The theatrical tears coming from The Painted Buntings when they were informed of the theft had been what made me suspect them in the first place. Too over the top, no nuance. It had the feel of performance, not real emotion.
“I infiltrated the bird watchers,” I whispered dramatically.
“What was your cover?” he asked, matching my tone.
I beamed a cheery, mega-watt smile his way—gave his hand an enthusiastic shake. “Samantha Jenkins, event planning intern, amateur bird watcher.”
“Always a pleasure to meet one of your many characters,” Abe said smoothly. “So that’s how you got into their meetings?”
“The bird meetings and the fundraising meetings,” I said. “I spent weeks learning everything there was to know about birds and silent auctions. Then sat back and watched for mistakes. I’d never met a group of people as gossipy and conniving. And horny.”
His brow raised imperceptibly. “You don’t say.”
“These bird-lovers were breaking hearts left and right,” I said. “It wasn’t hard to take in the feuds, the old arguments, the ancient history people couldn’t let go of. Which is what led me to Mrs. Maeve Hawthorne. She was sleeping with three other birdwatchers and described herself as John Audubon’s number one fan. When she had me over for tea, she’d framed reproductions of his prints and hung them on every wall and available space in her home. And she’d seduced two of her bird-loving lovers to take the actual illustrations.”
“Let me guess—” Abe smirked. “She wasn’t even worried nor felt guilty.”
“I swear to god the woman was a sociopath dressed in a Laura Ashley sweater-set. But she shouldn’t have left me alone in her house while she went outside to accost the mailman. Five minutes was all I needed to slip into her basement and find the makeshift storage unit she’d created to make sure the artwork remained undamaged.”
“Sneaky, Ms. Argento,” he said in a tone that caressed like a lover’s.
“People should lock their basements if they don’t want undercover private investigators to find their loot.”
“Remind me to keep an eye on you the first time you’re in my house.”
The idea of Abe’s house had an atom bomb effect in my brain, shattering my concept of this intense attraction from something unexpected and sexy to real and even long-term.
“When would I be in your house?” I asked, lips pursed.
He swallowed hard. “Time will tell, I guess.”
I stole one more heated glance at Abe before turning back, toward the other passengers, hurtling toward Oxford. “So, uh,” I said, clearing my throat. “When Maeve came down the stairs and found me, I asked her why she had stolen illustrations worth two million dollars in her basement. She said, ‘Oh, those? How on earth did they get here?’”
“Sounds like an heiress I know,” he said, smiling slightly. “It’s the amazing thing about working undercover, earning their trust. There’s a certain kind of criminal that will lead you right to the smoking gun.”
Our train pulled into its stop, and we made the crowded journey across the platform and toward the library. Even a few streets away, the gorgeous greens of Oxford’s gardens were visible, only slightly muted beneath the cloudy sky.
Next to me, Abe slipped his hands into his pockets. “You know, it does say quite a bit about your talent and skill that Louisa hired you.”
“She might be regretting her decision at this point,” I said grimly.
“I’ve had to talk quite a few clients off the ledge before,” he said. “It never gets easier, and I only ever feel more like shit.”
I laughed. “Inspirational.”
He cast me a sideways glance. “No lying to each other, right?”
That look of his made me almost trip on the sidewalk. “Right.”
“I won’t ever tell you it gets easier when it, in fact, does not.”
We hit the long stone path leading to one of the most well-respected libraries in the world. Bernard’s library.
“The day Louisa officially hired me,” I said. “She told me I had a ‘fire in my eyes’ that she found seriously lacking whenever Interpol agents came to update her on their progress.”
“Yes, you do lack the dead eyes of bureaucratic drones,” Abe said.
“You’re still pissed though,” I said.
“About what?” He was staring at the magnificent, historic building with an impassive expression, but the flare of his nostrils and rigid posture betrayed his true feelings.
“That she hired me and not you.”
