Illicit Intent, page 11
Calliope watched through the thick plastic sheeting; she didn’t dare pull it aside. The three men chasing her seemed to be speaking to the stoned watchman. It was now 6:40 a.m. The construction crews would be arriving soon. God, she wished Tox was still on the line. His grumbly voice calmed her. Plus, what the heck was a non-consensual tattoo? She smiled in spite of the situation.
The biggest of the three goons, the one in the painter’s clothing, pointed, and the other two men took off in different directions. Painter goon stood facing the building, hands on his hips. For a solid minute, he didn’t move. Calliope didn’t move either. She suddenly regretted her fuschia yoga tank and hoped it wasn’t visible through the window covering. Painter man moved toward the stairs, and Calliope backed out of sight. She spied her hiding place, a hole in the wall waiting for a panel of drywall, but something else caught her attention. The entire floor, which at one time had been bedrooms, was blown out into a large open space with areas taped off for the new floor plan. Attached to a window at the back of the building was a construction chute, a giant, yellow caterpillar dropping straight into a dumpster below. Calliope wasn’t an idiot. Inside a chute or out, a fall from the third floor would not be healthy. However, as she stepped closer, she saw that the chute was segmented; pieces of debris had caught in the joints. If she could slow her descent, dropping segment by segment, she could escape the building.
“I just want to talk to you.” The voice came from the floor below. The boards creaked beneath her feet as she moved to the back of the building.
“I’m not here to hurt you.” The sound of a chambering bullet said otherwise.
Yeah, right. Calliope moved toward the window with the chute attached. What was happening? Did they have the wrong person?
“Calliope Garland, You have something my employer wants.” Well, that answers that question. “This can be very easy if you let it.”
She didn’t dare turn her back on the staircase that ended at the front of the house on this level. A balding head came into view, moving slowly up the stairs. Then shoulder, then torso. He was looking down, probably texting his goon buddies. She sat on the sill and twisted her lower body so her legs dangled down the chute, and her midsection rested on the sill. She slid a bit more, and she was hanging from the window with her arms and shoulders hooked on the sill. She chanced a glance down the chute and immediately regretted the plan.
As with so many things in Calliope’s life, what she imagined was far from the practical reality. That was a long drop, and those joints she envisioned slowing her descent seemed little more than seams. She started to hoist herself back into the room when she saw the man standing in the middle of the space and staring right at her with a malevolent smile.
“Going somewhere?”
Calliope hesitated for only a moment. The last thing she saw was the thug’s shocked face as she let go of the windowsill and disappeared into the chute.
Calliope clawed at the yellow plastic and managed to slow her fall twice as she plummeted almost vertically to the ground. Less than three seconds passed when she hit the top of the pile of trash in the dumpster with a thud. She felt a stabbing pain in her hip and realized she must have scraped her side on the broken lid of a toilet tank.
No time to dwell on it. Painter goon was no doubt barreling down the stairs to cut her off. Calliope vaulted out of the dumpster, ran to the narrow walkway separating the houses, and emerged out onto the street. To her right, the other two men were heading straight for her. Behind her, painter goon appeared in the front doorway of the house. Looks like left.
Calliope started to run when around the corner, moving like a jungle beast, Tox appeared. She ran straight to him and hugged him tight around the waist. He briefly returned the hug, then rotated her around so she was behind him with her arms still ringing his middle. Tox stood calm and still, facing the men who continued to approach but now warily. One man pulled a retractable baton from his coat. The other grabbed his taser. Tox reached into his hoodie and withdrew the Magnum from his holster. He held it at his side, pointed down, but it was impossible to miss. The three men stopped and kind of stumbled over each other. In an attempt to save face the head thug looked at Tox with a grin. “I’ll see you again soon.”
Tox remained stoic. “Notify your next of kin.”
The crash of a dumpster lid startled the men into action and they bumped and scurried, finally disappearing around a corner. Tox rotated Calliope around so she was in front of him again.
“You okay?”
“I really want to know the story of your tattoo.”
Tox tipped his head back and laughed. He pulled her to his side and they started walking.
“Happy to share, but I have a few questions of my own first.”
“Yeah, okay. I seem to have gotten in over my head.”
They walked half a block in silence when the older man with the beard Calliope had seen sipping coffee on the bench across the way came into view. He stopped and stared for several seconds, obviously taken aback by the behemoth escorting her. When he regained his bearings, he approached.
“Is everything all right? It looked like that man was chasing you.”
Calliope smiled. “Yes, my friend scared him off.”
The man looked at Tox, an unreadable expression on his face.
“I can see why. You don’t expect that sort of thing in Brooklyn Heights.”
“Are you new to the neighborhood?” Tox asked.
“Lived on Garden Street my whole life. Dan Garfunkel. No relation.” He extended his hand, and Tox took it in a firm grip. “The bakery on my block closed, so I thought I’d give this one a try. I better head home.” He patted her arm. “I have a schnauzer who lets me know if I’m gone too long.” The man glanced at Calliope’s side. “That looks like it needs attention.” The man moved around them and proceeded down the block.
Tox moved around Calliope’s body and lifted the section of her bright pink tank that was soaked with blood. “Jesus, what happened?”
