Under the Rose

  Under the Rose

  Kathryn Nolan

  Copyright © 2020 Kathryn Nolan

  All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Editing by Faith N. Erline

  Cover by Kari March

  ISBN: 978-1-945631-74-0 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-945631-59-7 (paperback)

  033020a

  Contents

  1. Sam

  2. Freya

  3. Freya

  4. Sam

  5. Sam

  6. Freya

  7. Sam

  8. Sam

  9. Freya

  10. Freya

  11. Sam

  12. Freya

  13. Sam

  14. Freya

  15. Sam

  16. Freya

  17. Sam

  18. Freya

  19. Freya

  20. Sam

  21. Sam

  22. Freya

  23. Sam

  24. Sam

  25. Freya

  26. Freya

  27. Freya

  28. Sam

  29. Freya

  30. Freya

  31. Sam

  32. Freya

  33. Sam

  34. Sam

  35. Freya

  36. Freya

  37. Sam

  38. Sam

  39. Freya

  40. Freya

  41. Sam

  42. Freya

  43. Freya

  44. Sam

  45. Sam

  46. Sam

  47. Freya

  Epilogue

  Whats Next?

  More from the Codex team

  A Note From The Author

  Acknowledgments

  Hang Out With Kathryn!

  About Kathryn

  Books By Kathryn

  For my grandfather, who passed away two months before this book was released.

  My grandfather lived all 89 years on this earth with an uncomplicated joy. His zest for life was contagious. He used to wear these yellow-tinted aviator sunglasses that—as he’d tell every friend and stranger alike—made each day seem filled with sunshine.

  My grandfather believed that every stranger should become your friend. That a simple ‘hello’ on the street should turn into a conversation. He believed songs were to be whistled and music was for dancing; that crab cakes should only come from Maryland and cheesecake should be enjoyed plain (no cherry topping!). My grandfather believed all dogs should be adopted and loved (which is why he had so many of them). He was a Navy veteran who visited other vets in the hospital when they were alone. He was a husband who loved his wife for 66 years—having married her after a quick, six-week courtship. My grandfather could charm every person he met—and there wasn’t a party he didn’t like. In fact, my grandfather was the party.

  When I was a little girl, my grandfather would sit and listen patiently until I finished my many long, rambling stories—even if he was late to work. Amidst his boundless energy, he still believed in giving you his undivided attention. And he would gladly make room in his heart for anyone that sought refuge there.

  But most importantly, my grandfather believed his children and grandchildren should receive his truly unconditional love—a love filled with his uncomplicated joy. My grandfather loved all of us deeply until the last day of his life. And, of course, he was still making jokes.

  1

  Sam

  I had been banished to the land of private detectives.

  “My father and I appreciate your discretion,” I said as smoothly as I could manage. “Especially during this difficult time.”

  Abe’s usually impassive features softened. “Agents go through difficult situations all the time, Samuel. I told your father that you were welcome as our consultant for as long as it takes. It helps to stay busy.”

  I nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

  Although what helped even more was having a father who was acting Deputy Director of the FBI. “Consulting on cases with a firm of private detectives” was an interesting way to describe what this situation really was. I was hiding.

  I was stranded at Codex until my father released me.

  “I’d appreciate it if the details of my current situation were kept private from your team,” I added.

  Abe lifted a brow. “You’re here to provide valuable insight and nothing else. Codex is lucky to work with an FBI agent of your caliber.”

  It was a tiny act of kindness. Yet my gratitude for my former instructor threatened to sweep me away. Abraham Royal was a stern-looking white man in his early forties, his dark hair graying at the temples. His expectations were ruthlessly high. But he had an unyielding loyalty to those he respected.

  Banishment or not, it was comforting to be back under his careful supervision—and to know I still had his respect.

  “Selfishly, I’ll admit that I’m glad to introduce you to another side of criminal justice,” he said. “The FBI isn’t the only agency that can hunt down stolen books.”

  I allowed a slight smile. “I don’t doubt it. But I’m a Bureau man, through and through.”

  He made a sound of disapproval as he leaned against his mahogany desk. “You always have been. I’ll just have to be content with having the Deputy Director in my debt.”

  “His gratitude for this will certainly pay off for Codex,” I said. “He pulls all the strings, as you know.”

  Abe’s expression was cryptic. “That he does.” His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. “The rest of the team will arrive in a minute. I haven’t made them aware that you’re coming. The element of surprise is a crucial part of my leadership style.”

  “And teaching style.”

  “That is correct,” he admitted. “I don’t miss the Bureau worth a damn. But I miss teaching at Quantico. It’s inspiring being in the room with those new recruits, all so eager for the future.” He looked at me, as if waiting for my agreement.

