In the Clear (Codex Book 3)

by Kathryn Nolan

  I was seeking an explanation. I would have believed even the wildest story if it meant my own father cared about me.

  Every call went unanswered. Every day was harder than the one before. Messy, emotional, vulnerable, I felt as exposed as a raw nerve and hated every second. Brick by brick by brick, it was that easy to wall off my vulnerable heart. My mother, and then Jeanette, would always have access to it. But by the time I was eighteen and earning a criminal justice degree at one of the most prestigious Ivy League institutions in the country, I had a new plan and a new purpose.

  My phone rang, and I answered it without checking the number, hoping it was a member of my team calling from Philadelphia. The voice that rang out, instead, was Humphrey Hatcher.

  “Mr. Fitzpatrick!” Humphrey yelled through the phone.

  I looked around me, sure he must be here in person. “Humphrey?” I asked.

  “Eudora gave me your phone number,” Humphrey said. “So apologies for invading your privacy and the like. My husband and I are having the nicest drink at Mycroft’s Pub, and we’d love for you to stop by and enjoy yourself.”

  Jesus. Even the best friends of criminal masterminds were trying to get me to loosen up. “Uh… you know, I’m coming from the symphony and already on my way back to the hotel.”

  “Nonsense! Take a cab. We’ll see you in a few minutes. I will not accept no for an answer and will hunt you down, lad.”

  I had to acknowledge the man’s innate charm. Had to acknowledge the tiny sparks in my brain lighting up at Humphrey’s access to Bernard Allerton as a person, not only an idea, a thought, a shadow in the night I was endlessly searching for. Perhaps he would offer a usable clue about Bernard’s location.

  Perhaps after this drink I would… go to Sloane’s room and give that information to her. A gift, albeit a small one, but one that would help her see I wasn’t just a useless bastard who refused to help her.

  “I like expensive whiskey,” I told Humphrey. “I expect you to be buying, sir.”

  “And I have absolutely no self-control when it comes to my finances,” he bellowed back. “A perfect pairing!”

  I hung up and hailed a cab, shoving my hands in my pockets. Why did I feel so light-hearted thinking about sharing a drink with Bernard’s best friend? The man was the definition of frivolity, and my last serious girlfriend, Caroline, would have never believed I’d do something so spontaneous. She’d seen me at my unfortunate worst, at the height of my burn-out and frustration with the FBI, when I wasn’t sure yet what the answer was to my angry questions—why do we keep losing priceless artifacts? Why are these thieves still out-smarting us? Why does everything take so fucking long? The answer, ultimately, was founding Codex. Until then, I only knew that I was frustrated, closed off, distracted. So much of that had disappeared in the last four years, and my mother loved reminding me this would be a fine time to begin dating seriously again. Don’t you want a girlfriend who can celebrate the good changes in your life? Don’t you want to finally make me and Jeanette grandmothers?

  The cab dropped me off at Mycroft’s Pub, and it was a challenge to repress the memories of Sloane and me at that bar before things had turned dangerous. Her body, her smile, her flirtatious teasing and smoky laughter. Inside, the bar was cozy and filled with people on this rainy night. I spotted Humphrey and a smaller man chatting at the bar. He waved to me with an intense excitement. I merely nodded, removed my coat, and turned toward the roaring fireplace. Over the mantle hung a sign with cursive writing. I must have missed it the other night—because this sign flashed at me like a warning and a clue, all at once.

  Didn’t we once meet at Reichenbach Falls?

  My blood chilled, goosebumps springing across my skin.

  “How… interesting,” I murmured.

  An ember-tinged voice to my right said, “How so?”

  I turned, saw my goddess for the first time in two days and felt the strongest urge to sink to my knees in front of her, press my face to her skin in adoration.

  “Ms… Atwood,” I said, remembering our cover. “What a surprise.”

  Her raven hair was in a high bun, leaving the curve of her throat exposed, her high cheekbones bare. She was dressed in all-black, as usual—ripped black jeans, stiletto boots, a sweater that hung off her smooth shoulder. Blood-red lips.

