Illicit Intent, page 12
Calliope finished her inspection and came to stand in front of him where he had perched on the arm of the couch. Then she said the last thing he ever would have expected.
“How big are your feet?”
“Hmm?”
“Your feet. I was looking at your shoes all lined up and…my God. I guess I never noticed before because your feet are attached to your body, and, well…they’re in proportion to the rest of you. But just sitting over there, they look like boats docked at a marina.”
Tox tried to bank his amusement as she observed his hands and feet, no doubt thinking about...proportions.
“Seventeen.”
“Hmm?”
“My shoes. They’re size seventeen. I have to special order.”
Tox had barely finished his answer when a thud and a hiss pulled both of their attention across the room. Coco tugged the leash free from Calliope’s hand and scurried over to where the cat crouched. Loco spat and swiped a clawed paw at the rottweiler. Coco kept her distance but her stump of a tail bobbed affably.
Tox grinned, realizing what he was about to say. “Coco, meet Loco.”
“Seriously?” Calliope chuckled, despite her obvious concern for her pet.
“Yep. He came with the building.”
Tox and Calliope observed from a distance as Loco raced between Coco’s legs and hovered around her food bowl, hunger overriding her natural misanthropy. Tox crossed to the kitchen and retrieved the bag of cat food from the cupboard. He spilled a waterfall of kibble in and around the bowl, set the bag on the counter, and returned to his spot next to Calliope. Coco, never one to turn down a treat, ambled over to the kitchen and started licking up the kibbles that had missed the bowl, earning him a hiss and a spit from the cat. Rather than retreat, Coco went to the floor as if waiting for someone to throw a ball, and watched as the cat gobbled up the food and then darted out of sight.
“That’s some pet you’ve got there.”
“What she lacks in affection she makes up for in extermination.”
Calliope observed the water dripping from the ceiling in the kitchen.
Tox stepped toward the sink and followed her gaze. “Haven’t gotten around to patching that pipe yet.”
“I see that. And after I went out of my way to provide you with materials.”
He reached under the sink and retrieved the tube. He slapped it into his palm then used it to gesture to the space. “I know it’s a bit rough.”
“That’s okay.” Calliope approached him and grabbed the opposite end of the tube, creating a bridge between them. “You’re rough. I like rough.” Tox licked his lower lip but didn’t speak. Calliope examined the space again, still gripping the tube.
Tox took a deliberate step back. “I need to make a call.”
Calliope nodded and took another contemplative look around.
“The place could use some art.”
Boston, Massachusetts
December 1966
John Reardon paused mid-handshake so photographers could capture the moment. The director of the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, Perry Rathbone, had one hand in his and the other on John’s forearm, giving an enthusiastic pump while the architect for the new wing, Hugh Stubbins, looked on. The smell of sulfur from the flashbulbs hung in the air as the men filled the space in the center of the grand rotunda, surrounded by serene John Singer Sargent frescos.
Perry Rathbone gestured toward the entrance. If you’ll follow me, Mr. Reardon, we can head out to the groundbreaking ceremony.”
John clapped him on the back. “I’m not funding the new addition, Perry. I’m simply helping to fill it.”
“What good is a new wing without the art?” he replied.
“True.” John extended his hand to his wife who appeared by his side. “We all need beauty in our lives.”
Bridget blushed in a way that took him back to that hospital waiting room where he first laid eyes on her thirty-five years ago. He gave her hand a squeeze.
“Come. You’ve done your work here.” Bridget pulled him away from the group. “Eoghan, Peggy, and our granddaughter are coming for dinner, and I invited your brother and Dorcas and Patrick.”
“Lovely.” John moaned. “An evening of spoiling Imogen will be ruined by Dorcas’s constant complaining that Patrick can’t find a wife.”
“He’s not getting any younger. It’s past time he settled down.” Bridget commented absently.
“I fear for the woman that would have him. That boy has been in trouble since he was old enough to walk.”
“If he could stay out of jail for ten minutes, he’d have a lot more luck.” She agreed.
“Last I heard he and a few ne’er do wells have been casing the First National Bank on Commonwealth Avenue. The manager already called the cops about them. Eejits. Never thought I’d see the day when I actually wished my nephew was running with Whitey Bulger and his Winter Hill Gang.”
“A bank robbery’ll get him sent up to Concord for a good long stretch. Can’t Seamus set him straight?”
