In the Clear (Codex Book 3)

by Kathryn Nolan

  The reverse was also true. Every person my parents became—and over the years I watched them become hundreds of different people—had a fake vulnerability that allowed their mark to trust them. Bernard had nailed his years ago. I’d bet money his frailty was feigned to induce compassion.

  One of the many ways my parents used me was to have me follow their potential mark and report back on their tells. It felt like spying. It felt like an invasion. And whenever we’d managed to live in a town long enough for me to attend school on a limited basis, I learned fairly quickly that my classmates weren’t forced to do the things I did on the weekends.

  When I was ten, I made the mistake of asking my parents why kids at school were different than me. I wasn’t allowed back to school for a long time.

  Abe strolled past green, flowering gardens and busy intersections. If I was tailing this man for a client, my analysis would be that he had a confidence born from a deep-seated sense of self or purpose. He was serious, brilliant, unflappable.

  If he was a mark, I’m not sure what vulnerability I’d poke at. So far I hadn’t found one. But as a private detective, I could only admire him—his ability to blend into the crowd. He was a fucking natural.

  He came to a stop in front of a green building I recognized. Mycroft’s Pub. Named for Sherlock’s brother, it was frequented by members of the Society and used often for informal talks and meetings that I’d attended once or twice. Across the street was a bookstore named Adler’s, a few cafes, and quiet-looking office buildings.

  Abe checked a slip of paper then stepped inside Mycroft’s.

  I paused at the windows of the bookstore to check my reflection. Fluffed my hair again. The window opened to a little seating area surrounded by stacks and stacks of old books. Past that were long bookshelves with posters advertising literary events around London. I thought about Bernard Allerton, who’d been trusted by people to protect books like the ones I was staring at. I thought about him abusing that trust because he appeared to be—at first glance—a greedy piece of shit.

  Anger flooded my veins, sharpening my focus on this case and the bigger picture it represented. Stealing antique books worth millions of dollars was just a fancier version of my parents’ scams, which included fraudulent insurance plans and conning elderly people by pretending to be their grandchildren. It was all just a trick—but one that only worked by exploiting people’s natural inclination to trust.

  A familiar voice came from behind me. “Ms. Atwood, how pleasant to see you again.”

  My surprised eyes met Abe’s smug ones in the reflection of the window. He must have slipped back out of Mycroft’s while I was distracted by my thoughts. Although now I was distracted by Abe, which didn’t help me one bit.

  “Don’t look too pleased with yourself,” I said, turning around to face him. Which was definitely a mistake—his gravitational pull was too strong.

  “First you steal from me. Then you’re somehow staying in the hotel room next to mine. And now I catch you tailing me.” There was a surprising hint of mischief in his expression. “There are better ways to get my attention. Better and legal, I might add.”

  “Where’s the fun in that?” With great effort, I took a giant step backwards and nodded towards the pub. “Yet another coincidence. I was heading inside there.”

  “Yet another lie,” he said. “If you followed me all this way, you might as well go in first.”

  With a smirk, I breezed past him. Picking up a program on a side table, I read: The Importance of Sherlock in a Mobile-Phone World. The speaker was Humphrey Hatcher, who was Secretary of the Sherlock Society. Mycroft’s Pub was dark and cozy inside with a small stage, a large fireplace, and paintings on the wall. The pub had been transformed for tonight’s talk, and instead of its usual assortment of tall tables and bar seating, the room was clear and fully crowded with people. Eudora waved to me from a group of people, and I smiled and waved back.

  Abe was peering curiously around the room. It was getting harder and harder not to grab him by the lapels and demand he tell me his real plans. Using a fake name, meeting with Eudora, befriending members of the Society… Had Codex been hired by another library to go after Bernard? Or was this a one-man mission? Because it’d be helpful to know if this sexy, sinfully distracting man was purely fascinating or actually my competition.

  Before I could ask him another question, a red-faced, red-haired, burly lumberjack in his seventies came barreling through the crowd.

