Chapter 9
Sharyn crossed past the velvet rope as it was lifted away—then balked at entering the packed club. The Lemon Grove had a capacity of eight hundred. The Halloween party looked to have surpassed that limit, or maybe the artificial fog only made it seem so.
Her two friends stuck close to her shoulders.
“We’re the only ones without costumes,” Naomi noted.
“Not that anyone can tell through this mist.” Tag waved a hand before his face and covered a cough with his fist.
Despite several hits off his inhaler, he still wheezed heavily.
Recognizing Tag needed to catch his breath, Sharyn led them onward and searched for a place to retreat and regroup.
As they crossed deeper into the club, the music thundered, rising from a DJ booth on the far side, where a helmeted figure waved an arm to the beat.
It all made Sharyn dizzy, especially the spinning dazzle of lights.
A hand suddenly snatched her elbow, while someone shouted at her.
She seized the offender’s thumb and bent it backward, breaking the grip and raising a yowl. She shoved off the attacker—a figure in a uniform.
Naomi shouldered protectively in front of Sharyn. “Maxwell, what the hell do you think you’re doing? Never grab a woman like that.”
The tall figure stepped back, bumping into someone outfitted in rugby gear. “I was only trying to get your attention.”
Sharyn refocused on her assailant and recognized Duncan Maxwell. From boots to cap, he looked authentically like someone from the British army.
“Sorry,” Duncan apologized, rubbing his injured thumb. “Still, I’m chuffed to see you were able to use my tickets.”
Tag cast Sharyn a scathing look. “You got the tickets from this pompous ass?”
Clearly Tag still held a grudge from quiz night.
The rugby player shoved forward. “Who you calling pompous, mate?” The man clapped Duncan on the shoulder. “Though, you did get the ass part right. I’ll give you that much.”
Sharyn saw it was Archibald Bailey, another student. She took a deep breath and fought down her pounding heart. The night’s tension—the fire, the bloodshed—strained her nerves.
Before she could break away, Duncan stepped closer. “I heard there was a fire at the Old Library. Is that true? Did you see it?”
He clearly only meant to engage her in conversation, but something must have registered on her face—something wounded, maybe guilty.
Duncan moved closer. “Do you know what happened? How it started?” His voice lowered. Yet, it remained deep enough to be heard past the music. “You must’ve been one of the last ones in the building when it closed.”
“I . . . I don’t know what happened,” she stammered. “And Professor Wright was still inside when I left.”
Naomi touched her elbow in warning.
Sharyn swallowed. “That’s all I know.”
Duncan’s eyes narrowed on her, then he nodded. “Let’s hope the professor wasn’t there when the fire broke out.”
She prayed for the same, but she held out little hope. She pictured Mrs. Kenworthy’s body slumping to the entryway floor. She shuddered, still struggling to come to terms with all that had happened, still furious at Professor Wright for putting them all in such danger.
The weight of the crossbody bag hung heavy on her shoulder.
What is so important about this book?
Tag searched around. “Is there somewhere less deafening in this place? Where a guy can talk without straining his vocal cords?”
Duncan pointed to the left. “We have a corner booth. With table service.”
Archie shook his head. “Sorry. Won’t do. That spot is currently overflowing with hormones and Paco Rabanne cologne.” He turned. “But follow me.”
As he swung to the right, Sharyn cast Duncan a questioning glance, but he only shrugged.
Archie led them to a side door marked Employees Only. He shoved through, then held the way open for everyone else. “There’s a breakroom ahead.”
“Are we allowed back here?” Naomi asked as she crossed the threshold.
The same question must have been on a server’s mind. A lanky woman in a Lemon Grove polo headed down the hall toward them. She carried an empty drink tray tucked under an arm and scowled as she sidled past them. Then her eyes spotted Archie, and the hard set to her lips softened.
“Hey, Arch, coming to see the boss?” She nodded down the hall. “As usual, Haran’s holed up in his office.”
“Nah, I’m sure he’s too busy. Friends and I just wanted to rest our ears a bit.”
“All right then.” She called back as she exited into the club, “But stay out of trouble.”
Sharyn knew it was far too late to heed such advice.
Archie led them down the corridor. As they crossed an open door, a shout called from inside. “Masa' alkhayr, sadiqi!”
Archie stopped, shoved his head through the doorway, and answered back in Arabic. The exchange was brief, but clearly warm.
