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.