  “Daniel Fitzpatrick,” the man boomed. He shook Abe’s hand vigorously, practically wrenching his arm off. “I’m Humphrey Hatcher. Eudora told me you know Bernard. A friend of a friend is my friend.”

  Abe let out a startled sound, glancing sideways at me before catching himself. “Well… certainly. Although I can’t say I know Bernard that well. More of a colleague, an admirer if you will.”

  “Bernie’s got that skill, I’m afraid,” Humphrey said. “He’s a charmer.”

  Bernie? And also—friends? Abe caught my eye from behind Humphrey’s giant form, and I arched a brow in silent reproach. There was confirmation that this man was definitely sniffing around the criminal I was being paid to capture.

  “And who is this gorgeous creature?” Humphrey gripped his chest like he was having some kind of attack. “Please tell me you’re a fan of our venerable detective.”

  “Devon Atwood,” I said, receiving the same vigorous handshake as Abe. “And I’ve read The Hound of the Baskervilles ten times.” Unlike my name, that was not a lie.

  “Praise be,” Humphrey cheered. “Truly, I’ve heard much of you Ms. Atwood. You’ve taken all of these gents in this room to tea, and yet you haven’t called me?”

  “Well, I haven’t met you,” I mused, giving him a flirtatious wink.

  Abe cleared his throat and stared at the ground.

  “I’ve been traveling. My mistake,” Humphrey said. “I’m home this week and available to be enchanted by you.”

  My answering smile was absolutely genuine. “We’ll be in touch.”

  “Sorry, Daniel, I’ve completely forgotten you were standing there,” Humphrey said to Abe.

  “Understood,” Abe said dryly. “Were you traveling with Bernard? How long have you known each other?”

  Humphrey stepped close. “I’ve known him since we were ten years old. Went to school together, university, joined the Society together. As we’ve gotten older, we’ve stayed in touch through these events. And I drag him to the pub about once a month when he’s not too busy changing the world and bringing books to people who need them.”

  In all of my research, I’d had no idea Bernard had a close friend. It seemed far too pedestrian—and precious—for a man so slyly deceitful.

  “How charming,” Abe said softly.

  “Do you know where Bernard is?” Humphrey asked, swiftly changing the subject. His worried voice carried in the hushed room. Eudora’s head snapped up at the words.

  “Um… no,” Abe stuttered. Clearly as surprised as I was. “I do not know where he is.”

  “It’s not like him,” Humphrey said, looking agitated. “We always talk. He sent me one email, months ago, letting me know he’d be on sabbatical and off the grid. Eudora assures me he’s fine but…”

  I almost went to catch Abe’s eye before I remembered we were absolutely not working together. The urge was there—to tug on my earlobe or flash him a secret code. To get his sense of the situation. Strange, because I’d never, ever worked with a partner before and didn’t need one now.

  “I’m sorry to hear you’re so worried,” Abe said.

  Humphrey nodded, shrugging it off before checking a giant wristwatch. “Bollocks. Sorry to vent and run, but off I go. Hope I don’t bore this enchantress to tears.”

  With a rather saucy wink, Humphrey left Abe and me fairly surprised.

  “So… you read Hound of the Baskervilles ten times?” Abe asked, facing me.

  “Not a lie actually,” I said. “I am a fan.”


  “When I was in high school, I read A Study in Scarlett every night for a week,” he said. He was being honest, I could tell.

  “You would look handsome holding a pipe,” I said.

  “So what are you doing taking these gents to tea, Ms. Atwood?” he asked, voice light.

  “Jealous?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Shall I take you to tea?”

  “Now that,” he said, “would make Humphrey jealous.”

  I cracked a big smile before I could help it.

  “Truly enchanting,” Abe said, so softly I almost missed it. The lights dimmed, and Humphrey took the stage, practically by force. He gripped the podium to hoots and cheers and slightly rowdy clapping.

