“Yes, ma’am,” I said. And we got to work. As partners. In Bernard Allerton’s office, surrounded by a lifetime of lies and deceit and inventive manipulations. I’d always assumed I wanted to punish that man more than anything else in my life—more, even, than I wanted to see my father punished for abandoning us.
Yet that need was quickly outpaced by another, more pressing need. The need to watch Sloane as she quietly sank to the ground, surrounded by files, the curtain of her black hair obscuring half of her face. The need to lean forward on my knees, wrap my arm around her waist, and yank her beneath my body; the need to fuck her on this office floor with one hand pressed to her mouth to keep her quiet in this historic library.
The need to ask her more, listen more, learn more. The desire to unravel a mystery as captivating as the ones I’d been chasing my entire life. The mystery of the woman who had bewitched me from the second I’d laid eyes on her.
Which was a shame, since I had plans to revert to being a lone wolf after this as well.
22
Sloane
Two hours later, and it was like a small tornado had torn through Bernard’s elegant academic offices. Abe was standing by one of the bookshelves, pulling open pages and searching for hidden notes. He was slightly disheveled: tie off, top two buttons of his collared shirt open, sleeves rolled up. I had ink running down my fingers and smeared along my arms and had kicked my boots off ages ago.
We’d worked in a quiet, comforting silence, in between moments of finding potential clues and dissecting them. It was invigorating and helpful and far too fucking pleasant. What I needed from this partnership was to use Abe’s connections and skills to find Bernard. What I didn’t need was any kind of proof that needing someone could add anything else to my quality of life or state of happiness.
Happiness in life wasn’t my goal anyway—success was.
I’d been tearing through old planners, taking notes on who Bernard often met with, any patterns that might illuminate where the hell he was. Henry Finch was all over this calendar as was Victoria, who Bernard noted as Lady Love. Meals with Humphrey. Flights to Istanbul, Prague, Tokyo. Train tickets to Paris, Edinburgh. Staff meetings, galas, ceremonies celebrating libraries and academic research. A weekly meeting at an apothecary with “E,” which I marked on a sticky for further questioning.
“Abe?” I said, breaking a long, productive silence.
He hmmm-ed, distracted, before putting down a book and looking at me.
I held up the planner, waved my hand around the office. “Do you think Bernard cared about any of this? The libraries, the conservation, the fundraising. I mean truly cared?”
Abe rubbed the back of his neck, winced a little. “Henry thinks he does. We’ve talked about this a lot at Codex. The complicated tapestry of Bernard’s moral code. Even with all that Henry’s seen, and all that he knows, he firmly believes his former mentor exists easily between the world of well-respected scholarship and shadowy underworld. Exists, as in believes both are necessary.”
I tapped the calendar, stared at the picture of him standing with Victoria. “If that’s true, it goes back to that story Humphrey told us. About Bernard taking their things. Because he could. He adheres to a different set of rules than the rest of the world.”
“The man clearly believes in the power of libraries and clearly believes in the power of money and greed,” he said.
I shifted around the pile of planners, tucking my feet beneath me. “I met with dozens of Sherlock Society members before you arrived. Attended their luncheons, their meetings, took them out for drinks. They were all eager to talk about Bernard when I asked.”
“Anything in particular stand out?”
“I couldn’t pull together a clear picture of Bernard’s motivations at all,” I replied honestly. “And the more I met with people the murkier my understanding of him became. He…” I paused, gathered my thoughts. “He manipulated every single one of them. Maybe not for nefarious purposes, but they all spoke about his charisma. When he spoke to you, you were the only one in the room. He remembered little details, he brought gifts, he noticed things about you that others never did.”
Those meetings had always made me squirm. Because Bernard’s techniques were classic con man tricks. I knew them, my parents knew them. And as a detective, I still used them to gain trust.
