Behind the Veil

by Kathryn Nolan

  “Do the clients know?” I asked. Delilah had told me as much the other day—the interesting gray area Codex and the FBI operated in together.

  “Sometimes,” Abe said, “although it’s rarely their concern. You’d be surprised at how many of our clients merely want the item back, regardless of punishment.”

  “Delilah hates that part,” I added.

  “Delilah is a very just person,” Abe agreed. “But she’s starting to bend a little.”

  And I was too—although every day at Codex was nudging me closer to vengeful than I’d anticipated.

  “According to my contact, late last night, a bureau agent working with an Interpol field office believed they spotted Bernard in Greece.”

  “What?” I asked, leaning forward. “They’re sure?”

  “They’re not even remotely sure,” he said. “The photos were blurry, inconclusive. It could have been another person entirely. Bernard fled quickly that night, but in many ways, I believe he’d been planning for this inevitability for a long time. The fact that he’d compiled those letters, incriminating you, tells me he had a back-up plan. I believe he is well-prepared to be underground for a while.” Abe swirled his bourbon. “I thought you should know.”

  “Did Delilah tell you she asked me if I knew where he was?”

  He rubbed his jaw. “She’s smart. Smarter than me, that’s for sure.”

  “Did you think I knew where he was?” I asked. “Does everyone here think I was helping Bernard?”

  “I never thought that,” Abe explained. He sipped his drink, eyeing me over the glass. “I did think you thought he was innocent.”

  “That’s not untrue,” I admitted. “I know he’s guilty now. I just never wanted to believe it.”

  He rubbed his eyes, glanced down the street for our limo. He sighed raggedly. “I think I fucked everything up, taking this job.” I went completely still at this uncharacteristic confession. Almost two whole minutes clicked by before my boss spoke again. “This job was too risky, and not once did I see a clear path to success. But it would have been our highest profile case yet with the largest payout and I…”

  “You what?” I asked.

  Abe crunched ice between his teeth. “I guess I’m still a little pissed that the McMasters Library didn’t hire me to go after Bernard and the Tamerlane. I can be…unnecessarily prideful. And I hoped that Codex would be able to recover the dozens of stolen manuscripts he’d sold throughout the years more quickly than the FBI or Interpol. And more successfully.” Abe swirled liquor around his glass—we both watched the splash of liquid. “I started Codex as a way to remove myself from the innate competitiveness of the FBI. The backbiting and politics and internal drama that did nothing to improve our success and everything to diminish it. Now I can’t help but feel like I’m back in it, taking a job we can’t possibly close just to prove to myself we could do it.”

  “If Francisco hadn’t told us that the FBI hadn’t been successful in their recovery efforts, would you have been as interested?” I asked.

  His eyes flashed with humor. “Smart man.”

  I was silent.

  “I started Codex because I felt like we lost a lot of things—manuscripts, antiques, rare art—because of slow-moving, bureaucratic bullshit. It’s why I think it’s important that you’re here, Henry. To remind us of the cost beyond one person stealing from another.”

  “Is that the whole reason why you started it?”

  Abe shook his head. “Three years ago, I was leading a small team focused on the northeast region. A lot of rare books were being stolen in this DC, New York, Philly corridor. It was incredibly high-pressure, high-stakes. And two of my employees were dating each other.”

  It felt like there was no air in the room all of a sudden.

  “That wasn’t allowed, I’m guessing?” I asked.

  “It was frowned on, but not technically in violation. I didn’t have a real recourse to prevent it from happening. But their relationship grew volatile. Emotional. They dragged their arguments into the office, and I spent long hours mediating. The toxicity of their relationship bled into every other aspect of our unit.” He grimaced, as if the memory still had a visceral effect.

  “Did you fire them?” I asked.

  “I was starting the process of firing them both during the week we were set to raid a house in Queens. We didn’t anticipate the owners having a lot of firepower. Turns out, they did.” He gulped the rest of his drink. “One of them was shot in the leg and spent two weeks in the hospital and another four in physical therapy. Because we were all distracted.”

  “I don’t you think you can—”

  “We were distracted.” Abe’s tone was firm.

  “Right.”

  And how often this week had Delilah and I almost fucked up because we were distracted? I squeezed the bridge of my nose. At night, on the job, the consequences of indulging in our little fantasy felt sexy and daring.

  This just felt shitty. And what was I doing—kissing her in closets and writing her notes and telling her she was beautiful in a million different ways?

  “You can ask Delilah how that romantic distraction feels,” he continued, “although her situation was incredibly different. She was manipulated by a sociopath. But when she first started here, she appreciated that we were a team of honest professionals. A team that trusts each other.”

  “I appreciate that too,” I said thickly. My hands drifted to my vest pocket, where I’d tucked away the surprise I was bringing my partner. It felt silly now—and wildly unprofessional.

  Was I the same as Mark, pulling this talented, amazing woman away from her dreams?

  “Anyway,” he continued, “I’d already had the concept for Codex floating around for some time. I had a few friends who were private detectives, and they found their jobs to be rather freeing. And I was tired of losing the books, tired of the in-fighting and the stress.”

