Under the Rose

by Kathryn Nolan

  “I couldn’t agree more,” I said. “I appreciated your speech this morning. We’re in truly hazardous times.”

  “That we are,” he nodded, then stepped closer and dropped his voice. “A member of our community was arrested six months ago. I wouldn’t be surprised if we were being spied on as we speak.”

  Was he talking about Alistair? Victoria?

  “I’ve thought a lot about what you’ve said, Julian,” he continued in a soft voice. “About our circles of trust, tightening them. Making them as small as possible until the threats are sniffed out. I’ve had no luck locating my missing item.”

  “I’m truly sorry to hear that,” I said.

  “When I find the person responsible, I’m going to kill ’em.”

  The words left his mouth so casually I yearned for the gun I no longer had. I couldn’t be sure whether they were truth or posturing. My first analysis was that Dr. Ward merely played at being a stately gentleman with a keen mind. Beneath that expensive suit was a man with a rash temper.

  Which made him even more dangerous.

  “What happened to you was a disgrace,” I said. “It’s like we…” I pictured Freya next to me, tried to anticipate what she’d say. “It’s not like we choose empty houses without intention. We trust that we’re protected.”

  A look of understanding appeared on his distinguished face. “Very true. If it is, indeed, a member of our inner circle, it will be a real betrayal. The kind that cuts deep. And I haven’t informed our leader.”

  “Your secret is safe with me,” I promised.

  “Good man,” Dr. Ward said. “I was merely down here to find a few minutes of peace before this weekend’s scheduled chaos.” He knocked his knuckles against the same hollow spot. “Are you ready for tomorrow night?”

  “Ye-yes,” I hedged.

  “I’ve always loved this old hotel,” he continued. “Such a grand history of subverting the laws of the land. Capitalism thrives on a system of supply and demand. Even Prohibition couldn’t halt the flow of buyers and sellers, purveyors and consumers. It’s a travesty to deny a man a stiff drink. And it’s a travesty to deny him other things as well. Nothing, however, can be denied if you have money. And even the authorities”—his voice dripped with disdain—“haven’t figured out how to make money less powerful.”

  I swallowed a rising tide of irritation. Of all the criminals I’d had the privilege of investigating, it was those like Dr. Ward who pissed me off the most. I steal because it is my right. If I had my way, I’d be tossing Ward in a grimy jail cell.

  “Do not be late tonight,” he commanded. “My room is on the thirteenth floor. 1303. Nine p.m. sharp.”

  “Absolutely,” I replied. “Although it’s odd for a hotel to build a thirteenth floor, isn’t it? Bad luck?”

  “There’s no such thing as luck, Julian,” he said, placing a hand on my arm before turning to leave. “There is only opportunity. The men who bought this hotel knew that, as do I. As do you, if memory serves.”

  I nodded but remained silent. You should have stayed with Freya and read more of those messages.

  “I do remember,” I said. Safe enough. “I’ll let you get back to your preparations.”

  But as I turned to go, he called my name again. The low lighting gave him a devilish air.

  “It’s black tie. This whole weekend, as you well recall.” He gave my standard government suit a slightly aghast once-over.

  “I do recall. The airline lost my luggage…” I shrugged, backing slowly away.

  “Yes, I heard,” Dr. Ward said. “The two of you have been plagued with troubles since you arrived.”

  “We have,” I said, stepping backward into the elevator. “But things are finally looking up.”

  18

  Freya

  I texted Delilah. Can you bring me a fancy and un-Freya-like dress to wear to a top-secret thing tonight?

  She replied immediately that she’d be right by. I’d spent the better part of the afternoon scouring through Birdie’s messages on the Under the Rose site. Every sentence seemed encoded, or too general to arouse suspicion, but based on context, Julian and Birdie were beloved. There were hundreds of messages from happy customers—“Received your valuable packages, thank you for your discretion and timely action”—and a high volume of daily activity. But their exact relationship to the Alexanders, Roy, and Dr. Ward was still shrouded in mystery.

