I swallowed around a lump of nerves and nursed my martini.
The long and boring stakeout had started yesterday afternoon. In the morning I’d woken energized and focused. And whatever strong feelings of longing or lust I might have felt for my hotel-room-neighbor I mentally crushed with my stiletto-heeled boot.
I had nine days left, a fact Louisa made sure to remind me of when I called to check in with her that morning. The auction of Arthur Conan Doyle’s private papers was in four days. Abe had offered little in usable information, and so I went back to my first juicy clue: the bartender.
If my instincts were correct, the bartender and the Big Guy who had attacked us were working together. Find one, find the other, find out who was paying them to scare and threaten two private detectives searching for Bernard Allerton. So now I sat at the window, watching Mycroft’s Pub across the street and hoping I didn’t look too obvious.
The amount of money I’d be paid if—when—I caught Bernard played on a loop in my brain. Money, opportunity, freedom. Recovering those prints from Birds of America for The Murphy Library had been the crucial entrance into this world. And catching Bernard was the ticket to bigger clients, better jobs, and a chance to be free from any financial burdens holding me back. As disappointed as I’d been after leaving Abe that night, I’d reminded myself that this meant if I discovered a straight shot at Bernard, I’d be the one to take it.
There was a rumble in the distance that could have been a train. I took a fortifying sip of vodka, enjoyed the burn in my chest. The bookstore, Adler’s, was lit full of patrons tonight. I’d watched from the side window as they came and went in the past two hours, and now a small circle was set up with people on chairs. A bearded white man, maybe mid-thirties, was leading a discussion and pointing to a book at the same time.
A door opened in the back of the pub and my eyes darted to the sound. Seemed like regulars, laughing with each other, cheering about a sporting event. I watched them as covertly as possible, drinking my martini. They appeared harmless. Yesterday I’d camped out here, ordering drinks and meals every few hours, and no one had noticed or at least hadn’t cared. Today, it was more obvious I was sitting here, by myself—not talking to a single soul. I’d come undercover as Devon, carrying Sherlock Holmes mysteries and prepared to give a story to any Society members that could spot me here, somewhat out in the open. Just resting my feet after a few frantic days of sight-seeing!
No one had bothered me, yet. For every second I observed Mycroft’s for movement, I kept one ear trained on my surroundings. I was no stranger to the shady underbelly that existed in the brightest of places.
My first case, when I was barely twenty-three years old, was a simple cheating spouse. I’d been given a presumed location by a scorned wife and found myself in a run-down motel parking lot awaiting this woman’s husband and his mistress.
I’d barely concealed myself as the pair made their way past parked cars and toward room #6. My entire childhood was spent engaged in illegal con tricks with my parents, where every day was cloaked in a malicious secrecy. But being a PI was legal, and I was performing a contractual service, all of which numbed my senses to fear. In the broad daylight, surrounded by a busy street and a handful of strip-malls and photographing a middle-aged man, I felt not a hint of threat.
The cheating couple was on top of me a second later, their violence born from the terror of getting caught. The husband ripped the camera right from my hands and smashed it to the ground. The mistress was a force to be reckoned with, and I’d only escaped her clutches by using the self-defense moves I’d been practicing at night. Later, back at my apartment, I realized how extremely lucky I’d gotten. I didn’t believe in nine lives. Just this one.
I didn’t make a mistake like that ever again. And if I wasn’t going to have the extra safety of a partner—Abe—then I couldn’t afford to lose focus.
Another rumble in the distance. I twisted in my seat, bringing my ear closer to the windowpane. Definitely a big truck. I released a breath, pressing a loose strand of hair back into my high bun. If there was a storm tonight, would I go to Abe? Knock on his door and beg him to… what? Take care of a practical stranger who had stolen from him and followed him around like a weirdo?
Besides, I’d never told anyone about the night my parents had left me alone in a motel even dingier than the one where a cheating spouse had tried to beat me up. I had been seven, and my parents were working a long con on a rich couple in the area, attempting to gain access to their circle of wealthy friends so they could commit identity fraud. My parents loved this kind of manipulate-cheat-dash lifestyle. We were staying in a midwestern city in Tornado Alley. My parents had left the TV on for me, tuned to the weather channel, and they hadn’t returned until the early morning. All night, the scariest thunderstorm I’d ever seen thrashed the tiny motel, rattling the windows. Water leaked in from the bathroom window, and the electricity went out. Right before, the newscaster had been talking about dark, greenish skies and potential hail.
Signs of an impending tornado. And my parents didn’t return until breakfast the next morning. I only recalled the starkest, iciest terror I’d ever known. Alone, at seven, convinced a tornado was going to destroy the motel and kill me.
The door at the back of the pub slammed closed, and the sound made me jump. I winced, cursed. Thinking about my parents never did any good except to fracture my focus. As if to prove a point, at that exact moment the goddamn bartender stepped out of Mycroft’s Pub.
With Big Guy.
They were on the move, and so was I. Leaving my half-empty glass, I yanked a hat down onto my head, low over my face, and slipped out of the bar, careful to not let the swinging door make a sound. Their body language was casual yet attuned to their surroundings. No conversation, simply heads down and on the move. I’d worn all black for the occasion—it was both my usual attire and worked well for sudden, covert stakeouts. I kept to the shadows, body pressed to each building, ducking into every alley I could as I kept my eye on them. Big Guy was still big; the bartender still looked like a Brooklyn hipster.
Neither of them noticed me. I hoped. About a quarter of a mile down the road they stopped. The buildings were mostly non-descript offices and stores. Nothing stood out. They slipped into a side alley to speak and I crept down a long wall to get close. I searched for fire escapes or open windows to sneak into. Their conversation was completely muffled by the sounds of London at night—cars, horns, more trucks rumbling. Glancing once behind my shoulder, I slipped out a pocket mirror, angled it towards them. Body language still casual, as in non-threatening. But Big Guy appeared upset, and the bartender appeared neutral.
A little closer. Then a little more. A group of loud locals walked past me—I acted quickly and pretended to be texting on my phone. They were noisy and obscured the secret conversation. Right near them was a little hedgerow of bushes about ten feet from where they were speaking. Before I could doubt my choice, I leapt, ducked behind the bushes, crouched low. A gust of wind muted their conversation. I pushed my ear directly to the bush, looking like an extreme nature enthusiast.
“He wasn’t fucking happy…”
I inhaled sharply. Tightened my fingers in the branches.
“Whose fault is that, hey?”