He looked down at the ground, toeing along the stone. “Vanity, thy name is Abraham Royal.”
I nudged my shoulder deliberately against his. “I know why it could be hard for you to come back here. You thought you’d snagged the biggest case of your career, only to have it taken away and given to the authorities you’ve come to despise.”
“Maybe I don’t have enough fire,” he drawled.
I remembered his conviction when he spoke about his ten-year hunt for Bernard, his passion for justice, the hunger there that mirrored my own.
And I remembered the sinful feeling of his lips on my throat.
“You seem to have more than enough fire to me,” I said with full honesty.
Then I led us both up the winding stone path, back to where it all began.
21
Abe
“Let’s head straight to Bernard’s office in the library,” Sloane said. “I have keys.”
My fingers curled into fists. I hadn’t been inside the McMaster’s Library since last November, when I’d dropped literally everything and flown out here after receiving Louisa’s call. Bernard hadn’t disappeared from my thoughts, but the cases Codex had been working at that point were opportunistic and disconnected from each other. There didn’t seem to be anything tying the abundance of rare book theft to a larger purpose—or a larger person.
Until the night I met Henry, looking shell-shocked and guilt-ridden, and he handed me a file of evidence he swore implicated his famous boss of a crime he couldn’t believe was possible.
Now, I was walking with Sloane toward Bernard’s office. What would it be like to view the elements of Bernard’s life that were banal and pedestrian?
We walked past the reception area—to the left was the small study room where I’d found Henry, holed up and guilt-ridden. And to the right…
To the right was a veritable cathedral of knowledge. Narrow skylights caught the dreary gray daylight and transformed it into something glittering and incandescent. The center of the room was filled with table after long table, where students bowed their heads over books next to softly lit lamps. Curved around them were dozens of mahogany bookshelves filled with books and towering almost as high as the vaulted ceiling.
“Incredible, isn’t it?” Sloane whispered next to me.
I nodded, throat tight. I didn’t often get to remember the emotional aspect of founding Codex. We received cases, my agents tracked down the books, we received payment, we celebrated with donuts and tacos. It was a satisfying and fulfilling cycle. This 300-year-old library was a testament to the gravity of Bernard’s many abuses, the callousness with which he viewed this vital part of our cultural history.
“Last time I was here, I didn’t get to see this,” I said.
She walked in front of me, crooking her finger. “Wait till we get to the best part.”
I followed her swaying hips down a long row of books to the bottom of a wrought-iron spiral staircase. We climbed it to a loft area. The floor was carpeted, quiet. A few tables up here were occupied by stressed-looking students. And in the middle stood a medieval-looking door. Next to it, an engraved plaque: Dr. Bernard Allerton, Director.
Beneath it was a typed note from Louisa: Dr. Allerton is currently on sabbatical and not receiving student emails or requests. Thank you for your patience during this time.
There were students all around us, so I held my tongue at the word sabbatical.
&nbs
p; With a sly grin, Sloane opened his office door and pulled me inside. When she flipped on the lights, yellow police tape marred the luxurious-looking office like an ugly scar. I could see remnants of my former profession—empty evidence bags, taped-off cabinets, dust stains from items clearly removed. Still, the essence of who Bernard pretended to be was there: overstuffed green chairs perfect for meeting or reading, large shelves filled with books and displaying his many academic accomplishments, framed degrees and pictures with famous thinkers, academics, and philosophers.
On the edge of the floor lamp hung a deerstalker cap, like Holmes. The shelf immediately next to it held slim volumes of every Sherlock story by Arthur Conan Doyle. On his desk was a pair of glasses, opened books, highlighters, a coffee mug. I bent down by the space where I assumed his computer had been before being confiscated. Dull and fading was a sticky note: Bernard, I received a strange request about the Mary Shelley retrospective. Can we discuss when you have a free moment? -Henry
I shook my head. Sloane touched the note, looked at me. “Your Henry, right?”