  Inspiring. It was a bizarre word coming from a man renowned for his seriousness. Had there been eagerness brimming over in those training rooms? Because I’d assumed every other future agent had felt as terrified and anxious as I had.

  “Yes, sir,” I finally said. “What’s your team like here?”

  “Perfect.”

  “That’s high praise,” I said.

  “When you can handpick your team, it improves everyone’s morale—and effectiveness—tenfold. These detectives are sharp, focused, hard-working.” He tilted his head. “Funny.”

  Abe was not a man known for his humor. But there was a lightness to him I’d never seen when we’d worked together at the Bureau. It was telling that he’d left and founded his own private detective firm within that same year. My former instructor had been a model of virtue. He’d also been permanently furious and endlessly agitated, not one to sit still for long without a cause.

  “Funny and hard-working,” I said. “Sounds like a good fit for me for a few weeks.”

  “You look like you could use a laugh,” he said. And this time, the compassion in his face was so obvious I had to look away. Voices echoed in the narrow stairwell behind us, then a door opened. Abe’s body language grew even lighter, almost jaunty, as a tall black man and a dark-haired white woman strode into the room.

  Abe Royal was happy. Yet if you listened to my father—and I never had a choice not to—any person who abdicated their responsibility to the Bureau was bound for mediocrity.

  “Henry, Delilah, good morning,” Abe said. “I’d like to introduce you to our new consultant, S
pecial Agent Samuel Byrne. We worked together during my last year in the Art Theft unit.”

  “And he was my most terrifying instructor at the FBI’s training academy,” I added.

  Abe looked pleased at the description. “Thank you for that, Sam.”

  “New consultant?” the dark-haired woman asked.

  Abe shrugged. “Surprise,” he drawled.

  The man stepped forward first. Like Abe, he wore an expensive suit. “I’m Dr. Henry Finch. In my former life, I was a rare book librarian working in Oxford at the McMaster’s Library.”

  “Henry’s boss was Bernard Allerton,” Abe said. “They worked together for more than a decade. Henry was the one who confronted Bernard with the evidence that Interpol and the FBI are still working through.”

  Bernard Allerton was the most famous rare book librarian in the world—and for years, federal agents like Abe had suspected the man of orchestrating the theft of rare manuscripts and antiques on a grand scale. Six months ago, Bernard had fled Oxford and was still on the run.

  “Bernard Allerton was your boss?” I asked.

  Henry nodded gravely. “It took me a long time to believe he was a criminal,” he said. “The man’s an expert in manipulation.”

  “That’s certainly what Abe and I believed back when we worked together,” I said.

  Maybe this banishment would be interesting.

  “I can confirm your beliefs were accurate.” Henry shook my hand firmly before sitting.

  The dark-haired woman stepped close. She had pale skin and bright blue eyes. And an expression of absolute distrust on her face.

  “Delilah Barrett,” she said. “I’m a former police detective.”

  “Ah.” I nodded. “Makes sense now.”

  “Delilah treats everyone like a potential suspect,” Henry explained. She glanced over at him, and her entire body relaxed.

  “Old habits, I’m afraid.” She looked contrite.

  “You don’t have to apologize,” I said. “I spend all my time with the Bureau. I treat everyone like a suspect too.”

  She sat in front of me. “I definitely remember those days.”

  “Sam is a talented agent,” Abe said, “and he’ll be an asset to us these next few weeks. His knowledge of rare book theft rivals our own. And with the festival this weekend and our other open cases, I thought an extra set of hands would be helpful.”

  She smiled broadly—Abe’s trust in me was all the evidence that she needed to do the same, it seemed.

  “You should know,” he continued, “that Henry and Delilah are also engaged.”

  I watched the pair share a secret, romantic look while Abe bristled behind his desk.

  “Abraham Royal has allowed two of his employees to be engaged?” I asked, stupefied.

  “Yes, well, my only other option was losing them both. And that was never an option,” he said.

  “He’s getting soft,” I told Henry and Delilah.

  “I wholeheartedly agree,” she stage-whispered.

  “Soft isn’t in my vocabulary, trust me,” Abe replied.

  “Noted, sir,” I said. But I shot a secret grin at the couple. Abe was happy here.

  “What do you think of our operation?” Abe spread his palms out, indicating his cozy office. Codex was located on the second story of a used bookstore in Philadelphia’s historic district. This floor had exposed brick walls, colonial-era fireplaces, and ceilings so low I kept hitting my head. A fitting location for a firm that specialized in retrieving stolen rare books.

  “I’m looking forward to working with the team,” I said, surprised to find that it was the truth. “Why don’t you get me up to date on any active cases or investigations?”