  Not every puzzle piece fit together. From what I could gather, Birdie had deleted whole swaths of messages—and I still hadn’t been able to crack Julian’s password. I didn’t like missing such a huge chunk of information. It was going to make pretending to be them significantly harder.

  I re-read a selection of messages between Birdie and Thomas. The man truly believed he was the victim of an honest-to-god curse. Bad things follow me now, Birdie, he’d written. I’m as sure of it as anything.

  My phone buzzed with another text from Delilah. How’s Sam doing? Does he need anything?

  I drummed my fingers against the side of my phone. Fidgeted on the bed. He’s a-okay, I typed back, uncomfortable with the lie. Although he could be “a-okay.” I just had no fucking clue where he was right now.

  Sam couldn’t have known that not trusting my investigative instincts cut deeper than our usual competitiveness. He couldn’t have known how often I agonized that dropping out of Quantico meant I couldn’t handle the pressure of being a real federal agent. That I would never, ever be good enough.

  And he could never know what our almost-kiss had cost me.

  His admission had sent hope rippling through my body. Too much hope. I’d felt positively buoyant, ready to float into the clouds. His muscular body towering over mine had my head spinning and my hands curling against his bare, ridged abdomen. My archnemesis was a man who did things right the first time. Perfection was his goal in all aspects of his life, and I’d bet George Sand’s love letters that he aspired to that goal when it came to sex. There had always been a dance-like quality to the intensity of our sparring sessions. It was our peculiar ability to anticipate each other’s moves, to read each other’s bodies, the unique twists and turns. The two of us, naked, in bed together?

  I’d probably explode.

  I’m here outside the hotel came Delilah’s text. I placed my laptop in the hotel room safe and headed for the bank of elevators. I wished there was a way I could find these letters without having to go directly undercover again. I’d demanded Sam do it my way, but without a partner on my arm, nerves were settling in. Online sleuthing from the comfort of a hotel bed was my happy place.

  Going undercover with a bunch of fancy book thieves—sans a partner—was my idea of a nightmare. But the alternative was telling Sam I needed his help, which would never happen in a million years.

  The elevator doors opened on Roy Edwards, looking especially weasel-y in the hotel lobby. He slouched toward me.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for Ward’s thing?”

  Neither Birdie nor Julian had had recent contact with Roy—only a flurry of exchanges around the time he wanted to meet them in person. Their reticence had been telling. Maybe Birdie and Julian didn’t trust Roy Edwards.

  “I’m about to get ready,” I said brightly. “Julian and I were lucky enough to acquire a couple rare finds this afternoon at the convention. You might see them in our store the next time you come out that way.”

  He took a step closer to me—subtly menacing even in this crowded lobby. I held his gaze, but my palms were sweating.

  “Next time, I’d be happier if the two of you didn’t blow off our agreed upon meeting. I didn’t wanna make a big thing in front of the Alexanders, but we both know what happened.”

  Think think think.

  The messages had stopped abruptly after this supposedly botched meeting. But before that, Birdie had been promising him something extremely unique and insanely valuable.

  “I know you were upset, Roy,”
I said softly. “We promised you something very unique.”

  “Unique is good. I can make a lot of money with unique,” he said.

  “Listen, Roy, can I tell you a secret?” I asked. His face lit up—he was probably a man who accumulated secrets the way he accumulated wealth.

  “Do the Alexanders know this secret?”

  “Not even Julian knows I’m telling you this.”

  He looked around, covert. “I’m a keeper of confidences. You know that, Birdie.”

  Bullshit.

  “Julian and I were too embarrassed to see you that day. We’d made this big promise and…” I paused, seeing if I could get a read on him.

  “And what?”

  “The shipment disappeared. The shipment of what we promised you.” I made a show of glancing at the people milling around us, the public space.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t…” I fake-stumbled, dropped my voice to a whisper. “I don’t know, Roy. You’re a man of this world, well-regarded in this community. You know all the ways these transactions can fail.”