“My Henry,” I said softly. “It’s more difficult than I thought it would be, seeing the reminders that Bernard’s actions have hurt real people in my life. People I—” I stopped, cutting off the foreign words care about. “People that are currently in my employ.”
Her sharp gaze let me know she didn’t miss my verbal stumble.
I cleared off a small space on Bernard’s massive desk to perch. It was disheveled, unorganized, and I wasn’t sure if that had been the work of the agents or the man’s general state of being. Sloane settled into a massive recliner. “I believe Bernard is hiding within the two-mile radius mapped in that report you received.”
“I agree.”
“And I think our best shot is to assume someone is going to make a grab for those Doyle papers being auctioned off on Friday at Kensley’s.”
I removed my jacket and laid it across a nearby chair. “There’s no way Bernard actually makes a play for it obviously. But if we can gain access to that auction, examine the papers and the exits, we could catch a crime before it happens, use leverage to get the thief to unburden his soul and tell us Bernard’s location.”
She ran a hand through her hair. It tumbled back down in silky waves. “The worst case scenario is we catch a crime in the act and the authorities get called in. That’s still a way to cinch the net tighter around Bernard.”
I stared at that sticky note again, Henry’s bold handwriting. The stakes had never felt higher. “Agree.”
“So our potentially involved characters are Eudora,” Sloane started.
“I also think we should look at the director at the Kensley Auction, James Patrick,” I added. “He alerted Eudora to the sale and would be the closest to the actual item on auction night. And Peter Markham should be on that list, the grandson of Nicholas and owner of Adler’s. He’s apparently close with Bernard and enthusiastic.”
“A dangerous combo here,” she said. “What about… Humphrey and Reggie?”
I considered it. “We shouldn’t discount Bernard’s best friends. He could be staying with them for all we know, and Humphrey is a classically trained actor.”
Sadness flashed across her face. “For what it’s worth, my gut says they’re innocent.”
“Mine too,” I promised. “He is, at the very least, a gold mine. He’s given us a lot of good information and insight already.”
“True. All of these people are also potential hiding spots as well, if he’s actually in London.” She stood to pace the narrow burgundy carpet that ran down the hardwood floor. “According to Louisa, Bernard’s emails are being monitored as well as voicemails. His apartment is less than a mile from here and is currently under surveillance. Credit card activity is being monitored.” She stopped, tapped her fingers against the shelf of Sherlock books. “I’ve torn through this office more times than I can count, but I thought you could provide vital information here that I wouldn’t have known was important. Interpol took everything of value, of course…”
“They don’t get everything though,” I said. “And some things only feel pertinent if you have the background to understand its relevance.”
I was already starting to inch toward a pile of papers on Bernard’s desk, needing to see the evidence of his years of misdeeds out in the open, the thefts and the crimes hidden within meeting notes and conservation records.
“Wait,” Sloane said, cocking her head. “Codex. The past eleven months. I need to know the rest of the missing pieces.”
Blowing out a breath, I stood. Wandered to a wall of framed degrees and pictures—Bernard in magazines, at galas, teaching in classrooms, working with Henry and other staff.
Turning, I leaned against the wall and crossed one ankle over the other. “It all began with a code word,” I said, launching into a summary of Codex’s recent cases and the way I came to meet Henry Finch in that tiny room. The evidence he shared, the stolen works and carved-up pages, the books from their collections reportedly sent to other museums, never to arrive. The interns, the tours, the loans never approved—all pieces of Bernard’s system of moving rare books to private sellers through his work at the library. I told her about the code words, their use, and the way they’d unlocked doors for my agents at various levels of Bernard’s pyramid.
“Didn’t we once meet at Reichenbach Falls?” Sloane repeated, brow furrowed. “That was on a sign above the fireplace at Mycroft’s Pub.”
“I know,” I said. “I noticed the same thing. Bernard clearly uses elements of his own life throughout his criminal empire. Also, I tried the code with Eudora when I met with her.”
