In the Clear (Codex Book 3)

by Kathryn Nolan

  Bernard had all of that in spades: money, respect, trust, and intelligence.

  Internally, the man was the prime suspect for orchestrating a ring of rare book thefts that had carried on for more than two decades. Bernard had been the head of the McMaster’s Library in Oxford, England, and had accumulated a lifetime of academic notoriety and international prestige. He was brilliant, charming, and well-respected by librarians, booksellers, and antiques collectors alike.

  All of this had provided the shield he needed to steal some of the rarest manuscripts in the entire world and sell them to private owners for millions and millions of dollars. The net that international authorities had tossed to catch Bernard was fraying to pieces; instead of cinching tighter, it continued to allow the man to slip away.

  At Codex, our two largest cases—the infiltration of The Empty House secret society, and the recovery of a rare manuscript by the astronomer Copernicus—had put Bernard Allerton directly in our sights. That, and Henry had been Bernard’s assistant for ten years before coming to work at Codex. Henry’s suspicions, and months of detailed evidence, had precipitated the man going underground.

  So close, so far. As Sam handed me the file, those twinges of guilt were replaced with a surge of boiling frustration. It was my usual daily amount, and one of the main reasons why a vacation probably was a good idea. With each case we closed, with each book we recovered, with each pawn we toppled in Bernard’s pyramid of thieves, I felt us inching closer and closer to his whereabouts.

  So close, so far.

  “What does your contact think of those credit card charges?” I asked, idly flipping through the pages. When I was at the Bureau, I’d been reprimanded several times for obsessing over Bernard. The agency was happy to keep him on a short-list of suspicious people; they were not happy that I used an abundance of work hours diving into research holes and coming up with nothing. Until I pulled Sam to work alongside me for my last year at the Bureau. His enthusiasm for catching Bernard was the only sliver of hope I’d had during my final year.

  “For what it’s worth, he believes they’re a trail of clues worth looking into. Even if they’re red herrings, I think their hope is to find out who orchestrated the card usage and press them for info,” he replied.

  I thumbed through pages of blurred security footage and visual surveillance. Bernard was a master of disguise; he blended in with ease.

  “Before this, our last real report of a Bernard sighting was in London,” Sam said.

  His body language was loose, but his face was grave. Discerning.

  “I remember,” I said slowly.

  He retrieved the folder from my outstretched hand. “Good,” he said. “Just want to make sure you’re going on vacation, sir.” A pause. “Not a cowboy mission.”

  “I’m no cowboy.” I stared intently at Sam despite my eyes wanting to flick to my email. It was a classic tell, and I wasn’t keen to get caught in a lie.

  “If one were embarking on a one-man mission to capture a known criminal, one might want to ask for help,” he said quietly.

  My heart skipped in my chest. I exhaled, slowed my body’s response. Two months ago, I’d had to sit in a car and listen while Sam and Freya were caught in a dangerous hostage situation inside The Empty House auction. Freya had a knife to her throat. Sam had several guns trained on him. When Sam had shot Roy Edwards—the man with the knife—I’d known the truest moment of terror I’d ever experienced in my life. If I’d walked into that room and seen Sam or Freya hurt, or worse, I would have quite happily torn Roy limb from fucking limb. I found it interesting these four kept calling me soft when the protectiveness I felt towards them edged close to violence.

  Admiring this team was quite different from asking for their help, however. If my father had taught me anything, it was that asking for help got you nowhere. And needing help was a weakness I didn’t care to explore.

  “It’s a vacation, Sam,” I said firmly. It wasn’t technically a lie. Tonight, I would dutifully fold those Hawaiian shirts and pack books I wanted to read into a suitcase and set off for a stay in a luxurious hotel with an elegant history.

  He tapped the Bernard file, and my fingers clenched into fists automatically. He tracked the movement.

  I arched my eyebrow.

  With a curt nod, Sam stood. “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you for the information,” I said.

  “Thank you for taking care of yourself,” he said. “You taught me the value of that, remember?”

