The pay—and the prestige—of this contract was beyond my wildest fucking dreams. And if, like Louisa had explained, both Interpol and the FBI couldn’t catch this guy, I sure as hell would. The feeling of revenge—of catching manipulative thieves in the act—was utterly satisfying. There was a delicious crunch to it that fulfilled my deepest cravings.
“Since I’m here, I wanted to ask you a few questions about…” I checked the name one more time. “—your former employee, Dr. Henry Finch? I’ve been researching Henry and his possibility of being a suspect, given he was Bernard’s assistant for ten years. Seems an interesting coincidence that he’s now a private detective too.”
More than coincidence actually. I’d been pulling through background checks and employment records for any person who’d worked closely with Bernard, and the existence of Henry sent an air-raid siren through my investigative instincts.
The fact that an accomplished rare book librarian had turned PI? It didn’t add up. And anything that didn’t add up was a goddamn clue. Yesterday, I’d stumbled upon a picture of Henry and Bernard together in the mountain of paperwork Louisa had relinquished to me. It was an award ceremony from years ago. Bernard and Henry were posed together, holding a plaque. Bernard was a white man in his seventies with a distinguished-looking mustache. His eyes betrayed a clever intelligence, his body language depicted frailty.
Next to him stood Henry Finch—a handsome black man in a tailored suit and square-rimmed glasses. I knew he had a doctorate degree in Library Science, had lived across Europe, and was fluent in four languages. Wouldn’t Bernard use an assistant to steal for him or cover his tracks? And what would compel such an accomplished academic to throw away his degrees to work at a small detective firm?
“You’ve been looking into Henry Finch?” she asked.
“Of course,” I replied.
Louisa was shaking her head. “It’s not what you think. In November of last year, Henry Finch came to me in the middle of the night with a story many in this community did not want to believe. He’d become suspicious of Bernard, had been gathering evidence and watching him for more than a month. Henry confronted Bernard, told him he was going to the authorities, ran to me after Bernard threatened to forge his signature on documents that made Henry complicit in his crimes.”
Ah. Really, Bernard was too obvious. “Henry was his backup fall guy.”
“It appears so,” she said.
I looked back down at the picture—at the enthusiasm shining through Henry’s smile. Did Bernard take advantage of this man’s devotion for ten years? The thought was stomach-churning.
“I didn’t believe Henry’s story at the time,” Louisa said. “It’s hard to imagine now, but Henry could have been telling me the Easter Bunny existed for how outrageous his story was. I didn’t report Bernard. I did hire a firm called Codex to recover the stolen book that had precipitated everything.”
I cocked my head. “That’s the firm Henry works for now.”
They were located in Philadelphia, well-known and respected. The owner was a man named Abraham Royal.
“It’s how Henry got involved,” Louisa explained, with pursed lips. “Abe Royal hired him out from under me.”
This Abe sounded like a smart man. “And Henry’s officially been cleared of all suspicion?”
“Absolutely, he has,” Louisa said. “If I’d listened to him, called the authorities sooner…” she trailed off. “Every second counts, and we lost a lot of seconds while I buried my head in the sand.”
I sat back, re-crossed my legs. I was in an every second counts frame of mind too, since I had only twelve days left to catch this guy and no solid leads. Yet I was hesitant to let the Henry Finch angle go, given how little I had to grasp onto.
“You have to convince yourself the world is fracturing right in front of you,” I said. “You’re not the first client who didn’t want to believe the truth, trust me. Even after producing photographic evidence of affairs, I’ve had spouses who had hired me refuse to believe me.”
Louisa nodded, drummed her fingers on the desk. “Yes, well, here we are. Eleven months later with nothing to show for it.”
I hid a wince, re-plastered my smile on. “I know three weeks feels like a long time, but I’m working around the clock. That’s why my close rate is at 100%.”
I had never—ever—not closed a case in the last five years. I wasn’t going to start now.
“Codex is a phenomenal firm,” Louisa said, avoiding my statement. “They recovered one of our stolen manuscripts two months ago. They’re an investigative force to be reckoned with. Trust me, Henry’s not your guy. He’s on our side.”
I swallowed past the spike of jealousy. “And you didn’t want to hire Codex for this?”
Louisa’s cheeks pinked, and she seemed slightly embarrassed. Her fingers tugged at her sweater sleeves. “Well… no. I did not. Plus, it’s vital to employ fresh eyes and new ideas. You are my fresh eyes, Sloane. I thought you might see details the rest of us have missed.”
“Message received,” I said. Noting the time—every second counts—I stood, shook Louisa’s hand, promised to call her tomorrow. “It’ll get done. You don’t need to worry. I’m happy to bring you those new ideas.”
“I am worried,” she replied. “Truly worried. The reputation of this library is at risk, as is the reputation of the antiquities community. We don’t appear to be a community of integrity at the moment.”
Another tough swallow. Another fake smile. Louisa would hire another firm if I didn’t come through. She could even hire this other agency. And Henry might not be a lead, but the fact that this Codex firm hired a librarian to work for them was too fucking intriguing to drop it.
“You hired the best, make no mistake,” I said. “You won’t regret it.”
By the time I made it out to her hallway, I had to clench my hands in my skirt to stop them from shaking. Leaning back against the wall, I let out a ragged exhale and a whispered, “Fuck me.”
When I’d taken on this contract, there’d been no tremble in my fingers, no anxiety racing in my chest. I’d survived too much, worked too hard, needed this opportunity too badly to feign nervousness. Leaving Louisa’s office twenty days ago, I’d felt calm excitement and an eager ambition.
Now, I was struggling to admit the hundreds of threads to Bernard Allerton’s life were so complex—and so shrouded in secrecy—I had no concept of where to go or what to do. The Sherlock Society loved him and believed that he was on a long, off-the-grid sabbatical and would return at a later date. In my many, many afternoons spent having tea, Bernard was swooned, fawned, obsessed over. I couldn’t tell if these people were hiding him in their attics or honestly thought he was a librarian.
As I walked back outside and down the wide steps, I hoped beyond hope the lecture with Eudora tonight would shed light on the direction I should be racing toward.
And after that? I’d need to do more research on Codex.
4
Abe