  He lifted his head at that—looking like such a trust fund douchebag I wanted to smack him. “Thank you. There are some in our circle who don’t see me that way.”

  “I’ve always seen the real you, Roy.” I touched his arm. “And I can’t say what truly happened except that our shipment was interrupted.”

  “Interrupted how?”

  I hardened my tone. “Stolen.”

  Roy was shaking his head. “Thieves among thieves. Who can you trust anymore?”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” I said. “If we seemed hesitant after our failed drop-off, it stemmed purely from embarrassment. We take our reputation seriously at King Barnes Rare Books. I’m sure a man of your stature would understand.”

  He preened like a peacock. “I like knowing things that others don’t, Birdie. And I don’t enjoy being disrespected.”

  “I’m well aware,” I said. “And tonight? Just remind me of where the festivities are?”

  He narrowed those devious eyes again. “You received the information, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, and promptly forgot. It’s been a day. I’m too ashamed to ask Thomas.”

  Roy’s distrust was replaced with eagerness. “Room 1303. Ward’s room. 9:00 pm. And don’t forget you’re in my debt now, Birdie. Twice.”

  And then he slithered away like a swamp lizard. I fought a shudder. But at least I had the room information, and a possible in with Roy. And if the letters were one and the same…

  It was a small victory, but I’d done it on my own. As Birdie. Without Sam’s help or Delilah’s or Abe’s.

  Standing right outside with a few fancy options. See you in a minute?

  Delilah’s text was still blinking on my phone. I’d received it just as Roy stopped me. Tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, I took a quick breath, straightened my sweater, and started to stride as confidently as I was able to through the lobby.

  I’m Birdie Barnes, motherfucker.

  That is until I spotted a familiar, elegantly dressed, white-haired woman walking out the doors and toward the sidewalk.

  A woman who could totally not see Delilah Barrett—because Delilah and Henry had technically stolen a book right from under her and gotten her arrested in the process.

  Victoria Whitney.

  19

  Freya

  “Victoria,” I trilled. “Yoo-hoo.”

  I was halfway across the lobby, and Victoria was frozen between two sets of double doors, seconds away from stepping out onto the sidewalk where Delilah was standing. I dialed Delilah’s number and heard her say, “Frey, is that you?”

  I kept the line open as I skidded to a breathless stop in front of Victoria.

  She turned fully and took me in with a cool assessment. Victoria was dressed in all black, with heavy pearls and her white hair swept into a low bun.

  “Did you just yoo-hoo me?” she asked. One hand clutched her purse, the other, the door.

  “Apologies,” I said humbly, “I’m still a bit jet-lagged from our flight out of San Francisco. I’m discombobulated.”

  “And you are?” she asked.

  “Birdie. Birdie Barnes,” I said.

  A lightness came over her features.

  “I’ve heard whispers about you and your partner, Julian,” she said. “And yet I don’t know you. How is that possible?”

  I fluttered my hand to my chest. “We must rectify that immediately. I’m assuming you’re a lover of antiques?”

  Victoria’s smile was inscrutable. “One could say I have a penchant for them, yes. You’ve surely heard of my collection?”

  “Everyone knows your collection,” I replied. “If you’re ever in need of anything, anything at all, let Julian and me know. We often come into items you can’t always find in regular rare book stores.”

  A slight tilt to her brow. “Ah. I see. We are of the same ilk.”

  “You could say that.”

  She was eagle-eyed, examining me like a rare first-edition she wanted to steal.

  “I have a feeling about you and your Julian,” Victoria said. “You are the blood of the next generation. Young, attractive, wealthy.” She dropped her tone. “And understanding of the many complexities of what we do to acquire what we love.”

  “What an honor and a compliment I will treasure,” I said. “Are you enjoying the convention? Do you attend every year?”