  I took a step into her orbit and placed my jacket across a bar stool. “What on earth is going on here?”

  Sloane waved to Humphrey with a big smile. “Humphrey believes you and I are having a lovers’ quarrel. His words.” Her midnight eyes were sparkling with intrigue and intelligence. A truly dangerous combination on a woman so beautiful. “He invited me here for drinks tonight, and he must have called you when he was outside.”

  “The man has a certain charm,” I said. “What are we arguing about?”

  “Apparently the way I ran out of the talk here and left you looking lonely,” she said.

  “Yes, it was quite rude of you to leave me and run to an alley to fight a man twice your size,” I said, mouth tipping up. Every nerve ending in my body roared with a primal joy at seeing her again. I had no idea if I wanted a romantic partner right now. I did, however, want this woman in my bed, preferably underneath me.

  Aware of Humphrey watching us, and using it to my selfish advantage, I dipped my head and pressed my lips softly to Sloane’s cheek. Her hair brushed my forehead, and my lips dipped down to her ear. Her body, this close, overwhelmed my senses.

  “You’ve stayed safe?” I said quietly.

  “I have.” I saw her swallow, saw the goosebumps along the side of her neck.

  “Good,” I said. Stepped back but stayed close. “Shall we inform him that our disagreement is finished?”

  “Is it though?” she asked—and I heard the genuine meaning behind her words. The way she’d walked away two nights ago after I refused to admit to the real reason behind my trip to London betrayed all I needed to know about her frustration with me.

  Humphrey was already walking back with a whiskey in hand, and I contemplated an escape plan. I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t have invaded what was clearly Sloane’s work, especially if she was holding a grudge.

  “That depends,” I replied. “Does it bother you that I’m here?”

  Her eyes searched mine as she bit her bottom lip. Finally, she echoed, “That depends.”

  I smirked. “A stalemate, I see.”

  She took a drink from her martini. “Humphrey said the only way for two people to have a healthy romantic relationship is if we, and this is a quote, join together to become an unstoppable force of valiant passion. End quote.”

  A smile spread across my face. I didn’t even attempt to suppress it. “Sounds like love advice for Viking warriors.”

  Sloane returned my smile, and hers was free of any barriers. No silky teasing, no sultry flirting—it was wide, toothy, quick, and bright. “You do have the look of a Norse god about you. A very dapper Norse god.”

  Up high, in the walls around my heart, a brick loosened. Tumbled. Emotion flashed across her face so sincere I wondered if she too had a wall around her heart. Which only made me want to test my ability to knock it down.

  “So Humphrey believes we are…” I trailed off.

  She finally broke eye contact, following Humphrey’s movements through the bar and back toward us. “A romantic item.”

  “Being a romantic item with someone is not my expertise, I’m afraid,” I admitted.

  “I’m also in the fucking dark when it comes to romance.” Another smile, this one even more alluring. Inviting, even. When Humphrey reached us a second later, I was glad for the whiskey. At least I could place my hand there and hold the glass tightly, instead of cupping Sloane’s face and kissing her.

  “Good lad,” Humphrey said. “I could see your valiant passion all the way from the bar. It helps not to fight. Life is too gorgeous and much too short. For example, have you met my handsome husband, Reginald?”

  Humphrey fi
nally stepped aside to reveal a short black man with wire-rimmed glasses who seemed besotted with the giant, red-haired lumberjack hugging him around the shoulders. He too appeared to be in his seventies, like Humphrey, and was dressed in an academic-looking tweed jacket and a bowtie.

  “It’s Reggie,” the man said, shaking my hand and Sloane’s. “I apologize, my husband is ridiculous.”

  Sloane, for her part, appeared genuinely delighted at the pair. “How long have you been together?”

  “Forty years,” Reggie said. “And every one of them spent with Humphrey has been a miracle. Even though he is a bit of a loudmouth. A loudmouth I love.”

  It was said without teasing, and the brief look they exchanged reminded me of my mother’s wedding to Jeanette, the adoration there went deeper than attraction or affection. It was real partnership, in all its forms. Which seemed to be more than the sum of bringing two lives together in equal fashion but agreeing to shoulder the burdens, share the pain, hold more of the weight when your partner couldn’t.