“I slid down a construction chute.”
She expected Tox to shake his head or berate her foolishness, but he nodded and said, “Nice.” He sank down to a catcher’s squat and lifted her top to examine the wound, a two-inch gash along her hip.
“I can patch this up. Doesn’t need stitches.”
“He said Garden Street.” Calliope turned and looked where the man had disappeared around the corner.
“Hmm?”
“He said he had lived on Garden Street his whole life. It’s Garden Place.”
She could see Tox was torn. He wanted to turn and sprint after the man, figure out if he was somehow connected to Calliope’s assault, but he didn’t leave her.
“Come on, let’s go to my place. Suddenly my dilapidated warehouse on a sketchy block in a dangerous neighborhood seems a whole lot safer than where we are.”
“Okay.”
“Let’s get the flash drive,” Tox added. “Can you text Twitch and let her know we’re bringing it by?”
Calliope reached to the strap on her arm that secured her phone when she jogged. “Shit.”
“What’s wrong?”
“My phone. It must have fallen out. Probably in that damned chute.”
“And the hits keep on coming.” Tox glanced around at the empty street, suddenly feeling very exposed. “Grab the flash drive, and let’s get out of here.”
Calliope hurried up the steps and let herself in with the key tied to her shoelace. She didn’t arm her security system when she left for her morning runs, but she would when she left with Tox. Coco stayed on the floor behind the couch rather than joining her in the kitchen for a treat and a belly rub. Calliope was too distracted to notice as she hurried to pull the copy of the flash drive she’d made for Twitch from her laptop and grab her bag from the kitchen. As she headed for the door she took a last-minute detour up to her room to rinse off, slap a large bandage on her hip, and grab a change of clothes.
On her way out, she stopped in the upstairs hall. The door to the linen closet was persnickety. You couldn’t just close it or it would slowly open with a creak that made the house seem haunted rather than simply having an improperly hung door. She had to close it, then give it a shove to ensure the latch clicked into the slot. She hadn’t been in the linen closet in days, and yet there the door stood. Wide-open.
The mirror at the end of the hall showed her no one lurked behind it, nevertheless, she quickly raced back down to Tox who was talking on his phone.
“Someone’s been in my house.”
“I’ll call you back,” Tox said, disconnecting his call. He gripped Calliope by the shoulders. “Wait here.”
She followed him up the exterior steps like a shadow. Tox turned to find her attached.
“You’d never make it as a soldier.”
“Sailor not soldier, and don’t you forget it.” She winked, throwing his words back at him.
Tox had never in his life simultaneously wanted to throttle someone and kiss the living daylights out of them. He pushed open the door which was already ajar and was met with silence. He took a couple of steps into the hall and turned to her. “Where’s the dog?”
Calliope paled and moved past him calling for Coco. She was met with a whiny growl from behind the living room couch.
“That’s where she goes when she’s done something bad—chewed my shoes or something.”
“Wait here.” Tox moved into the living room, Calliope a step behind. “Why do I bother?”
“I wonder that myself,” she added absently.
They both looked down to where Coco was gnawing away on a large rawhide bone, slowly inching away from them in an effort to keep her prize.
“I take it that’s not from you.”
“No.”
“Grab her leash. We’re taking Coco with us.”
Caleb Cain stood on the deck of the ferry from the DUMBO section of Brooklyn to Manhattan. He peeled off the beard and dropped it into the river. The tattered cardigan would go in the trash. He scrolled through Calliope Garland’s phone—luckily she had removed the password protection—and found nothing. He had lifted it from her armband as he moved around her. She had probably used a different phone while working at Gentrify Capital. Moreover, the late Phipps Van Gent had only come into possession of the item he sought a few days ago; it was improbable Calliope knew anything about it.
He removed the prosthetic nose and it followed the phone into the current. For a brief second, it looked like a small raft being circled by the fin of a shark. Then the phone sank beneath the surface and the nose floated off.
Caleb had returned to Gentrify and searched Van Gent’s office and private quarters more thoroughly. Other than the cap of the tube he had found the first time, there was no sign of the package or its contents. He had also had an associate in the NYPD get him a copy of the logged contents of the office; the tube was not listed.
Calliope Garland was the last person, other than the killer, to see Phipps Van Gent alive. The killer obviously had planned his attack long before Phipps had acquired the item in question. Caleb found it impossible that the man would grab what appeared to be a worthless tube in the midst of a violent murder. What did Sherlock Holmes say? Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.
Caleb considered the men who had ambushed Calliope. He would know who they were soon enough. A brief flash of guilt passed through him for not helping her, but he wasn’t here to play White Knight. He was here to do a job. Plus, he had a feeling Calliope Garland could take care of herself. So he had taken the opportunity to slip into Calliope’s home; there were so many ways in and out—front door, back door, back staircase to the apartment below, fire escape, roof access—he wasn’t worried about getting caught. He knew about her dog and had come prepared with a tasty treat. He had checked out the dining room, spotted a flash drive and some printed documents.
The files were still open on her laptop when he woke it. No wonder she looked so jittery leaving Gentrify that night. This is probably what those dumb-fuck apes chasing her around the neighborhood were looking for.