“I once led a team of agents that arrested and charged a powerful CEO who was responsible for a pyramid scheme that stole millions of dollars from people in this small town in Connecticut. This was about six years ago. And he was so charismatic I used to send in three agents at a time during interviews. Because he’d charm the first two so easily they’d come to me claiming his innocence. And they weren’t new agents fresh from Quantico. These were stalwart men and women who delighted in locking up men like that. He was just too good.” Abe was looking away, almost dreamy—like he was holding back.
“Good memory?” I asked, chasing the source of that dreaminess.
“Professionally, yes, actually. At the time, I was pretty frustrated with my work at the Bureau, but that case was one I’ll never forget. And one I’ll always be proud of. Because that CEO was a goddamn sociopath who destroyed people’s lives. Putting him behind bars had a real effect on the scales of justice.” He slid his steel eyes toward me. “I had a girlfriend at the time who didn’t see it that way unfortunately. Although I admit that case dominated my every waking thought. Not much time to tend to our relationship.”
There was a bizarre feeling in my belly at the thought of Abe in a relationship. “When did the two of you break up?” I asked.
“About five years ago. She’s married now and has a baby. Which makes me happy. I felt guilt for a long time knowing she spent a year of her life with a man who wouldn’t give her what she needed.”
I brushed a few strands of hair behind my ear, tilted my head. “Have you ever dated anyone that distracted you from work?”
Abe stared at me. “No. Not yet. Although my mother and Jeanette beg me to find her so they can finally become grandparents.”
“Your moms sound like smart ladies,” I said. “You must be Philadelphia’s most eligible bachelor. There are a lot of women who would kill to date a man who cared so deeply about righting the wrongs of the world.” While looking that hot in a suit.
He didn’t respond to my observation. Instead, he countered with, “And how many hearts are you breaking in New York City right now? Ten? Twenty?”
I laughed, surprised. “Not a heartbreaker,” I said. “That would imply I stayed around long enough for them to learn the language of my heart.”
His throat worked behind his collar. “Has anyone learned that language?”
“Not yet.”
To avoid bursting into flames, I re-focused on that picture of Bernard and Victoria. Thought about vulnerabilities, the soft spots and weaknesses of a con artist. For my parents, my best guess was their marriage was one of criminal convenience, a distorted partnership that bound them together through years of lies and thievery. I stood up, tugged at the deerstalker hat hanging from the end of the floor lamp.
“I take back what I said about vulnerabilities. It’s not only greed.”
“It’s Sherlock Holmes and Arthur Conan Doyle,” Abe said softly. “Bernard’s one emotional obsession.”
“The private papers from Doyle that he lost the first time they were made available was also the first time he’d ever been denied. Been told no and had it mean something,” I continued.
He nodded along, then scrubbed his hands down his face. It’d been a long two hours, and I could feel my scratchy eyes and aching back. “Everything here, all of these books, have something to do with Sherlock Holmes or Doyle. It’s like a kind of shrine.”
He grabbed the last book on the shelf and opened it.
A photo fell.
He snatched it up as it hit the ground. “Sloane.”
I was there in an instant. And there was a fluttering in my belly cause
d by Abe’s firmly speaking my name. Not Devon or Ms. Atwood or Ms. Argento or any other teasing moniker. Abe flipped the picture around and tapped it with his fingers. “That’s Bernard. And these are the members of The Empty House that Sam and Freya got arrested.”
I took the picture, looked at Abe. “I only know about The Empty House from the articles written about the case in the newspaper.”
He pointed to a white man with an Indiana Jones-style hat on. “That is Dr. Bradley Ward, the head of The Empty House and formerly a well-known academic and professor.” He indicated an elegant-looking white couple. “Thomas and Cora Alexander, also in the secret society and close with Ward. We believe Bernard had the Alexanders steal a first edition of Don Quixote from Ward. And we believe Bernard also had them steal the George Sand love letters that Sam and Freya ultimately recovered. Thomas and Cora admitted to my agents on multiple occasions that Bernard was stirring the pot, potentially destabilizing the group without concern for anyone other than himself.”
“That matches his personality,” I said grimly. “Were the Alexanders the thieves themselves? Or did they use someone?”
