Under the Rose

by Nolan, Kathryn

  “Good to know, sir.” I reluctantly slowed the treadmill to a stop, mopping my face with the end of my shirt.

  “They informed me that you were very cooperative in talking about Gregory’s crimes.”

  “Of course.” I bit off the end of that sentence—because I didn’t do anything wrong. When my ex-partner’s crimes had been discovered, my father assured me he knew I hadn’t participated in Gregory’s years of deception. But the Deputy Director of the FBI couldn’t tolerate an agent who’d been so easily misled. And he certainly couldn’t endure the media frenzy of a son under investigation from the Office of Professional Responsibility.

  Andrew Byrne had a perfect reputation to uphold—and knew a small private detective firm in Philadelphia where he could hide me from the spotlight.

  Even though I knew I was innocent, his actions only fueled my veiled guilt.

  “Do you know when they expect a decision?” I asked.

  “As soon as possible. Until then, keep your head down. Abraham told me he’d keep you busy with minor cases. They’re private detectives. It can’t be that hard.” There was a long pause, riddled with judgment. “You should have plenty of free time to fix this.”

  I winced, happy no one was around to see it. “Yes, sir.”

  The demand was a direct reference to the conversation we’d had after I’d been informed of my partner’s nefarious crimes. He’d left me to sit in his office for an hour while news about Gregory broke and rumors about what had happened spread like wildfire. And when he’d returned, he still didn’t face me as a father, concerned for his son.

  He faced me like the Deputy Director.

  Don’t you ever feel this way? I’d said, desperate. Overwhelmed. Don’t you ever feel like the world is spinning out of your control?

  My father’s face had remained expressionless. If an agent feels anything other than pride when he walks through those doors, it is absolutely his fault. Fix yourself, Samuel. Before you embarrass yourself, and our family, even more than you already have.

  Fix yourself.

  He had disconnected the call while I was lost in thought—the ensuing silence was his standard farewell. Working with Codex could be more than a punishment. If Abe trusted me with a case, and I closed it, it could go far in proving to my father that I was fixed. My father’s opinions on Codex notwithstanding, it could go far in proving to the Bureau that my outburst was a freak mistake and not a symptom of an underlying issue.

  I cranked the speed on the treadmill again—feet pounding hard. Arms moving, lungs expanding, sweat beading my brow.

  I ran faster. And then faster still.

  If we caught a case, it would be my best chance. I’d just have Freya as my partner while doing it. The only woman who’d ever gotten under my fucking skin. Yesterday she’d scowled at me like I’d lit a stack of her favorite paperbacks on fire. Angry, her green eyes flashed emerald. A fact I remembered from our countless arguments in class. And at the library. And during dinner. And walking down our dorm hallway.

  I wished I’d forgotten how exquisite her eyes were, angry or not.

  But that would be a fucking lie.

  Her uniform hadn’t changed in seven years either—giant glasses, messy bun, oversized sweater, and yoga pants. I’d always towered above her petite form, and I still did.

  I increased the speed again. Faster.

  I was sprinting now, burning through the spiky, hot energy that Freya always evoked. I hated that she smelled the same too, a nostalgic scent that knocked me for a fucking loop. Earl Grey. Cinnamon. Sugar. Freya smelled like her favorite things: tea, books, and cookies. She had when we were at Princeton. She had at Quantico.

  My finger jammed down onto the button.

  I ran like my career depended on it.

  5

  Sam

  Two hours later and I was perched on the couch in Abe’s office, watching my former instructor write the words Antiquarian Book Festival on a big whiteboard. Henry and Delilah sat nearby. Henry was whispering close to Delilah’s ear, and even behind her hand, I could tell she was blushing.

  Love, companionship, sex. They were also considered luxuries when you were dedicated to one job and one job only.

  I glanced away, cleared my throat. Straightened my posture. Even when I was younger, I’d barely dated—a direct result of Freya’s aggravating presence in my life. It required a lot of mental energy to stay one step ahead, one point better, one minute faster. She was compelling for too many reasons.