“Seamus has his head in the bottle. Buddy McClean sent him packing just like Whitey Bulger did to Patrick. Dorcas hasn’t been livin’ with her sister for a year because all’s right in the world.”
John sighed and repeated the thought that haunted him. “Two brothers with all the same blessings, all the same advantages and disadvantages, all the same dreams. How–”
Bridget stopped him on the empty sidewalk with a hand to his chest. “Don’t.” She kissed him gently. “You can’t keep wondering about things you can’t answer. You did everything you could for your brother. You do everything you can for him. For Patrick. For Dorcas. You can’t keep asking God why you were the lucky one. You just were.”
“I don’t have to ask God. The answer is in my arms.”
Bridget sighed. “Maybe Eoghan and the girls will stay the night and we can all go to mass together in the morning. I feel the need to thank the Good Lord for my blessings.”
“I suppose we owe Father Michael a visit. I have a container ship coming in tomorrow evening. Nothing too important though.”
“Then it’s settled.” Bridget withdrew from her husband’s embrace, and they continued down the sidewalk.
New York City
April 20, present day
The towering building that housed defense contractor Knightsgrove-Bishop sat in the heart of Midtown. Dozens of employees, clients, and visitors milled about the lobby and various reception areas. The fifty-sixth floor, however, was nearly silent. The security clearance level and protocols kept traffic on the executive floors to a minimum. Clients including the State Department, the NSA, and Homeland Security came to this floor to discuss business. The air crackled with the intensity of the suited men and women who walked these halls.
At the end of a long hall, in his underused, over-decorated office, Nathan Bishop was holding out a palm-full of Cheerios.
“Come on buddy, you can do it. Come on, Jackie.” He encouraged his son.
“You’re being ridiculous. He’ll walk when he’s ready. The baby books all say he’s in the normal range. You’re treating him like a dog,” Emily huffed from the couch in her husband’s office.
“I don’t treat him like a dog. That’s absurd.” Nathan rose and crossed to his son who was sitting on his bum next to the coffee table. Nathan scratched his little blond head and held out the palm full of Cheerios. Jack planted his face in Nathan’s palm and came up with two Cheerios in his mouth and one stuck on his lip.
“Charlie walks like a cadet. You’d think Jack would have a little competitive spirit.”
Charlie toddled over to where Emily sat on the couch and indicated in no uncertain terms he wanted to be held. Emily hefted him up, and he relaxed into her, scrunching the pages of the magazine she held.
“Emily.” Nathan indicated their other son with just his eyes as if any gesture or sudden movement would disrupt the moment. Jack had pulled himself to standing and faced Nathan, who had returned to his desk. Jack had his mother’s violet eyes, and he locked them with his father as he lifted a foot. Nathan sat forward ever so slightly, a look of supreme expectation on his face. Jack let go of the coffee table he was holding for support, lifted a foot…and dropped to his hands and knees. He motored over to Nathan with a devilish smile and snatched another Cheerio from his father’s outstretched palm.
“I think he did that to mess with me.”
“Come over here and mess with me.”
“Gladly.” Nathan snatched Jack up by the back strap of his corduroy overalls and carried him like a suitcase across the room, depositing him on the couch next to his twin brother. Then, he kissed his wife. And he kissed her. And kissed her.
“Well, now you’ve gone and done it, Mrs. Bishop.”
“What did I do?” Emily blinked with feigned innocence.
“We’re in my office. I have a meeting. The boys are at our side. And you’ve—he pulled her onto his lap for emphasis—initiated the launch sequence.” He nuzzled her neck. “We need some alone time. Immediately.”
“We’d have more alone time if you’d stop getting me pregnant. But then the alone time is how that happens in the first place.”
Nathan placed his large hand across her still-flat stomach.
“Our very own fantastic causality dilemma.”
Emily beamed at her husband then pushed up off his lap. “All right, JT and I are going to take the boys to Rockefeller Center to watch the skaters. It’s the last week before the rink closes for the season.”
“I’ll have a couple of guys tag along.”
“Thank you.” Emily wasn’t worried about her own safety, but after her own childhood abduction, she was still working through issues when it came to her sons. Nathan was only too happy to do whatever necessary to assuage her fears. He gave her another heart-stopping kiss.
“I’ll track you down when I’m finished here. We can grab a quick lunch and head to the plane.”