  I glanced away, evading the compliment. “Can you close the door on your way out?”

  He complied, leaving me alone for the first time in hours.

  I turned back to my inbox—staring at the subject line from an anonymous sender that said: The location of Bernard Allerton.

  Not surprisingly, the location was London.

  2

  Abe

  London, England

  I was taking my mother and step-mom to afternoon tea at the famous Palm Court in The Langham Hotel. Well, virtual tea. It was my first official day in London, and I was seated on an elegant, cream-colored couch sipping black tea from a fine china cup.

  My phone was propped up across from me so we could video call. The two women on the screen had never been to London and both dreamed of traveling here. I worked to quiet the pesky voice that suggested a good son would have taken them wherever they wanted, whenever they wanted—I was that damn grateful to them.

  Work, however, was always in the way.

  I raised my cup in a cheer and allowed a small smile when my mothers raised their own, all the way from Miami where they lived in a beach-side condo with three rescue Pomeranians and more friends than I could keep track of. They were both nearing seventy but had active and vibrant lives, which I was unbearably happy to see. It had been twenty-five years since my mother’s car accident that left her with a traumatic brain injury, robbing her of her ability to speak and walk. Over four years, my mother worked day and night with a rehabilitative nurse to regain her strength and abilities—and though recovery was considered a life-long journey, she embraced life with the zeal of a person given a second chance.

  And instead of clinging to her anger when my father betrayed us and left, she’d done the opposite. My mother had fallen in love with her rehabilitative nurse—Jeanette. About a year after ending her position as my mother’s caregiver, the two began dating. They hadn’t been apart a single day since.

  Unfortunately, my anger toward my father hadn’t abated. It crystallized into something hard and immobile in my chest.

  “Why are you wearing a suit on your vacation?” my mother asked, peering through the screen.

  I smoothed my palm down my tie. “What else does one wear? Leisure is no excuse not to look your best.” Jeanette snorted and I flashed her a rare smile. “How are the dogs?”

  “They miss you,” my mom said. “We miss you. I’m so glad you’re taking this time. I really am. But can you sneak in a weekend with us before you head back to the city?”

  More guilt, more regret. I thought vacations were supposed to alleviate these feelings, not amplify them. “I can’t,” I said, watching their faces fall. “Next month, though? Maybe I can take a week, work from your condo if the dogs will allow it.”

  “Oh they will, Abraham. They will,” my mother cheered. “We’ll clean out one of the guest rooms and turn it into a makeshift office. The glass doors open onto the beach, which would make your employees extremely jealous.”

  “When I’m not inspiring fear in their hearts,” I said, “I do like to inspire envy.”

  “Inspire is right,” my mother countered. I attempted a scowl. “Freya tells us all the time in our group chat what a great boss you are.”

  “What group chat?”

  “All three of us are watching Love Island,” Jeanette said. “Which you should watch while you’re there. Unwind. Relax a little. Maybe throw on a sweatshirt.”

  I indicated my attire. “This is my relaxing
suit. A man should only wear a sweatshirt while sleeping.”

  “And have you been sleeping?” my mother asked. I could feel a gentle rebuke, wrapped in nurturing, all the way across the ocean.

  “I am trying,” I said, which was the truth.

  “Please keep trying,” she replied. “I hate seeing you like this.”

  “Like what?” I asked. I hadn’t been aware I appeared differently to anyone.

  I watched both women exchange a look. “Joyless and frustrated,” my mother said.

  A dozen standard pithy remarks rose in response. The expression of sincerity reflected on that little screen evoked a tightness in my throat. I wasn’t opposed to happiness, nor was I opposed to ease. The instability and chaos that ensued after my mother’s accident was only conquered with order, security, and preparation. My work—the pursuit of justice—fulfilled those needs perfectly. Joy was reckless and chasing it low on my list of priorities.

  “And yet I’m drinking tea with the two people I love the most in my life,” I finally said. “There’s a lot of joy to that.”