  “Is Freya always late?” I asked, glancing at my watch.

  A half-smile flitted across Abe’s face as he wrote things down. “Every damn day. But she makes up for it by bringing all the food we could ever eat.”

  Not a moment later, the woman in question was bursting into the room like a ray of golden light—cracking a joke with Henry, making Delilah laugh, unpacking donuts and coffee and tea satchels from a bag that read #1 CAT MOM. She spun in a circle, noted the available seating, and flashed a defiant look my way.

  “Byrne,” she said.

  “Evandale,” I replied. “Take a seat.”

  Face rigid, body stiff, she plopped down cross-legged on the cushion next to me, careful to keep our bodies apart. The air filled with cinnamon and sugar. A strand of blonde hair brushed across her neck. Her lips were pink and plump and pursed in irritation. At me. While the rest of Codex talked around us, Freya prepared for battle.

  “Didn’t think you’d be back,” she murmured. “Figured you’d be too intimidated.”

  “By you?” I asked. “That’s never been the case.”

  “Spoken by the man I once knocked on his ass ten seconds into a sparring session.”

  I set my jaw, hid a smirk. Like most FBI agents, Freya and I had received extensive training in a hand-to-hand combat style called Krav Maga. Our sparring sessions were long and grueling because Freya never submitted. But neither did I. And the strange ability we’d always had to read each other’s minds made it all the more challenging.

  “I never back down, Evandale, you know that,” I said, still refusing to look at her. “And if I remember correctly, you might have knocked me on my ass. But I was the one who pinned you to the ground.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught her flush. A flare of her nostrils. Seven years later and here we were, seated next to each other, ready to take the other one down. So it was no surprise that I still felt the aching, illicit thrill of the fight. Of her fight.

  Next to me, Freya shifted farther away. But not before muttering, “Pervert.”

  It startled a laugh, which I covered with my fist. Freya’s mouth tipped up slightly.

  When was the last time I’d done that?

  Abe clapped his hands together. “Morning, everyone. Sam, happy to have you back.”

  “Morning, sir,” I said. “I’m excited to get to work.”

  I didn’t have to look at Freya to feel her rolling her eyes.

  “We’re talking strategies around the book festival,” Abe said. “Freya’s code words, any updates we can fill Sam in on.”

  “I’ve got good news on the code front,” Freya said. “I think I’ve got these weirdo rich assholes figured out.”

  I was struggling to admit I was actually interested in this. The Art Theft unit was mired in bureaucracy, which meant I was levels removed from this kind of on-the-ground investigative work. If there were code words being discussed by my team back at the Bureau, I wasn’t aware of them. But I wanted to be.

  “Do go on,” Abe was saying. “I want to make sure that we—”

  But a rapping knock sliced through the room. Abe stopped.

  “Are we expecting anyone?” Henry asked as he stood. Abe shook his head as Henry moved through the office. There was only quiet from Henry as the sounds of his footsteps reached the door.

  “Who is it?” Delilah called over her shoulder.

  “Well,” Henry said slowly, “I believe it’s Scarlett O’Riley.”

  A st
unned silence echoed through the room.

  “The Scarlett O’Riley?” Abe clarified.

  “I think…yes. Yes, the.”

  “Well, for god’s sake, let her in,” Abe instructed. But we were already standing, crowding toward Henry. Who was, indeed, welcoming the Scarlett O’Riley into the Codex office. She was Hollywood’s latest It Girl—the young, rebellious, pink-haired director the world was currently obsessed with. And she was standing in our doorway, nervously shifting on her feet.

  “I’m looking for Abraham Royal?” The woman—Scarlett—said.

  Smooth as ever, Abe stepped forward, shook her hand.

  “I’m Abraham,” he said. “Can we help you?”

  In person, she was as bright and shiny as she’d been earlier that year when she’d become the youngest film director to win an Oscar. Her next project was already receiving a ton of attention, and it hadn’t even started filming yet.