Abe grimaced slightly. “We think they used a librarian intern named Jim Dahl. Dahl was working at The Franklin Museum in Philadelphia for six months prior to them receiving the Sand letters. He stole them and forged additional copies to sell. He was never caught, so we can’t be sure, but our guess was always that he was the thief used to steal from Dr. Ward too.”
“He’s still on the run?” I asked.
“No sign of him,” he answered. “I’m sure he’s one thief of many that Bernard has used throughout the years.” He flipped the photo over, frowned. “Apparently this picture was taken during an annual trip to Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland.”
“Interesting,” I drawled. “Look there’s our friend Eudora.” She was dressed in a poncho and rain hat, smiling beatifically. Hard to place this innocent-looking cat lady as the same lady Humphrey said would bury your body beneath her floorboards if you crossed her.
With narrowed eyes, Abe brought the picture closer. “Well you don’t say. That is our favorite president. I wasn’t aware Eudora Green was an official member of The Empty House. Maybe this wasn’t specifically a trip for the secret society but a trip for the Sherlock Society.”
I squinted at two men off to the side, slightly blurred. One man held the hand of a little boy. “Then who are they, and whose kid is that?”
He shook his head. Examined the scrawled notation on the back again. “Peter, Nick, and James.”
I pulled out my phone, typed in James Patrick, Kensley Auction House. The first picture returned was the man in that photo, just aged by twenty years.
“So, this young boy must be Peter; the older man, his grandfather Nick. The bookstore owners.”
“The Sherlock Society. Adler’s. Kensley,” I added. “That’s our net, our radius. Those are our suspects.”
He held the picture close, squinting. “Can you find a current picture of Peter Markham?”
“I think I saw him the other night,” I mentioned. “Leading a discussion at Adler’s. This is him.” I found a picture on their website. He was a younger white man with red hair and a beard. Abe stared at it for a long time.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Something about his face is jogging my memory, and I don’t know why,” he said. “Which is infuriating.”
“Like you recognize him?”
He rubbed his brow. “Yes. I’m just not sure how. He’s a London bookstore owner, and unless he’s committed a crime in the States, I’d have no reason to recognize him. Right?”
I shrugged. “You and I both know our field is built upon a system of hunches. Don’t discount it. Maybe let it sit for a while.”
“True,” he said. “Hopefully you won’t be offended when I take this picture, by the way.”
“I saw nothing,” I winked. Stalked back to the pile of calendars I’d been sifting through.
“Speaking of hunches, one of Bernard’s weekly appointments is bugging me,” I said, scooping down to flip one open. Abe followed, looking over my shoulder. His breath sailed along the curve of my neck, igniting more fluttery feelings. More longing.
“This one,” I said, steeling my voice. “Every Wednesday night last year it says 7:00, Midnight Apothecary with E. I’m thinking Eudora, right? Illegal or not, they would have had plenty of Sherlock Society business to talk about given their roles in the organization.”
“Likely it’s her,” he said. “And tonight is Wednesday oddly enough. Do you think she still keeps her appointment?”
“With Bernard?” I asked, disbelieving.
“That would be extremely risky, and that man is anything but,” he said. “If anything, Eudora might still go there, and we could happen upon her. Use it as an excuse to work her for info.”
I tapped my phone against my mouth, thinking. Liking this plan. “I had a rather boozy brunch with Gertrude, the office secretary for the Sherlock Society. She liked me.”
“Who wouldn’t?” Abe said.
I winked at him. “Let me follow a feeling.”
I called Gertrude’s number in my phone, remembered that she adored chocolate and biscuits.
“Sherlock Society for Civilized Scholars,” came Gertrude’s bouncy English accent.
“Gertrude?” I said, tentative. “It’s Devon Atwood.”
“Oh Devon, what a nice surprise, love,” she gushed. “I was thinking about you last week actually. We must do lunch again before you head back to America.”
“I’d love it,” I swore. “Can I bribe you with biscuits for top-secret information?”
A sweet, tittering laugh came through the phone. I placed her on speaker, looked away from Abe’s face before I got too distracted. “You know me too well! Ask away, bribe away.”