“And?” She was leaning forward.
“She recognized it immediately.” I lifted a shoulder. “Given she’s one of our suspicious people, it doesn’t surprise me in the least that she’s worked closely with the man since the day she joined the Society and she’s also involved in either buying or selling stolen books. It wouldn’t surprise me if every member of the Society had some small hand in it.”
“It honestly wouldn’t surprise me if they didn’t think what they were doing was that bad,” Sloane continued. “It seems like the community is tight-knit enough to see this as part of what they do.”
“I believe that to be undeniably true,” I said. “But it does put another check in the Eudora column.” I leaned back against the wall. “Do you know who Victoria Whitney is?”
Sloane shook her head. “Who is she?”
“Philadelphia’s wealthiest heiress with an antiquities collection that rivals Bernard’s.”
I filled her in on Bernard’s lady love, their whirlwind romance in different European cities, her role in the theft of Copernicus’s On the Revolutions of Heavenly Spheres. “And not only that, she was in possession of other antiques that Bernard had stolen for her,” I added. “Their romantic relationship ended a decade ago, according to Henry. But he appears to have been her main contact any time she wanted a book for her collection. And when she was brought in for the theft, she didn’t give Bernard up.”
“Wait,” she said, “Bernard Allerton was in… love? Eudora mentioned that he’d had an American girlfriend.”
I pondered this for a moment. “I’m not sure the man can love, at least not the way other people can. I believe he probably felt real affection for her, though. I always thought Victoria might be his vulnerability in the end.”
She was biting her lip and shaking her head. “A man like that is unable to love. I think his vulnerability is his greed.”
A wide range of emotions moved across her face, and I struggled to interpret what they meant. Struggled to admit I wanted to see beyond her sultry, confident mask to the vulnerable woman beneath. I was pretty sure her past wasn’t filled with sunshine and fucking rainbows. Maybe because I recognized an emotional skittishness that mirrored my own.
I tapped the cane that Bernard gripped in some of the pictures on the wall. “Bernard had this cane and a hunch i
n his back for years. You can see it in all of the recent photos. But Henry told me that the night he confronted Bernard, he stood on his own without the cane. Had a lower voice even, plus a straight posture.”
She huffed out a breath. “I know this game. A disguise that plays on people’s sympathies. We would never suspect our elderly grandfather of trying to steal our shit. It allows con artists to hide in plain sight.”
“Because the human mind loves to make up excuses when we don’t want to admit what’s right in front of us,” I said.
Oddly enough, Caroline had said something similar the night we’d broken up. She had reminded me, quite pointedly, that while I checked off her list of desirable qualities in a romantic partner, there was nothing else there. I was a well-dressed package complete with ambition, drive, intelligence, and a rising career with the FBI.
What I wasn’t was in love.
Off, on. Off, on.
Sloane brushed past me in a quick, back-and-forth pace through Bernard’s office. She was talking quietly to herself.
“Are you getting ideas?” I asked.
“Everything’s coming together, you know?” she said. “I’m happy we’re… I mean it’s nice to, like… have this.”
“What?”
She shrugged. “A partner to bounce ideas off of.”
“Don’t get used to it,” I said. “You’re back to being a lone wolf after this, remember?”
I’d meant it to be light and playful. I caught the hurt in her eyes before she clapped her hands together. “Are we going through Bernard’s office or are you just going to stand there?” Now she gave me a flirtatious smile, a silly tap of her foot as she crossed her arms like the world’s sexiest drill sergeant.
“Partners for twelve hours, and you’re already issuing demands?”
“I’m very demanding,” she purred. “Now get to work, Royal.” She clapped her hands again, and I retaliated by undoing my cuff links and slowly rolling my shirtsleeves to my elbows. She sashayed past me and yanked open a filing cabinet full of papers. “I’ll take this one. You take the desk.”
In the Clear (Codex Book 3) Page 15