Duncan leaned toward Sharyn. “Archie’s father was with the British diplomatic core. Did a stint in Riyadh. Don’t let Archie’s exterior fool you. He can speak nine languages. Some better than English.”
Archie rejoined them and waved onward with a grin. “The manager offered to send a few free pints our way. I thought it impolite to decline.”
Sharyn had no interest in partaking, but Tag and Naomi looked relieved.
As they passed the office, Duncan nodded back to it.
“A few years ago, Archie’s father helped smooth the visa process for the manager’s family.
A favor that proved uncannily fortunate, considering where Archie ended up being enrolled.
Though, truth be told, his father has connections everywhere.
In fact, it’s how I got so many free passes to the club. ”
“And now free beer,” Sharyn noted.
Duncan shrugged. “All further proof of the effectiveness of British diplomacy.”
As they reached the breakroom off the hall, Sharyn hung back and searched farther down the corridor. She spotted a glowing Exit sign at the end. The sight of another way out eased the tension in her chest—but only slightly.
Still, it was enough to push her into the breakroom, where concert posters plastered the walls, as if someone had decoupaged the interior. The skunky notes of weed hung in the air, likely pickled into the bones of the place long ago.
Sharyn did not complain. She crossed to the long table that split the room and sagged gratefully into a hard plastic seat. Duncan stepped over to a small fridge and retrieved two bottles of water. He passed her one and took the chair next to hers.
“Thanks,” she said, but she left her bottle unopened. Her stomach was too knotted to take anything in.
She also felt Duncan’s gaze on her, probably weighing whether or not to challenge her on the night’s activities. To deflect any questions, she spoke first. “Sorry about your thumb. From earlier. I thought you were with the military police or something.”
His brows rose higher. “And your first go-to is to attack a British officer?”
“You startled me. That’s all.”
“I suppose I can understand your mistake.” He brushed a palm down his woolen jersey. “These are real fatigues. Belonged to my grandfather.”
“Your grandfather?”
“He was with the British SAS during World War II. Lost a leg while serving in North Africa.”
“How horrible. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I’m not. If not for his injury, I wouldn’t be sitting here.”
She frowned at him until he explained.
“Once back home, my grandad wanted to continue to serve and was assigned to guard a codebreaking team. It’s where he met my grandmother, who was a mathematician with the group. From their stories, it was not love at first sight. They butted heads at every turn.”
Despite the night’s terrors, Sharyn found herself smiling. “But clearly they worked out their differences.”
“Eventually.” Duncan matched her grin. “Before they passed, the two used to regale me with tales from their time during the war.”
Sharyn noted the wistful glimmer in his eye.
She imagined it must have been those stories that had whetted Duncan’s interest in cyphers and codes.
She wished her legacy was so blessed. She remembered the counsel from her Al-Anon sponsor: For better or worse, our past forges who we are.
It’s the steel that strengthens us or chains us down.
Still, this line of thought—about codes—reminded her.
She reached for a yellow legal pad left on the table, where someone had doodled crude figures in graphically obscene poses.
She grabbed a loose pen, flipped to a fresh page, and quickly jotted down a series of letters and numbers, fearing she might forget them.
Naomi frowned at her effort. “What are you doing?”
“Back at the house, I spotted a Rolls parked at the curb.”
Tag nodded. “That’s right. I saw it, too.”
“It might be nothing, but it seemed out of place, so I memorized the plate number.” Her father had schooled her to be ever vigilant, especially in suspicious situations. She shifted the pad over and tapped at what she wrote. “This number.”
Duncan’s brow furrowed as he studied the page. “What’s this about?”
Naomi opened her mouth, but Sharyn shook her head.
No need to get others involved in this mess.
Archie grunted. He had been standing on the table’s far side, tugging into his track pants, which proved difficult due to his rubber-cleated rugby boots. He abandoned his effort and rapped his knuckles on the pad.
“SCV,” he said, reading off the first three letters. “You know what that means.”
Sharyn did not. And from the confused looks, neither did anyone else.
Archie tapped each letter. “Status . . . Civitatis . . . Vaticanae.”
As this clarified nothing, Archie continued. “The license plates of official vehicles registered with Vatican City start with those three letters.”
“You know that?” Duncan frowned. “How? From your embassy days?”
“Nah,” Archie scoffed. “From Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?”
Sharyn didn’t know if he was being serious or sarcastic, but it didn’t matter.
Duncan turned to their group and asked a question they all shared: “Why would someone from the Vatican be on your street?”