  My thoughts pinged to Bernard and the email waiting for me. My fingers tensed on the delicate china. Frustrated. Maybe they had a point.

  “Of course,” my mother agreed. “We’re only saying… it wouldn’t kill you to let loose a little. Embrace the efforts of your hard work. Maybe bring home a girlfriend.”

  I worked to loosen my jaw. “Freya and Delilah gifted me Hawaiian shirts for this trip in the effort to get laid, as they would say.”

  The women on the screen shrugged—judgmentally.

  “She said it, not us,” Jeanette said.

  “And I’ve already reached my limit in talking about this with my family members,” I said. “Drink your tea. I’ll order some tiny cakes so you can get the full afternoon tea experience.”

  They oooohed when cake arrived and entertained me for a full hour with stories about the dogs and their recent Bingo nights. I was jet-lagged, tired from the plane, and in a city where I knew not a single soul. But this—this virtual tea-time filled with Pomeranian anecdotes—felt like the closest thing to relaxation I’d come to in months.

  An hour later, I was back in my hotel room, setting up multiple screens and laptops on the small mahogany table by the plate-glass doors. Open, they led to a balcony overlooking a bustling London that was darkening beneath a slate-gray sky.

  In a few hours, I was attending a lecture called The Final Problem at Reichenbach Falls and How Sherlock Holmes Refused to Die.

  It was being conducted by Eudora Green, the president of the Sherlock Society of Civilized Scholars. Bernard was, according to Henry, an absolute fanatic when it came to his devotion to Sherlock Holmes and his creator, Arthur Conan Doyle. Interestingly, Bernard was still listed as the vice president of the Sherlock Society on their website.

  The Problem of Reichenbach Falls…

  I founded Codex because I believed a firm of private detectives could more successfully recover stolen rare books than the Bureau. Museums and libraries hired us to work quickly and quietly—they trusted us to keep the theft out of the press, protecting their reputation and status with their donors in the process. It never boded well when a museum or library had to step forward and announce they’d lost a priceless artifact. And yet it was happening all across the industry. While at the FBI, I was hamstrung by red tape and frustrated with the bureaucracy. Yet my Codex agents were recovering stolen books left and right. Often working undercover, my team could manipulate known criminals and gain the trust of potential suspects. We had an impressive close rate and an impressive reputation, made more so by Sam and Freya’s infiltration of The Empty House.

  The man I’d always believed to be at the top of this pyramid of wide-scale book theft was Bernard.

  Didn’t we once meet each other at Reichenbach Falls?

  About a year ago, Freya had started picking up the threads of code words used on the website Under the Rose. Book thieves were inserting coded language into their posts to alert others they had stolen goods for sale or were interested in buying stolen goods. The first one she’d ever uncovered was the phrase “Didn’t we once meet each other at Reichenbach Falls?”

  Every other code word we’d deciphered had roots in Sherlock Holmes.

  I was currently staying in The Langham Hotel, where Arthur Conan Doyle had once famously eaten dinner with Oscar Wilde. In the ballroom off the lobby, the Sherlock Society was about to give a talk with an explicit mention of the code word.

  Rubbing the back of my neck, I opened my email and clicked on the message that had been burning through my brain. I’d received it three weeks ago, had planned this trip to London a week later. I would call it a happy fluke if ever questioned about it. And deep down, I wasn’t entirely sure what I expected would happen here. Only that my need to see Bernard behind bars felt like rocket fuel in my veins, propelling me forward at a rapid pace.

  The location of Bernard Allerton, said the subject line.

  The sender was anonymous, but the tone of the email smacked of an FBI agent’s pragmatism. I thought the Deputy Director might be the culprit, except he was much too prideful. Possibly a former colleague from Art Theft had sent it or an old supervisor. Who would think to send it to me? Before he’d joined our team, Sam had been my FBI contact. We had a quid pro quo that worked well. I sent him evidence of any criminal acts we stumbled upon. He sent me tips if we were stalled on a case. That contact was gone now—and my leaving had sparked outrage and dismissal from my FBI coworkers. Not a desire to help.