  “I sincerely fucking hope so,” she replied. “I’m Scarlett O’Riley, and I’m directing a film about the writer George Sand.”

  “We’ve heard of it,” he promised. “And of course, we’ve heard of you.”

  She blew out a shaky breath. “George’s love letters to the poet Alfred de Musset are a focal point of my biopic. The originals are being used on set, and we arranged to borrow them from the Franklin Museum and transport them to Los Angeles.”

  Understanding was starting to dawn on Abe’s face.

  “Early this morning, I met Francisco and his conservation team to oversee the preparation of the letters for transport. We’d agreed to meet at six to get an early start to the day. Two drivers were already in the parking lot, waiting to make the cross-country trip.” Scarlett was flushed, disconcerted. “When Francisco let us into the storage room, they were gone.”

  “All thirteen of them?” Henry looked physically pained.

  “Yes,” she replied. “Sometime in the night, the letters were stolen. I don’t know, this is all very new to me and entirely unexpected. We need those letters to be on set, in Los Angeles, in four days. They cannot be lost or stolen or whatever the fuck happened to them.”

  “Let me guess,” Abe mused. “Francisco sent you to us because of our discretion.”

  “It’s the first thing he did,” she said. “No cops. No authorities. We just need the letters back and we need it done now.”

  Freya’s emerald gaze found mine, and a frisson of adrenaline tangled between us. I should have felt more star-struck by Scarlett’s presence, but my fascination was reserved for another woman in the room.

  “Thank you for letting me barge in here and demand help,” Scarlett was saying. “Francisco said you’d helped him about six months ago in a major way.”

  Henry and Delilah exchanged a wry grin.

  “One could say that,” Abe replied. “Come in, sit. Can we grab you anything to drink?”

  Scarlett shook her head. The phone in her hand was going off constantly.

  “Do you have staff with you? Assistants?” I asked.

  “They’re back at the hotel,” she said. “I need to invent a convincing lie about what happened this morning. They can’t know either.” She sat down, and we all gathered around, Abe already beginning to pull out documents. Henry and Delilah snapped to attention, ready for action.

  “Were the letters under extra security?” Abe asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Scarlett said.

  The underlying theme of antiquities theft was the complete and utter trust that prevented buyers and sellers from suspecting their extremely rare goods would be stolen. From what Abe had told me, Codex made its money on this vulnerability—and kept its pristine reputation by cloaking what they did in secrecy. Museums would pay an exorbitant sum to keep the theft of their antiques away from reputation-damaging press.

  As would Hollywood directors.

  “I’m guessing these letters have become extremely valuable since the news of your biopic broke,” Abe said.

  “These thirteen love letters are attractive enough on their own,” Henry said. “If they were going to be featured in a highly anticipated film, you could expect to see their value double. Triple. We’re talking millions at auction, easy. But they’d have to be dealing with other criminals and their private collections. These can’t be featured at auction—they’d be too notorious.”

  “Who knew about the transport, Scarlett?” Abe asked.

  “Everyone who worked at the museum,” she said. “Francisco is on his way. He said he’d call you on the drive over to chat suspects.”

  “There’s been lots of chatter about love letters on the websites I monitor,” Freya said, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Antiques lovers follow trends. Believe it or not, the news of this biopic caused a renewed interest in letters like the ones you’re planning on showcasing.”

  “Thieves follow the same trends,” Delilah said. “Anyone chatting George Sand specifically?”

  “Not specifically,” Freya said, “but I don’t think they would on a site like Under the Rose. Not unless it was encoded.”

  Abe’s phone rang. “It’s Francisco. Keep talking, all of you.”

  He strode out of the room, speaking low.

  I turned to Scarlett. “And you’re not reporting the theft to the police?

