal Opera House. Rain was coming, the clouds were heavy, but that didn’t stop the mood of the people around me from dipping into liveliness. It wasn’t far back to The Langham, so I opted to walk, turning up the collar of my coat to protect against the chill. Groups of people spilled from pubs as others walked their dogs, chatted on their phones, sat on city benches, smoked cigarettes, and hailed taxis. Couples held hands. Friends walked toward restaurants with purpose and ease. Maybe they never felt the weight of the world on their shoulders. Maybe they did and had managed to come out the other side, to balance. Like my mother, who’d laid to rest her anger toward my father and happily started a new life—one that suited her much, much better.

  The thought of my empty, quiet hotel room sent a twinge through my chest I hated to admit was loneliness. I might have passed on invitations to brewery tours and movie nights with my team, but I hadn’t realized until now how much their daily presence shaped my sense of real connection. Every morning when I stepped into the office, I was surrounded by people who cared about justice, cared about the world. Ca
red about me, even.

  They were more than my colleagues, and more than friends. I wasn’t sure what that made them, exactly. The issue being that the longer I felt this way, the more I was going to end up needing them. The more I’d have to let them in, past fortress-high walls I’d been happy to build.

  And that wasn’t the future I’d seen for myself. That future felt messy, prone to emotion and vulnerability. A cocktail of things I avoided the most. I endured the first year after my mother’s accident—the time at hospitals, the grueling doctor’s appointments, the sleepless nights—by calling my father every single day to beg him to return. My mother’s spirit was resilient, but nothing could prepare a sixteen-year old boy for what it would be like to care for a woman who had temporarily lost her ability to express herself, to stand on her own, to balance, to access her memories.

  The morning of the accident we’d had a long and entirely pointless conversation about my history teacher, who my mother secretly believed was a spy for the CIA. She’d made me laugh as she spun a completely untrue story about my shy, mild-mannered teacher. And then she kissed the top of my head and rushed out the door to the grocery store.

  By dinner time that night, my mother had survived a horrifying car accident and lay in a coma, which ultimately lasted for three days. And it would be three months before I would be able to hold her hand and help her walk again.

  My father wasn’t entirely gone. I was young, and my own memories of this time were hazy, but he must have legally taken care of things for my mother, signed documents and papers, handled insurance. A lot of household bills still fell on my shoulders, but our giant mortgage was paid. His financial presence lingered, made it possible for his selfish act to still keep us clothed and sheltered. But that wasn’t what I was seeking when I desperately dialed him every night.