  The email was short and direct:

  The Bureau is sitting on detailed surveillance that indicates Bernard Allerton is residing in London. Resources are extremely limited right now. With every picture attached, agents gave chase and attempted to apprehend the man they’d spotted, only to have him elude their efforts. We got word that those Interpol agents are being pulled from the London-Oxford area and sent to Prague instead, leaving the suspect unattended. I’m sending this to you because I believe Bernard will make a move without the daily threat of being caught by the authorities.

  I recognized this feeling—decisions made that often didn’t line up with what agents on-the-ground could tell you. Red tape keeping suspects from being apprehended for no damn reason. But it was true that large agencies like the FBI and Interpol were spread thin with limited resources, and so often it deeply impacted the success of these cases.

  The pictures and surveillance reports attached were numerous, and I’d spent a number of nights pulling through tedious details and attempting to put together a picture of the man’s whereabouts. The Langham Hotel was within a two-mile radius of the most recent sighting.

  As was 221B Baker Street, the Sherlock Holmes museum.

  They were blurry images, and no guarantee. Which was one of the main reasons why I hadn’t told the rest of Codex, because every other clue we’d followed on Bernard’s trail had ultimately led to a fucking ghost. Bernard was as brilliant as he was conniving—a dangerous combination when you had untold wealth at your fingertips.

  In so many ways, Bernard had profoundly impacted the lives of my team, none more than Henry’s. I knew, I hoped, the guilt I felt at keeping this secret would fade. Because dragging my team across an ocean on a manhunt with no contract, no money, and no reason behind it was risky, dangerous, and probably a giant waste of time.

  As was disappointing them.

  I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror above the dresser—the lines around my eyes, the exhaustion etched around my mouth. Obsession. This was a giant waste of time and yet here I was.

  My phone buzzed with a text from my mother—a simple, direct message that said, Enjoy your damn vacation, Abraham.

  I smiled, rubbed a hand down my face. Rolled out my shoulders. I would. I really would.

  I just needed to attend a lecture on Sherlock Holmes first.

  3

  Sloane

  Oxford, England

  �
�Three weeks into your contract and you’ve learned what, exactly?” Louisa Davies asked, face pinched and dismissive.

  I schooled my features. Crossed one leg over the other and projected as much confidence as I could. What I’d learned was Bernard Allerton was a cunning son-of-a-bitch who’d expertly covered his tracks for the past ten months.

  What I said to my client was, “I’ve been undercover as a Sherlock Holmes enthusiast named Devon Atwood, attending all of the meetings and events hosted by the Sherlock Society of Civilized Scholars. Gaining their trust, attempting to find the loose link in whatever circle of people is currently guarding his exact location. It’s subtle work. It takes time.”

  She and I both knew I didn’t have much time left, necessarily. I forged on, ignoring my rapidly increasing pulse.

  “They’re a devoted group of literary scholars and academics,” I said. “They’re insular, community-driven, wealthy. They keep secrets. If Bernard’s criminal actions, as well as his location, are known to the Sherlock Society, then it’s a secret they’re proud to keep to themselves. That’s where my cover comes in.”

  Devon Atwood was a bright and cheerful Sherlock fan, desperate to know every single person in the Society—including their mysterious vice president, Bernard. What I knew—and was reluctant to tell Louisa—was that these past three weeks in London had exposed jack-shit when it came to the man I was going to be paid an extraordinary amount to hunt down.

  Supposed to be paid. That check would never come if I didn’t find him. Which was a damn shame since Louisa was offering five times my standard fee for a successful capture.

  The Sherlock Society was a mixture of whimsical fan club and dedicated academic intellectuals. They wore Holmes and Watson costumes and made pilgrimages to sites mentioned in the stories. But they also gave lectures and wrote essays, spoke at symposiums and universities. It was the oldest Sherlock Holmes society in England and had the reputation, and respect, to prove it.