  Henry leaned forward, adjusted his glasses. “At the end of February, Delilah and I went undercover as a married couple to garner the trust of Philadelphia’s wealthiest heiress, Victoria Whitney. We believed she had stolen The Franklin Museum’s copy of On the Revolutions of Heavenly Spheres by the astronomer Copernicus.”

  “Spoiler alert—she had stolen it.” Delilah’s sly look betrayed all I needed to know about how this duo had gone from fake-married to real-engaged. “We were recently alerted by Abe’s contact at the FBI that Victoria was just released from her house arrest. And Alistair Chance, the partner she rolled on, is about to start a five-year federal prison sentence.”

  “Victoria and Bernard had a wild romance years ago, and she was still receiving stolen books as gifts—maybe from him—until the day he fled,” Henry said. “Whether she still communicates with him, we can’t confirm. The cases we’ve closed recently don’t appear to be interconnected but seem opportunistic in nature. If Bernard is pulling the strings from Europe, we haven’t seen it.”

  “Interpol agents have potentially spotted Bernard in London,” I said.

  “Unconfirmed?” Henry asked.

  “Unfortunately,” I said. “Photos are blurry, at best. Sources are nonexistent. No action on his credit cards, bank accounts, or his passport. The man has successfully disappeared. Interpol has managed to keep his name from the papers both here and abroad. The majority of the world is still under the impression that Bernard Allerton is just a librarian.”

  Henry glanced at Abe. “The day I met Abe, he told me a man like Bernard would have been prepared to stay underground for a very, very long time.”

  “Abe is right,” I said. “The Bureau is extremely frustrated with their search. They’re worried he’ll continue to elude them for years.”

  Abe tapped his pen on the desk. “Yes, well, we’ll see about that.”

  “Is Codex searching for Bernard Allerton?” I asked.

  “Let’s just say Bernard wouldn’t want to meet any of us in a dark alley,” Delilah said.

  I was enjoying this unexpected curiosity beckoning me like the crook of a finger. The two weeks since my incident had been unbearably lonely—and solidified my suspicion that I was truly a workaholic with no hobbies except going to the gym. The thrill of the hunt—the comfort of working with a real team—felt strange and new.

  “Our biggest priority right now is the 60th Annual Antiquarian Book Festival,” Abe said. “It’s being hosted at The Grand Dame Hotel here in the city.”

  “We believe it’s a hotbed of criminal activity,” Henry said.

  “Any time you have book buyers in a room with booksellers, someone’s breaking the law,” I agreed.

  “Our thoughts exactly,” Delilah said. “We have a few open cases from local clients with cold trails and no leads. Our plan is to hit the festival, working undercover as potential buyers, see if we can shake down a few sources.”

  “I’d like to see you in the field, Sam,” Abe said. “Back in your Quantico days, I remember you as being the most talented undercover agent in your class.”

  “That’s kind of you, sir,” I said, swallowing the hard truth. I was talented—but the real undercover genius had been my irritating, frustrating, genius rival. The woman I’d been competing against—and arguing with—since I was eighteen goddamn years old.

  But that woman didn’t matter, no matter how persistently she appeared in my thoughts even seven years later. What did matter was Abe giving me the chance to prove myself, post-incident.

  The office door flew open, and a hurricane of limbs and laughter crashed into the room.

  “Sorry I’m late again, but Federal Donuts was a madhouse, and I pulled an all-nighter trying to crack a mystery I think you guys are going to freak about. Abe, don’t look at me like I broke your ridiculous code of conduct and honor by being all of ten minutes late.”

  The blur of chatty limbs spun around as if sensing my presence. In her arms was a box of donuts. And stuck in her messy blonde bun was a trio of pens—that habit had annoyed me to no end back in our Quantico days.

  The donuts hit the ground.

  “Byrne?” Behind her big glasses, Freya’s green eyes were wide with shock.

  “Evandale,” I said calmly.

  Her cheek
s flushed pink with anger. My fingers clenched the arm of my chair.

  “Oh, and I forgot to mention,” Abe said. “The third member of our Codex team, Freya Evandale. You two were in the same class at the training academy, remember?”

  “Oh, we remember,” Freya said, chin raised in our old ready-for-battle position.

  I felt my nostrils flare, heart rate already hammering at her nearness. Apparently, the land of private detectives contained my irritating, frustrating, genius rival.

  And she was even more beautiful now than the last time I’d seen her.

  2

  Freya

  Samuel Byrne was a mirage caused by sleep deprivation.

  He had to be.

  Because there was no way my archnemesis was in Abe’s office. At Codex.

  Sitting in my favorite chair.

  We continued scowling at each other with a box of piping hot donuts between our feet.

  My nemesis still had the audacity to look like Captain America—brave, broad-shouldered, handsome. Except I’d known this man for a long, long time. And beneath that superhero facade was a tightly-wound company man in serious need of a vacation.