  “We met at a meeting of the Sherlock Society, and the rest was history,” Humphrey said, giving Reggie another squeeze. Now drink,” Humphrey raised his pint glass. “We’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

  Glancing at Sloane, I prepared to make my exit. “This has been lovely to meet you, Reggie, but my hotel room awaits.”

  I thought Sloane looked disappointed before schooling her expression into one of charming nonchalance.

  “Nonsense,” Humphrey said. “If you’re both here, I know you’ll want to hear stories of Bernard when he was a boy.”

  Sloane and I both went rigid. I chanced a look her way; she subtly arched her brow.

  “Stay,” he continued. “You know Ms. Atwood wants you to.”

  Ms. Atwood blushed slightly yet remained silent. Staying, engaging with Humphrey who, while charming, was technically her source, meant helping her. Even though it was obvious her views on asking for help mirrored my own.

  Staying, engaging with Humphrey, meant admitting I wasn’t, technically, entirely on vacation. I turned fully toward Sloane, hiding my face from Humphrey and Reggie as much as I could. Since we weren’t actually work partners, we had no built-in code-words or facial expressions to communicate with each other in short-hand.

  “Perhaps we’ve reached a… stalemate in our quarrel,” I said slowly, watching her closely for signs of distrust.

  She tapped her fingers on her glass, bit her lip. “I guess… a night of leisure, alone, doesn’t really suit you.”

  The ends of my mouth quirked up. “I guess a night of being on your own doesn’t suit you?”

  Fifty—fifty. Or, at least, our best attempt at it. Turning, I raised my glass in appreciation of the tiny victory. “Bring on the stories about Bernard.”

  16

  Abe

  With a jubilant cheer, Humphrey dragged another barstool over for me. I leaned against it, one leg outstretched, and tried not to notice when Sloane’s knee pressed against my thigh.

  “That was nice of Eudora to give you my phone number,” I said.

  “Eudora can be nice occasionally,” Humphrey said.

  “Be civil,” Reggie chided.

  “I am civil,” Humphrey said. He leaned in close. “I’m sure you’ve heard the stories about our current president’s temper.”

  “A few members have shared their less-than-kind memories,” Sloane said with a secret smile. “Although she has been sweet to me.”

  “She is sweet,” Reggie said. “If she likes you and you don’t get in the way of her perfect vision. If you do…”

  “They’ll find your body under her floorboards,” Humphrey said.

  “Has she always wanted to be president of the Sherlock Society?” I asked.

  Humphrey shrugged his massive shoulders. “She made it known to us all that she was gunning for Bernie’s position long before his sabbatical. We had a president, before Bernie, named Nicholas.”

  “Markham?” I said, remembering what Eudora had told me about their former president and his bookstore, Adler’s. Which was directly across the street from where we sat.

  “The one and only, god rest his soul,” Humphrey said. “He’s since passed, ten years now, but Eudora and Bernie revered the man. Back in his early days of leadership, the Society was more secretive, more exclusive. It should be a club open to anyone who loves the genius of our country’s greatest writer, not a secret society.”

  Eudora had insinuated something similar, right before I’d said the code words inscribed above the fireplace across the room. Which was interesting as hell given that Bernard was responsible for The Empty House—the secret society that Freya and Sam had infiltrated just eight weeks ago. Bernard was, of course, conspicuously absent during the festivities. My agents had discovered a group of eleven individuals that met every year at the Antiquarian Book Festival in Philadelphia, where they conducted an underground, black-market auction filled with stolen antiques valued at millions of dollars. It was a massive case, and the Bureau was still putting all the pieces together, but Bernard Allerton appeared to be at the center of it all. He provided the stolen books to auction off, he provided the guests that could keep a secret and had an abundance of wealth, he received the money paid for his stolen items. He was the buyer, the seller, the one who ultimately profited while others went to prison.

  Learning that he admired a man who wanted to make the Sherlock Society even more exclusive made absolute sense to me.