It was not, however, what he was looking for.
Caleb had kept to his task. He had checked her trash and recycling—she looked like an environmentally conscious sort—and found nothing. He looked in each room, most of which were empty so the task was brief. The tube was not in plain sight which meant one of two things: she thought it was worthless and somehow managed to discard it between the Gentrify offices and her home, or she saw what it contained, realized its value, and was hiding it. Caleb rested his elbows on the rail of the ferry and stared at the roiling water of the East River. Only one way to find out. Ask her. Most people didn’t realize how simple the fine art of information gathering could be.
Then there was the man at Calliope’s side. His jaw clenched and his nails bit into his palms. It had been years, but there was no mistaking the determined face of Miller Buchanan. He had been told by someone he trusted implicitly that Miller Buchanan was dead. There were very few people in his life whose word he took at face value; the breach of trust was as powerful a blow as seeing the man himself. He had accepted the declaration, abandoned his manhunt. And now…he had yet another complication in an already convoluted situation because he couldn’t continue on as he was with Miller Buchanan walking the earth.
Caleb found himself in a rare quandary. He loved complicated. He loved perplexing. He even loved confounding. What he didn’t love was messy. And he knew it like he knew every one of his seventeen aliases; things were about to get messy.
Back up on street level, Calliope removed Coco’s little orange vest and shoved it into her bag.
“That dog is not a service animal,” Tox said.
“She’s a therapy dog, you big narc. I’m not putting her in a pet carrier for a ten-minute subway ride.”
“Rules are rules.”
“Aye-aye, Captain.”
“Master Chief.” He winked.
God that was a sexy rank. Calliope watched him turn and head down Canal Street. Hawkers selling knockoffs jammed the sidewalks, yet everyone seemed to clear a path for the six and a half feet of muscular grace that preceded her. She was so caught up in admiring his sculpted prowl, she hadn’t realized she was blocking the entrance to the subway. She tugged on Coco’s leash and hurried to catch up. They walked east to Avenue B then cut up to Ninth Street. Calliope noted the strides Alphabet City was making toward gentrification: the community garden, a jazz club, a block of row houses surrounded by a construction fence. Tox’s block looked a little less promising.
Tox pulled Calliope under his arm as they moved past a group of young men huddled on the corner.
Calliope was indignant. “I have Coco.”
Tox snorted. “What’s she gonna do? Lick those guys to death?”
“Do not insult my dog.”
When they were about halfway down the block a shout came from the far corner. “Tox, you steppin’ out on me?”
Tox laughed. It was a full, hearty sound that Calliope felt deep down. It made her wish she could elicit that sort of carefree pleasure from him.
“Busted.” They walked up to the beanpole of a woman wearing fishnet stockings, glittery platforms, and a purple satin dress. “Foxy, meet Calliope.”
“Nice to meet you.” Calliope gave a little half-wave.
“Cujo friendly?”
“Yes, very.”
“Well, don’t just stand there. Give me a spin, girl.”
Calliope complied as Foxy inspected her with a hand to her chin. “She’s too classy for this block. I mean this block.” Foxy gestured to their surroundings. “Not this block.” She motioned to Tox. “You two could be on top of a wedding cake. I’ll clear my calendar for June.”
Tox laughed again, jiggling Calliope who was still tucked in the nook of his arm. Foxy was undeterred. “Take her to Rocca. This girl needs candle-on-the-table treatment.”
Tox changed the subject. “Why are you still up?”
“Busy night. Just heading to bed.” Foxy turned to Calliope. “I am a vampire, sugar, a creature of the night.”
Calliope nodded her understanding. “Keeps you young. No sun damage.”
“She gets it.” Foxy waved as she walked away, then turned back. “Boys on the corner are up to no good. Hamzeh called his cousin.” Hamzeh ran the bodega on the corner; his cousin was a cop.
“Copy that,” Tox confirmed as Foxy disappeared around the corner.
Tox halted the industrial elevator manually and yanked back the retractable gate. With a comically formal gesture, he indicated Calliope precede him into the space. Her face gave nothing away as she glanced around the room. The stamped tin ceiling was missing sections, revealing pipes and ductwork. A weight bench/coffee table sat near a sofa that looked like it should have been sitting out on the street. The “kitchen” was formerly a cleaning station consisting of a deep double sink, cabinet storage, and a counter. Tox had added a hot plate, a microwave, and a fridge.
Calliope noticed the one thing out of place, a cereal bowl on the floor, as she turned toward the bedroom. She scanned the neatly made bed, the photos on the dresser, and the row of clothing neatly hung from an exposed pipe.
Tox had always liked his living space. He could see every corner of the loft from almost any position. He kept it clean as a pin. It was quiet. His only visitor to date was Loco. Watching Calliope inspect the apartment filled Tox with an unexpected sense of shame. He could have done so much more. He could have renovated the entire space. He had lived here, on and off, for years. He could have afforded to do so many things. Things he suddenly wished he had done. He wasn’t lazy. He wasn’t financially strapped. He was just…in limbo. He shook off the feeling. His home was exactly what he needed. It was enough.