  “Of course,” she said. “The book festival is the most notable rare book gathering in the country. And I’ve been homebound for quite a long while.” She laid a hand on my arm. “I’m redoing my kitchen, and it has been ghastly. I tell you, you can’t find good contractors these days to save your life.”

  “One of the tragedies of our time,” I sighed. Redoing my kitchen was an interesting interpretation of I was placed on house arrest by the FBI.

  Victoria peered out the door, waving at a black limousine that was pulling up to the curb. “I’ll be returning tomorrow, but I have dinner guests arriving, and someone needs to oversee the cleaning of the portraits. Let’s discuss more at a later date, Birdie, shall we?”

  “We shall,” I said. My heart was crammed into my throat—unsure if I’d given Delilah enough notice. But Victoria sailed through the doors and floated out to her waiting limousine with not a single care in the world. I was secretly pleased to see that house arrest couldn’t stop Victoria from being, well, Victoria.

  As soon as she was out of view, I stepped outside, scanning the sidewalk for Delilah. I expected to find her crouched behind a telephone pole, wearing an ill-fitting fake mustache and glasses.

  “Frey. Psst. In here.”

  I turned around. She was in the narrow alley between The Grand Dame and the museum right next to it.

  “Close call,” I said. “Did you get my signal?”

  “I did. But don’t worry, I was already hiding. I figured at least some of our contacts might wonder what Delilah Thornhill was doing here,” she said, referring to the fake-married-name she’d used when first partnered with Henry. “I didn’t expect it to be Victoria though.”

  “Of course,” I said, exhaling. “You always think ahead.”

  “How’s it going in there?” she asked.

  I glanced back toward the street, made sure no one was lurking. I gave her a quick rundown of what we’d uncovered but left out my fight with Sam.

  Delilah listened, eyes widening at appropriate times. “Nice work. Even though it’s terrifying at times, it’s kind of fun, right?”

  “I’m pretty sure I’m failing miserably,” I said. “I’m only about twenty-five percent sure about what we should be doing, or how we’re ever going to get those letters back.”

  “You’re doing what a private detective does,” she countered. “Following a trail of clues. You might end up with nothing. You might end up with everything. Who’s to say?” She leaned in. “More fun than stakeouts though.”

  I scratched my bun. “I lik
e our stakeouts. We get to eat French fries, and you let me give you dramatic reenactments of the books I’m reading.”

  Delilah waited—like any good detective. I sighed. “Okay, yes, it’s fun. Doesn’t mean I’m any good though.”

  Her cell phone rang, and she gave me a quizzical look before answering it. Abe, she mouthed. I could hear his voice but not what he was saying. Delilah’s forehead creased as she listened.

  “Of course,” she said. “She’s right here. One sec.”

  “Are you missing me in the office?” I said, trying to hide my sudden nervousness.

  “Not in the least,” Abe drawled. “Listen. I’m calling with a complication.”

  My senses itched with dread.

  “Scarlett was just approached directly by another private detective firm. They were following a source that informed them they know exactly where the letters were taken after the robbery. According to Scarlett, they’re on their way to recover them now.”

  “Let me guess, they’re not here.” I kicked the wall of The Grand Dame.

  “Freya.” Abe’s tone held shades of an apology. “Our contract’s in jeopardy. This other firm says they’re being stored at a location in New York City. They expect to have them by midnight.”

  Midnight. I leaned against the brick, letting my head fall back. “Okay. This is what I have thus far. I spent all afternoon memorizing online exchanges from Under the Rose and trying to decipher patterns. We’ve befriended a shady rich couple named Thomas and Cora Alexander, who have heavily implied stolen letters are here. Somewhere.”

  I gave Abe a summary of our breakfast, the messages, and the intriguing things we’d heard through the hotel wall. “And Thomas referred to these letters as being encrypted with a code. George and Alfred used a code in their letters.”

  “But without a visual or some other confirmation, this could all be coincidence,” he said. “There are other rare letters that use coded language.”