He hmmm-ed, distracted, before putting down a book and looking at me.
I held up the planner, waved my hand around the office. “Do you think Bernard cared about any of this? The libraries, the conservation, the fundraising. I mean truly cared?”
Abe rubbed the back of his neck, winced a little. “Henry thinks he does. We’ve talked about this a lot at Codex. The complicated tapestry of Bernard’s moral code. Even with all that Henry’s seen, and all that he knows, he firmly believes his former mentor exists easily between the world of well-respected scholarship and shadowy underworld. Exists, as in believes both are necessary.”
I tapped the calendar, stared at the picture of him standing with Victoria. “If that’s true, it goes back to that story Humphrey told us. About Bernard taking their things. Because he could. He adheres to a different set of rules than the rest of the world.”
“The man clearly believes in the power of libraries and clearly believes in the power of money and greed,” he said.
I shifted around the pile of planners, tucking my feet beneath me. “I met with dozens of Sherlock Society members before you arrived. Attended their luncheons, their meetings, took them out for drinks. They were all eager to talk about Bernard when I asked.”
“Anything in particular stand out?”
“I couldn’t pull together a clear picture of Bernard’s motivations at all,” I replied honestly. “And the more I met with people the murkier my understanding of him became. He…” I paused, gathered my thoughts. “He manipulated every single one of them. Maybe not for nefarious purposes, but they all spoke about his charisma. When he spoke to you, you were the only one in the room. He remembered little details, he brought gifts, he noticed things about you that others never did.”
Those meetings had always made me squirm. Because Bernard’s techniques were classic con man tricks. I knew them, my parents knew them. And as a detective, I still used them to gain trust.
“I once led a team of agents that arrested and charged a powerful CEO who was responsible for a pyramid scheme that stole millions of dollars from people in this small town in Connecticut. This was about six years ago. And he was so charismatic I used to send in three agents at a time during interviews. Because he’d charm the first two so easily they’d come to me claiming his innocence. And they weren’t new agents fresh from Quantico. These were stalwart men and women who delighted in locking up men like that. He was just too good.” Abe was looking away, almost dreamy—like he was holding back.
“Good memory?” I asked, chasing the source of that dreaminess.
“Professionally, yes, actually. At the time, I was pretty frustrated with my work at the Bureau, but that case was one I’ll never forget. And one I’ll always be proud of. Because that CEO was a goddamn sociopath who destroyed people’s lives. Putting him behind bars had a real effect on the scales of justice.” He slid his steel eyes toward me. “I had a girlfriend at the time who didn’t see it that way unfortunately. Although I admit that case dominated my every waking thought. Not much time to tend to our relationship.”
There was a bizarre feeling in my belly at the thought of Abe in a relationship. “When did the two of you break up?” I asked.
“About five years ago. She’s married now and has a baby. Which makes me happy. I felt guilt for a long time knowing she spent a year of her life with a man who wouldn’t give her what she needed.”
I brushed a few strands of hair behind my ear, tilted my head. “Have you ever dated anyone that distracted you from work?”
Abe stared at me. “No. Not yet. Although my mother and Jeanette beg me to find her so they can finally become grandparents.”
“Your moms sound like smart ladies,” I said. “You must be Philadelphia’s most eligible bachelor. There are a lot of women who would kill to date a man who cared so deeply about righting the wrongs of the world.” While looking that hot in a suit.
He didn’t respond to my observation. Instead, he countered with, “And how many hearts are you breaking in New York City right now? Ten? Twenty?”
I laughed, surprised. “Not a heartbreaker,” I said. “That would imply I stayed around long enough for them to learn the language of my heart.”
His throat worked behind his collar. “Has anyone learned that language?”
“Not yet.”
To avoid bursting into flames, I re-focused on that picture of Bernard and Victoria. Thought about vulnerabilities, the soft spots and weaknesses of a con artist. For my parents, my best guess was their marriage was one of criminal convenience, a distorted partnership that bound them together through years of lies and thievery. I stood up, tugged at the deerstalker hat hanging from the end of the floor lamp.
“I take back what I said about vulnerabilities. It’s not only greed.”
“It’s Sherlock Holmes and Arthur Conan Doyle,” Abe said softly. “Bernard’s one emotional obsession.”
“The private papers from Doyle that he lost the first time they were made available was also the first time he’d ever been denied. Been told no and had it mean something,” I continued.
He nodded along, then scrubbed his hands down his face. It’d been a long two hours, and I could feel my scratchy eyes and aching back. “Everything here, all of these books, have something to do with Sherlock Holmes or Doyle. It’s like a kind of shrine.”
He grabbed the last book on the shelf and opened it.
A photo fell.
He snatched it up as it hit the ground. “Sloane.”
I was there in an instant. And there was a fluttering in my belly caused by Abe’s firmly speaking my name. Not Devon or Ms. Atwood or Ms. Argento or any other teasing moniker. Abe flipped the picture around and tapped it with his fingers. “That’s Bernard. And these are the members of The Empty House that Sam and Freya got arrested.”
I took the picture, looked at Abe. “I only know about The Empty House from the articles written about the case in the newspaper.”
He pointed to a white man with an Indiana Jones-style hat on. “That is Dr. Bradley Ward, the head of The Empty House and formerly a well-known academic and professor.” He indicated an elegant-looking white couple. “Thomas and Cora Alexander, also in the secret society and close with Ward. We believe Bernard had the Alexanders steal a first edition of Don Quixote from Ward. And we believe Bernard also had them steal the George Sand love letters that Sam and Freya ultimately recovered. Thomas and Cora admitted to my agents on multiple occasions that Bernard was stirring the pot, potentially destabilizing the group without concern for anyone other than himself.”
“That matches his personality,” I said grimly. “Were the Alexanders the thieves themselves? Or did they use someone?”
Abe grimaced slightly. “We think they used a librarian intern named Jim Dahl. Dahl was working at The Franklin Museum in Philadelphia for six months prior to them receiving the Sand letters. He stole them and forged additional copies to sell. He was never caught, so we can’t be sure, but our guess was always that he was the thief used to steal from Dr. Ward too.”
“He’s still on the run?” I asked.
“No sign of him,” he answered. “I’m sure he’s one thief of many that Bernard has used throughout the years.” He flipped the photo over, frowned. “Apparently this picture was taken during an annual trip to Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland.”