  “I agree,” Sloane said. “Strange that Bernard felt that way given his career was about democratizing our access to the written word.”

  I slipped my hand down my side, hiding it from Humphrey and Reggie’s view. It allowed me to tap my finger against her wrist—which I did now.

  Humphrey took a hearty sip. “Humans can’t be placed into neat and tidy categories, as we know. And as passionate a librarian as that man is, his devotion to the Sherlock Society is—”

  “—fanatical,” Reggie said.

  I was beginning to like Reggie.

  “Passionate.” Humphrey grinned. “Which is why I’ve been trying to get him a message about these damn papers being auctioned off.”

  I felt a tap. Sloane. I took it as a cue. “He hasn’t communicated with you once since he left for his sabbatical, right? I’d think he’d respond to papers that we all know he would do anything to have.”

  Humphrey rubbed a hand through his bushy red beard. “Trust and believe poor Reginald has heard me say that a dozen times for every month he’s been off the grid. He’s done it before. It’s longer this time. Feels more dramatic, if I can be quite frank. I’ve talked to every single person in my life about this. Every member of the Society. I’ve called Eudora countless times, called the McMaster’s Library. The story’s the same.”

  Interesting that Humphrey used the word story. I too was surprised that the lie being propagated about Bernard’s whereabouts had stayed bullet-proof for so long. Interpol and the Bureau couldn’t possibly keep it under wraps forever. And if Bernard was announced, publicly, to be a wanted man, would he flee, out in the open, easy to capture?

  Or only dig himself further underground?

  “Where does he go in the city to hide out?” Sloane asked. “Not to belittle your friendship. Perhaps he’s just in need of a little isolation right here in London.”

  Humphrey was shaking his head vigorously. “Reggie and I have spent a lot of time at Bernie’s other houses. Greece, Switzerland, Paris… his vacation homes are much more beautiful than his flat here in London, even if it did cost him a pretty penny.”

  The reminder that Bernard could have fled to Switzerland—the perfect place to hide if you were a wanted man, internationally—had me hiding a wince. I caught Sloane covering hers just in time.

  “You’re a good friend to be worried,” she said. “It sounds like he’s a real man of mystery. He’s dipped out on you before, correct?”

  “Ah,” Humphrey said, waving a hand. “The ma
n disappears often. I’ve gone a full year without speaking to him. He’s extremely focused on his travels to acquire the rarest of books. Bernie does not permit distractions.”

  Even from his best friend? I wanted to ask, except Sloane and I needed to appear friendly toward Bernard, not combative.

  I took a long, deliberate drink. Thought about how quickly I’d positioned Sloane and me as partners, working together, when no such thing was happening. We didn’t need to appear to be doing anything right now—I was merely here while she got information from her source. Perhaps my newly paired-off employees were finally rubbing off on my behavior.

  “He hides it well, but Bernard has a sensitive heart,” Humphrey continued. “All the pressure of running that library, being a spokesperson, speaking across the world. It’s a dream come true and also far too much stress for any one man to take. Plus, he’s always working with new people, interns or museum employees, or traveling to book shows or up late on a conservation project.”

  I felt not an ounce of sympathy for this portrait of an overworked-and-underpaid Bernard. I knew those “interns” to be hired thieves he worked with; the museum employees were all part of his pyramid of criminals; the book shows, the conservation projects—often excuses he used as he dealt rare books like drugs and profited like a king.

  Sloane leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and placed her chin in her palm. “What do you guys think is in those private papers after all?”

  “Everything Eudora Green has ever wanted,” Reggie said.

  Humphrey harrumphed into his beer. “Everything Bernie has ever wanted.”

  I tapped Sloane. She said, “And what is that, exactly?”

  Humphrey looked at his husband, who smiled dreamily before speaking. “Arthur Conan Doyle was the greatest literary genius our country, and I’d say the world, has ever known. He’s been studied and profiled and written about for decades, and scholars like those in the Society can never read enough. But…” Reggie paused. “There comes a time where one reaches a limit of what can truly be known of a man who’s been dead for ninety years.”