I bit my lip. “It’s Eudora.”
“What about her, love?” An edge to her tone that hadn’t been there before.
“You’re going to think I’m an airhead, but she and I made plans tonight, and now I can’t get a hold of her, and I can’t remember where we’re meeting. She didn’t mention anything to you, did she?” I made the mistake of catching Abe’s slow grin at my acting. Took a step back.
“For tonight? No that can’t be right,” Gertrude said. “Every Wednesday night she’s at Midnight Apothecary, blocked off. She never goes anywhere else.”
Abe’s grin transformed into an intense focus.
“I see,” I replied. “Well, I must have gotten the dates wrong. I’m sure we’re meeting tomorrow night instead. Since I’m in town, is Midnight Apothecary a place I should visit?”
“Oh, it’s darling,” she said. “Cutest little cocktail bar. Right near the old auction house. Kensley’s. You know it, love?”
This time, Abe and I couldn’t help but lock eyes. “Oh, I know it,” I said. “Thanks again for the tip. I’ll bring you biscuits this week.”
When I hung up, Abe was already starting to put Bernard’s office slightly back together. “If we want to get back to London and to that cocktail bar, we should get going.” He stopped, looked back over at me. “Nicely done, by the way. If she’s no longer meeting with Bernard every week, I want to know who a book thief is meeting, weekly, right next to the auction house we’re staking out.”
I exhaled, proud of myself. Invigorated that another person was here to catch me in the act. That never happened.
A quick thirty minutes later, and I was shutting the office door firmly and re-locking it. We both let out deep breaths. I pulled my hair into a ponytail while Abe stretched his neck, brushed a few wrinkles from his jacket.
“To cocktail hour?” I asked softly.
“Making demands and taking me on a date,” he whispered. “Partnership with you sure is strange.”
“Girls like me do enjoy dates that involve watching potential suspects from behind bushes.”
He stared at my mouth for so long I worried he’d kiss me rig
ht here, in the middle of the fucking library. Instead he growled, “Let’s go.”
I was helpless not to follow his broad back, his refined and elegant profile. Down the spiral staircase, we were back in the ethereal library. The same students were still in the same seats, same positions. Different books. The room was filled with the devotional scratch of pencils, the clicking of keyboards, the sound of books being shelved by various librarians.
A dark-haired girl wearing a black sweater sat in a far corner by herself. She looked like me, so much so that I stopped walking. Stared. Felt transported back to those four years in college when I was constantly alone. The girl didn’t appear sad, but the look on her face didn’t convey happiness. I’d floated in that same gray area, accepting my goals were to make enough money to pay for classes then graduate and make enough money to pay my bills. I worked nonstop, very aware that any fuck-up with my grades or behavior could lose me the scholarship I relied on.
Those connections—with friends or boyfriends—never excited me anyway. My background was a tightly guarded secret, and that meant no one got in.
Abe touched my wrist with a look of genuine concern.
“Are you okay?” he whispered. The pressure of his fingers was comforting.
“Of course,” I replied. “Let’s go make our train.”
He didn’t let go immediately. And when he did, he seemed disappointed in me.
I knew why. I had lied to him.
And not lying to each other was one of our rules.
23
Abe
At 6:00 p.m. on the dot, I smoothed a stray hair back into place. Brushed one piece of lint from my cuff. Shut my extremely organized suitcase.
I was ready for a night of cocktails with Sloane.
I was ready for a night of surveillance on a potential suspect that was probably part of a web of international book thieves.
My laptop pinged with two emails bearing Codex addresses. One from Freya with a bunch of pop culture memes attached I refused to understand. One from Delilah, with a quick summary on The Black Stallion case: I wouldn’t normally do this, since you’re on vacation, but the Thornhills win again! Book was retrieved, in mint condition, from the museum’s secretary who thought she could make extra cash. She shouldn’t have admitted all those secrets to her favorite married couple. And because I know you’ll ask, our fee has already been paid by the client.
In the Clear (Codex Book 3) Page 16