I pointed at the vial that had held GHB meant for both of us. “What would you like to do about our imminent brush with illegal drugs?”
He reached across the table, stole his whiskey glass from my fingers. Took another generous sip. “Tourists get drugged and mugged all of the time. It’s natural to read into things when you’re in the thick of an active investigation. We were two loud Americans getting intoxicated. We were a target for a crime of opportunity.”
“Would Bernard know what you looked like, Abe?” I asked.
There. Another flicker of curiosity—more than that. A tangible passion. He was desperate and denying himself. “Why would he know that?”
I lifted a shoulder. “You currently employ the man who sent him underground. I’d know what you looked like.”
He tapped the glass. “We were targeted for a crime of opportunity. I’d drop it.”
That didn’t match what my instincts were telling me at all, but if Abe Royal was going to be this stubborn and prideful, we’d reached the end of the road.
I stood, pocketing my things and tossing some cash down onto the table. “Consider it dropped,” I said. I took the little vial with me though. “Have fun on your vacation.”
His entire body flexed and tensed, as if he was bound to his chair by invisible rope. With a curt nod, he said, “I shall see you around. Neighbor.”
I yearned for a pithy response and came up empty, feeling flipped upside down by the surge of anger, frustration, need, lust coursing through my veins.
And hurt. That was there too, buried beneath the other, more vocal, emotions. Since graduating from NYU, there hadn’t been much effort made on my part to meet people or make friends beyond the occasional one-night stand or brief fling. My love life centered around anonymity—I preferred my partners to know as little about me, or my past, as possible. And in college, attempting to make those friendly connections was like trying to learn a brand-new language not a single person had ever taken the time to teach me.
On the occasions that I attended a campus party or a study group or a dining hall rendezvous, their experiences and memories were bizarre to me—the little coded ways they spoke to each other, their teasing and affection. I believed this social comfort came from people who grew up with siblings or friends, who went on field trips or had backyard birthday parties. More often than not, I’d leave feeling embarrassed or at the very least confused. At the end of the day, I found it easier to not try at all.
So I opted for turning on my heel and striding out of that pub without a clever goodbye for Abe Royal. And as I walked down the street, heading back to The Langham Hotel, I recognized the familiar feelings of embarrassment and confusion, of longing for something I didn’t understand. Maybe, just maybe, I had been trying to partner with Abe on this case.
Those were deceiving thoughts. I was better off alone anyway.
13
Abe
The lights in the Royal Opera House dimmed. The luxurious red-and-gold curtain opened on the stage, revealing the symphony orchestra and their instruments. The conductor bowed to the audience and turned to her musicians, who held themselves still, awaiting instruction. The long note of silence echoed in the hushed room—perhaps the most beautiful room I had ever seen. The domed ceiling sparkled with golden designs that mimicked a Renaissance classic.
The opening strings of Bach’s Concerto for 2 Violins in D Minor sang throughout the grandiose room, growing louder as the rest of the instruments joined in.
I closed my eyes, let the rich sound wash over me, stirring feelings I’d rather not explore. This moment in time was true leisure, true pleasure—a true vacation.
Every note from the violin loosened the hard coil in my chest that contained my anger toward my father’s betrayal.
Every note soothed the remnants of work stress, calmed the edges of my anxieties about cases and close rates and worrying that my team would get hurt while undercover.
Every note made me feel more like a man, less like a workaholic that generated outputs. Surrounded by London’s elite, seated in a building known for its opulence, it wasn’t easy for me to turn off the part of my brain desperately seeking criminals. Yet in the face of such gorgeous music, couldn’t I enjoy myself for a change?
The final note held, sustained, captivated every person in the audience. As they cheered and clapped, I shook my head and smiled to myself. Music, culture, history. Maybe it made me odd, but a reminder that I actually had hobbies now and again was a good thing. They were easily forgotten in the sheer intensity of my thirst for justice.
The crowd quieted, and the next song began. To my right, a young woman with jet-black hair walked down the narrow aisle and sat. I smiled once more, wider this time, already preparing to feign surprise that Devon—Sloane—was tailing me again.
It had been two days since she’d sauntered out of that pub without a goodbye. I’m sure it wasn’t possible to miss someone you barely knew. Yet during those days, I’d felt slightly lop-sided and disappointed at every tourist location I visited only to find myself… alone.
Every minute of that strange evening had been a combination of thrilling, frustrating, illuminating—and sexually arousing. After pocketing the tiny vial of GHB, I’d rushed around the front of the pub and heard sounds of a fight from the alley. It was Sloane, fighting off a giant attacker with a set of skills that rivaled my own. The very first puzzle piece began slotting into place then. And by the time I was picking up her private investigator’s license, it finally all made sense. A charming personality, a fake name, sly motivations, and a palm-strike straight from a Bureau textbook.
She was a detective. And not just any. Sloane had the job I’d desperately wanted eleven months ago, the job stolen from me because Louisa had opted to bring in the formal authorities. It was hard to fault her decision. Bernard was a criminal mastermind and technically should have been handled accordingly.
Except goddamn if my pride hadn’t taken notice that Louisa was now, potentially, regretting her decision. Not enough to re-hire me, no. She had sought out a bright, young, talented detective who could absolutely do the job asked of her. Including what I would have done if I’d suspected another detective was on my same trail—follow him until he gave up a clue.
I shifted in my seat and tried to catch Sloane’s eye in the row far ahead. That curtain of black hair shone in the golden light and obscured her face. She had displayed her secrets for me, and I’d purposefully refrained from sharing all of my information. The email, the start of all of this, was private, and it would stay that way.
Even if you should tell your team about it?
I coughed, cleared my throat. Closed my eyes to focus on the music again, the slide and pluck of every note from the cello.
Maybe… maybe I should have cautioned Sloane that the Kensley auction of Doyle’s private papers was the incident that had really captured my attention. Maybe I should have shared the code words or my old reports. Maybe I should have added that Eudora Green appeared shifty and morally gray to me, and if there was anyone to watch, it’d be her. Maybe—
I gripped the arm rests and manually forced my mind to listen to every fucking musical note. Sloane had resources, time, and access to the intimate documents of Bernard’s life. She had made it clear that if I couldn’t disclose any details for her, there was no reason to continue our cat-and-mouse. Whatever attraction she might have felt toward me was clearly not the priority. Her priority was to catch Bernard using everything she had. I absolutely could not fault her for putting her client, and her contract, first.