  “Keep it friendly now,” Humphrey mock chided. He towered on the stage. It was impossible to picture him being friends with Bernie. Especially since Bernard’s characteristics—from what I could tell—so successfully mimicked my parents. ‘Friends’ were steppingstones, marks to be used to gain entry to whatever dodgy world they were attempting to gain access to. Humphrey didn’t have the look of a steppingstone. He was solid, happy, and he cared for Bernard. And seemed as confused as Abe at Bernard’s whereabouts.

  “Like many of us in this room,” Humphrey began, “I despise modern technology, and proudly. And nowhere is that more evident than when I am entrenched in Victorian London, following Holmes and Watson to St. Bart’s Hospital or the Café Royal. Deduction was the key, listening was the key. Paying bloody attention. Our universe is much too clever, much too complicated, for our connections to each other to be arbitrary.”

  Next to me, Abe shifted an inch closer until our arms brushed. Bathed in darkness, it was harder to resist the primal pull the man evoked in me. He was temptation personified.

  “Don’t place too much faith in the strange coincidences, the déjà vu, the dreams that bear a startling likeness to our reality. Doyle wanted us to know these things are never, ever random. They are vital, they are connectors, they are the truth.” With a rather wolfish grin, Humphrey stared right at Abe and me, drifting against each other in the sea of Holmes fanatics. “The people we meet are all part of the universe’s plan.”

  Abe Royal dropped his mouth against my ear. I swallowed a gasp. The feeling was too seductive—the hint of breath, the suggestion of teeth, his raspy voice. “You must be part of the universe’s plan, Ms. Atwood.”

  “Because I happen to be staying in the hotel room right next to yours?” I replied, voice shaky.

  “No.” He growled softly. “Because, like Doyle, I don’t believe in bloody coincidences, either. If the queen of lies is going to pick my pockets and follow me around London, there’s a reason for it. And I aim to find out why.”

  I turned my head to gaze up at him. With a slight smirk and a tilt to his brow, his face said Gotcha.

  Mouse, meet cat.

  10

  Abe

  Humphrey Hatcher, Bernard’s oldest friend, gave a powerful speech at the podium in front of us. Bernie’s friend. Was it possible there was someone in Bernard’s life that loved him like a friend…and had no idea he was a criminal mastermind? Although I shouldn’t have been shocked. Henry had been his colleague and confidant, and the man had concealed his true nature easily.

  Next to me, the woman who had been charming the members of the Sherlock Society scooped her long, jet-black hair over her left shoulder, exposing the elegant line of her throat, the arch of her high cheekbones. These things are never, ever random.

  Her dramatic appearance in my life was definitely not random. She was a lying, clever pickpocket who had tailed me from The Langham Hotel to the Sherlock Society building with the skill of a federal agent.

  I’d only caught her because I was a former federal agent.

  A queen of lies. A breathtakingly beautiful one. I’d been far too tempted to brush my lips along her temple when I’d whispered in her ear; instead, I’d soothed myself with a deep inhale of her scent. Earthy, rich, mysterious. Before the lights had dimmed, I’d caught the freckles that decorated the bridge of her nose, barely visible against her warm skin.

  Uncovering the mystery of Devon Atwood felt like a critical clue, positively screaming in my face. The fact that uncovering her mystery meant getting close to her shouldn’t have made my chest feel light rather than its usual daily heaviness.

  It shouldn’t have made me want to unravel her many secrets while I unraveled every article of clothing from her body. If Sam or Henry were here, I’d ask them to physically shake the stupidity out of me. Actually—I’d have Delilah clock one across my face. Anything to shake me from this siren’s song.

  The applause at the end of Humphrey’s speech brought me back into the space, the deerstalker hats, the pipes, the cheerful conversations around me.

  “Shots?” Devon said.

  “Excuse me?” I asked, sure I misheard her.

  “I’m walking to the bar,” she said, pointing to the back. “And I’m going to order shots. For the two of us.”