  “You told me when we first met that you’d been chasing Bernard for a long time.”

  His eyes were like steel. “I have.”

  “But Bernard isn’t our purview. The book is. Right?”

  Abe narrowed his eyes—gave a grim smile. “You’re exactly right.” He poured another finger of liquor into his glass. “I’m the kind of person that often needs to hear my own advice, Henry. You should know that, if we’re to continue working together.”

  “I understand the desire though,” I said. “I’m a rare book librarian. The return of a book like the Copernicus should be my priority. But…”

  Abe waited.

  “I want to personally put Bernard in prison.”

  “Me too,” he said, swallowing his drink. “Being a human being is very complicated, I’m afraid.”

  There was a honk from outside. “Dorran’s here to pick you up. Are you ready?”

  I nodded.

  “Promise me you’ll stay safe.”

  “I promise,” I lied.

  35

  Delilah

  A white stretch limo sat idling at the curb outside of the Codex offices—looking extremely out of place in this historic part of the city. And so did we. Henry and I were standing in our fanciest clothes, facing Abe and Freya.

  “Camera,” she said, tilting my wrist. I was wearing the silver band with the secret lens.

  “Camera,” she said again, grabbing Henry’s watch. We both nodded. “Abe and I are both programmed into your speed dial in case you need us. But if something really gets tricky, call 911. And call the cops if you get actual eyes on the book. I’ll be online, monitoring any chatter. If, for whatever reason, Abe and I pick up on information you need to know, or would be helpful, I’ll text you.” Freya glanced at Abe.

  “See what you see and then get out of there,” Abe said softly. “Those are your orders. Delilah?”

  Abe knew I needed to be told twice. I gave him a very serious nod. “I understand.”

  My boss was sending his detectives into a high-risk recovery situation alrea
dy assuming we’d fail.

  I didn’t fucking like it.

  Dorran beeped his horn—his classic greeting. Abe nodded curtly and strode back inside.

  Freya gave me a hug. “Good luck,” she whispered. And she startled Henry by doing the same. He looked at me over the top of her messy bun—bemused and then grateful.

  “Dream team,” she said, pointing between the two of us. “Now go get ’em.”

  She walked back inside, leaving Henry and me completely alone for the first time since last night. Henry was in a cream linen suit and a white shirt, unbuttoned at his throat. It exposed a tempting swatch of dark brown skin. His eyes studied the whimsical layers of my skirt, the cinched waist, my bare collarbone, the rounded curve of my shoulders. I felt exposed, analyzed, handled with supreme care.

  “You look exquisite.” His voice was intoxicating.

  “The same can be said of you,” I said.

  Henry opened the door, and I slid into the limo we’d been riding in together for weeks now. Every time it felt massively extravagant with only two people inside. He sat across from me, straightened his glasses, hooked his cufflinks. We were finally alone, in as private a space as we were going to get for the rest of the night, and instead of blurting out the jumble of confused emotions he was making me feel, I could only think of Freya’s careful warning.

  Henry seemed to be experiencing something similarly frustrating—his brow was furrowed, fingers in fists at his sides. He kept beginning to say something and then stopping. But when he finally managed to speak, he expressed something else entirely.

  “I might have an alternative plan for tonight,” he said. “What did you think about what Abe said back there?”

  “You mean our orders?” I corrected.

  Behind his glasses, his eyes crinkled at the sides. “Delilah,” he said. And in his voice, I heard the intensity of our stolen moments.

  I relented. “I don’t like them. I feel fucking disappointed. Angry.”

  Henry leaned forward. “I had this memory when Freya was showing us the pictures of Victoria’s house. It might be nothing, I don’t know, but I can’t stop thinking about it.”

  The hair on my arms stood up.

  “Tell me,” I said.

  “It was something offhand that Bernard said once. That he once knew a woman who loved books so much she built secret hallways to hide her favorites.”

  “Wait, what?” I asked, all of my senses sparking to life.

  “Secret hallways. To hide her favorites,” he repeated.

  “You think that’s Victoria?”

  Henry shrugged. “I think there’s a reason my subconscious won’t let it go.”

  “If Victoria has secret passageways in her house, how would we get to them?” My mind was already leaping ahead, puzzling out this new information.

  “I have no fucking idea,” he said gravely. But I laughed anyway—the sound tugging the ends of his lips up into a grin.

  “I’m serious.” He was still smiling. “I have no idea. I don’t know if we’ll know until we get there. And it might mean nothing. And he could have been talking about any other woman. Truly. But this memory’s been trying to get my attention for days now, Delilah. Doesn’t that usually mean something?”

  “Chasing a lead,” I murmured. “It can be the best feeling in the world if you know what it means. Or the most frustrating.” I tilted my head. “You’re a real detective now, Henry Finch.”

  He was still grinning at me, and my heart beat so fast I felt out of breath, almost dizzy.

  “You didn’t say anything to Abe and Freya though?”

  He leaned back in the seat. “You’re my partner. I wanted you to know. Not them. And I don’t think Abe would have told us to do anything about it.”

  Warmth blossomed in my chest. How far we’d come from bumbling around art galleries and moving through this case like strangers.

  “It could mean absolutely nothing,” my partner repeated.