  “No, I will not,” she said. “Per Francisco’s advice and guidance, he said that Codex could recover the letters without anyone knowing. Avoid the media spectacle.” She looked tense. “The film company took out a large insurance policy on these letters. The amount we’d owe on a claim of stolen property of this value could bankrupt the project from the get-go. Tarnish my name, the film, and my company.” She lifted a shoulder. “Oscar or not, my company is indie and new. We can’t risk this so early on in our career.”

  Then you shouldn’t have let the letters out of your damn sight.

  Freya and I locked eyes. She was thinking the exact same thing.

  “Ms. O’Riley,” I started, “you should call the police. Right away.”

  “She’ll do no such thing.” It was Abe, strolling back in with a calm expression. “That was Francisco. Scarlett, he informed me that you’d like to formally hire my firm to recover all thirteen letters and return them to you untouched.” He placed a warning hand on my shoulders. “The police are a last resort here at Codex. As you know.”

  “I understand it’s a risk,” Scarlett said. “But filming was set to begin on Tuesday morning. Can you have them in L.A. by then?”

  “That’s only four days from now,” Freya said.

  “Francisco said you could do it,” Scarlett replied.

  “Of course we can,” Abe said.

  “Can I suggest a team time-out?” Freya held up her finger.

  “There’s no time for further discussion,” Abe said sharply. “Delilah and Henry, stay here and work with Scarlett on gathering additional information. Francisco is on his way. Freya, Sam—I need you in the field doing visual surveillance on a man named Jim Dahl. A photo of Dahl is on its way to your email, Freya. He’s an intern working in special collections who did not arrive for work today. After six months of perfect attendance.”

  “What did Dahl have access to?” I asked, helpless not to pry.

  “He was working as Francisco’s assistant,” Abe said, looking right at Henry. “Dahl was overseeing the conservation of the letters.”

  “So this…Dahl person was a librarian?” Scarlett asked.

  “And possibly a criminal, too,” Henry said. “This is a strange world, Ms. O’Riley. Hard to know who you can trust.”

  Abe handed Freya a slip of paper. The reality of this situation collided against me like a hard hit to the gut. Recovering an antique that was so high profile, and so urgent, was the perfect case for my current situation. But no fucking way could I do it with a woman who drove me up the goddamn wall.

  “Uh…what…” I struggled. Focused. “What’s the objective?”

  “Just surveillance to gather intel. Do not s
pook him. Do not let him be made aware of your presence. Track everything he does. Right now, the element of surprise would be our strongest strategy. If he knows he’s being followed by private investigators, we’ll blow our chance to have him lead us to his hiding spot.”

  “Henry and Delilah are way better at that,” Freya chimed in. “Send them. I’ll stay here and order us tacos. Scarlett, you a carnitas girl?”

  “My orders are for you and Sam to go.” Abe’s tone was icy—a tone he used on Quantico students when we were in his classes. It had the intended effect—we both straightened like disobedient schoolchildren. “Unless Dahl is waving the stolen letters around in public, which I highly doubt, do not involve the authorities.”

  Abe’s voice held a note of caution only for me. My father’s disdain for Abe—and Codex, in general—stemmed from the fact that private detectives didn’t always utilize the proper channels. Justice, from my father’s perspective, was a clear world of black and white, cause and effect. The only reason I’d been banished here was that he knew Abe would keep me busy on “cases” the FBI considered trivial and out of the spotlight.

  This case, however, appeared to be neither of those things.

  There was a flurry of fevered activity—the Codex team worked well under pressure—and all too quickly, Abe was shoving Freya and me toward the door. I glanced at the clock on the red brick wall. Barely an hour had passed since I’d arrived this morning for my first real day at Codex. Sixty minutes was all it had taken for Freya to become an intimate part of my life again. Would we ever escape each other?

  “Be safe,” Abe was saying. “Get the damn book back.”

  “Letters,” Freya corrected. “And can I make one more complai—”

  The Codex office door slammed in our faces—the sharp sound like a rebuke.

  And suddenly we were alone—together—for the first time in seven years.

  Freya stepped away from me. But her back connected with the wall, halting her exit.