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.”