  “Or it could mean everything,” I said.

  I bit my lip, glanced toward the black privacy window that separated us from Dorran. The thought of this—the hint of success for this case—made me feel reckless.

  “You know, I have a secret too,” I whispered. I flashed him a flirtatious smile.

  His eyebrow arched, amused. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Well, I’d show it to you, but it’s under my dress,” I said.

  How easily—and quickly—I forgot myself around Henry.

  A predatory gleam came into his eyes. I pursed my lips, his look making me feel coquettish.

  We were only looking at each other.

  And it was just one more time.

  And just in here.

  “Why don’t you show me?” he asked. Although we both knew it was a demand.

  I crossed my legs beneath the layers—his eyes landed at the juncture between my thighs. I was sitting in the limo with a man who knew intimately the feel of my sex, clenching in orgasm.

  Small office, intimate situations, Freya had cautioned.

  If Henry and I didn’t pursue whatever this might be—would it always be like this? Tempting and teasing each other when we were supposed to be professionals?

  If we did pursue it—could we ever be truly professional again?

  “Delilah,” he said, shattering my concerns. “Show me your secret.”

  I reached down obediently. Clasped the floaty ends of my skirt between my fingers. Slid the material along my ankle and halfway up my calf.

  “Slower,” he growled. His posture screamed dominance in a way I’d never seen before. The closet had been pitch-black, silent—hurried. Beneath that finely tailored suit, what kind of man would Henry Finch truly be like in bed?

  Our eyes were locked together, frozen in a kind of battle I didn’t truly want to win.

  In the end, I let the gauzy material glide up every inch of my legs with the laziest tempo I could manage. And Henry tracked every single inch of bared skin. When I finally, finally reached the garter belt, I thought he was going to tear the seat clean in half.

  “Zip ties,” I said. “Duct tape.” My dress was pulled all the way to my hip. “In case we get into a tough situation and I have to tie up Sven.”

  “I see.” His eyes blazed with hunger. “Seems we’ve both come prepared.”

  The limo came to—what felt like—a screeching halt. I turned my head toward the window—and my jaw dropped at the sight of Victoria Whitney’s mansion rearing up in front of me. It appeared somehow larger and more grandiose than the last time we’d seen it.

  “We’re here,” I said, dazed from the scrape of Henry’s voice. Dazed at the evening we were about to have.

  He looked like a sleepwalker just coming to. I swung the door open, sinking my stilettos into the wet, manicured grass.

  My knees were trembling.

  Henry appeared behind me, palm at my low back.

  “I’m sorry,” he started to say at my ear. “I got a little—”

  “I’m not the least bit sorry,” I said.

  So much yearning filled his expression I had to turn away before I leapt into his arms and suggested we drive off into the sunset together. But we were on the job now.

  Focus. Stay safe.

  “I brought you something.”

  That yearning was back—this time in Henry’s voice. And when I turned around, he was holding a whimsical-looking corsage of pale pink roses.

  “Oh,” I said, momentarily startled.

  “You’d said you never went to prom and I thought you would like this. Even though this isn’t prom and we have a very serious job to do.” Indecision flashed across his face—and I knew, intimately, what he must have been feeling.

  “I love it,” I said. “It’s perfect.”

  The slow smile that spread across his face was charming as hell. And it was just for me.

  “Can I see your wrist?”

  I held it out dutifully, aware of couples around us starting
to descend from their limousines, dressed in their finery. This appeared perfectly appropriate—we were two newlyweds, enjoying an evening together, adorned with pink flowers. He clasped my hand gently, turning it over. Slipped the flowers over my fingers, down to my wrist. His thumb caressed circles at my pulse point, and my fingers responded, trapping his forearm. Holding him to me. We stared at each other, content to breathe in this moment.

  “There,” he said. “You look even more exquisite now.”

  I took hold of Henry’s lapels and pressed my lips to his cheek again—right out in the open, for all to see. Inhaled the smell of his skin for one decadent second before stepping back and letting go. Because we didn’t have many of these moments left.

  Dorran knocked on the passenger side window, trying to get our attention.

  Any more moments of sheer honesty between Henry and me would have to wait.

  Victoria’s Tudor mansion glowed brightly in front of us, lit up with guests and laughter. Couples were stepping out of similar limousines, dressed to the absolute nines. Notes of classical music floated toward us on the breeze.

  I ducked my head down to Dorran in the driver’s seat. “Thank you,” I said. “You know where to wait for us?”

  “I do,” he said. “Just call. I’ll be ready at any moment.” I nodded at him as he drove off.

  Lifting his elbow, Henry said, “Are you ready, wife?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be, husband.”

  We both smiled at that—a recognition, a stirring, an acceptance of the job in front of us. The house rose up like a wave of red bricks. And silhouetted in the grandiose doorway was Victoria, dressed in a tapered gold gown, greeting guests like a resplendent bride at her wedding.

  Although a myriad of sharply dressed couples vied for her attention, she only had eyes for us.

  “Well, if it isn’t Mr. and Mrs. Thornhill,” she exclaimed. “I’ve been waiting for you to arrive. You both look ravishing.”