  Without waiting for my response, she swayed confidently over to the bartender, and I followed her like a heart-sick sailor. Enjoy your fucking vacation. Something told me Freya and Delilah would do shots of vodka if they vacationed together. It was what people did for fun, right? A few weeks ago, the Codex team had spent a Sunday drinking beer at a brewery near our offices. Freya had threatened to kidnap and drag me to join them. But I’d declined, a hundred times, even though my only plan was to work.

  The next day, as Freya showed me pictures of the four of them on her phone, I’d felt that odd tugging sensation in my chest again. A retroactive yearning to have been there, laughing, enjoying the sunshine because wasn’t that what life was about? Freya had accused me of having fomo which I still refused to learn the true definition of.

  The day of my mother’s car accident was the day my entire life imploded. From then on, too many people had relied on me to ever truly relax—the teams of federal agents I used to lead, the team at Codex, my mother and Jeanette. Fun was a luxury I was happy to deny myself. And being a strong, professional leader was important to me. Bringing donuts into the office to celebrate closing cases was one thing; drinking beer in the sunshine felt indulgent and decidedly unprofessional.

  Although that tendency to remain separate also brought me a large amount of fear. My father had never contacted my mother and I again, so I would never know the full story of why he left the day after his wife was in a terrible car accident. In my mind, it was easy to imagine my aloof father flipping a switch from on to off. On meant he loved his family, was dedicated to providing for them. Off meant he could walk out with nary a care in the world.

  On, off.

  The bartender—who bore a handlebar mustache and a checkered vest—poured, sent two shot glasses coasting across the bar. Devon caught them easily, pressing one into my hand.

  “The last time I did this,” I said, indicating the glass. “I was a senior in college.” Guessing the gap in our ages, I added, “So twenty years ago.”

  A lift of her chin. “An older man. I like it.”

  I stared at her—the longer I drowned in those midnight eyes, the less any of my hang-ups mattered. The less anything mattered.

  “When did you leave college?” I asked.

  “Six years ago.”

  For fuck’s sake, I’d spent the past two days lusting after a woman who was fourteen years younger than me.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, probably noting the wariness in my expression, “I have an old soul.”

  “And why is that?”

  She shook her head, snagging her lower lip with her front teeth. “Not yet. Shots first, truth after. Unless you think I’m only capable of telling lies.”

  “I think it’s more likely you’ll make off with my wallet,” I drawled.

  Her eyes flashed with humor. “The truth is you were actually impressed with my skills.” She clinked our glasses together. “Truth? Or lie?”

  I hel
d the glass to my lips. Thought about how unbearably aroused I’d been that night, when I realized the most beautiful woman I’d ever fucking seen had bested me.

  I took the shot. “Truth.”

  And goddamn the liquor felt good going down. All around us rose the chattering excitement of the audience; music was piped in over speakers. It was a happy crowd, an academic crowd. Yet the woman in front of me dominated every sense, demanded I pay attention to her and no one else.

  So I shed my jacket, unhooked my cuff-links. Slowly rolled up my sleeves. Devon arched a haughty brow. I indicated her still-full shot glass, thought about a burning question I’d had since we’d stepped into the elevator together.

  “You booked a room at The Langham Hotel only after I told you I was staying there.”

  She picked up the glass, drawing the moment out. “Is that so?”

  “I assumed you were staying there the night we met,” I said. “You never confirmed it. And yet the next day you’re suddenly my neighbor.”

  She raised the glass to her lips. Playful. Then she knocked it back smoothly.

  “Truth.” She grinned when she saw my face. “Don’t get cocky.”

  “I would never,” I said evenly.

  She hooked the tip of her boot into the rung of my barstool and pulled herself directly into my space. Our mouths, our lips, were barely a foot apart. A wall of her body heat hit me, sending even more blood south. If the goddess looked down, she’d absolutely see the outline of my erection.

  “Your name is Abraham Royal, and you’re a private detective.”

  My heart stuttered, stopped, re-started at twice its regular beats. It was the sound of my real name falling from her lips, the delicious curve on every syllable. She’d stolen my business card—I knew she knew who I was. But this admission felt like honesty.

  “Truth,” I said, voice rough at the end.