They each grabbed a boy and deposited him in the double stroller. Her bodyguard, JT, appeared in the doorway, and Emily maneuvered out of the office, creating a momentary traffic jam as the group of Bishop Security operatives filtered toward the entry. Ren and Chat bussed Emily on the cheek as they passed. Twitch waved without looking up from her tablet. The rest of the men headed for the office where Nathan had pulled a whiteboard to the end of the conference table in the expansive office. Twitch took her usual spot in the middle of the long table and mounted her tablet to a keyboard. Ren and Chat flanked her. Steady and Cam stood off to the side.
Tox lumbered in and sprawled on the couch. His expression betrayed nothing, but his brothers in the room knew. He was locked and loaded. While Calliope checked in at work, Tox had called Nathan to fill him in on the attack on Calliope and messengered the flash drive to Twitch. Nathan had assembled the team while Tox had arranged for a Bishop Security SUV to transport Calliope and Coco to Harlem. Now it was time to get to the bottom of this.
Nathan didn’t waste time. “Twitch, start us off.”
“Nothing very exciting on the flash drive. Calliope already shared it with the feds. The compliance documents were already on file with the SEC. The updated client list did have some information that they didn’t have: two new clients had recently signed on.” She swiped to change screens and a New Jersey driver’s license appeared on her screen. “John Vincent Vacarro is a plumbing supply distributor operating out of New Brunswick, New Jersey.”
“Why is the theme from The Sopranos running through my head?” Steady lobbed from the sofa where he had joined Tox.
“Yeah,” Twitch confirmed. “He’s all kinds of shady. However,” she held a finger in the air, “he signed on with Gentrify but had yet to transfer funds when Van Gent was murdered.”
Tox reflexively reached for the bowl of Skittles Nathan kept out for him, grabbing air. Nathan pointed with his pen to a bookshelf where they had been moved in a baby-proofing purge. Tox extended a long arm and snagged the bowl, scooped a handful, and shot several into his mouth from his fisted palm.
“I don’t know.” Steady scratched his stubbled jaw. “That had all the trademarks of a mob hit, but wiseguys aren’t in the business of whacking people who almost steal from them.”
“They might be if the guy almost stole two hundred million dollars.” Ren indicated the document Twitch had open on her computer.
Cam gave a long low whistle. “I need to get into plumbing supplies.”
“According to one of his associates, Phipps had just landed the business with Vacarro. Met with him in Vegas the day before—wined and dined him and stayed for some high stakes poker game before he headed back to New York.”
“That syncs with Calliope’s version of what Van Gent told her,” Tox added.
“So Van Gent lands the business then sits in on a couple hours of Texas Hold ‘em, wins a big pot but gets scammed with a fake painting. Seems like that sort of thing would be frowned upon at a high stakes table.” Cam offered.
“I think I can answer that.” Twitch looked at Cam over her monitor. “The man who reportedly put the forged painting in the pot, Franco Jasic, died at the scene. Heart attack. EMS’ attempts to resuscitate were unsuccessful.”
“Van Gent’s not going to stick around in a room probably full of hookers and recreational drugs to give a statement to the cops, so he cuts his losses,” Steady concluded.
“That’s a dead end.” Nathan pinched the bridge of his nose. “No way could Johnny Vacarro have dealt with a DB in his hotel suite and arranged a hit on Van Gent in that time frame. Have Teddy double check though.” Teddy was Twitch’s protege. She was training him in the dark arts of cybersecurity. Nathan continued, “See if any of Vacarro’s go-to guys were in the city, if the Feds are poking around, the usual stuff.”
“Copy that,” Twitch confirmed. “Now this other client is more interesting. Roman Block, CEO of Blockbuild Construction out of San Francisco. Three weeks ago, Block transferred one hundred eighty million in assets to Gentrify Capital.”
“Another in a long line of suckers,” Steady added.
“Yeah…”Twitch kept clicking on the keys. “Something’s fishy. A big chunk of his corporate assets are leveraged, and the IRS is auditing the activities of the Lorraine Evers Block Charitable Trust.”
Chat shot Ren a glance, and he nodded confirmation. “Hypothetically, if Phipps Van Gent had this guy’s money, and he wanted it back, killing him doesn’t seem like the best way to go about it. I mean this guy, Roman Block, needs cash, not revenge.”
“Agreed.” Nathan nodded. “And judging from the crime scene photos—Twitch.” She tapped some keys, and the first grizzly photo appeared on the transparent nano-liquid screen on the far wall. Van Gent’s prone body was on a couch, obliterated by two blasts from a 12-gauge shotgun. “It doesn’t look like a conversation took place. Someone walked into that office and blew the guy’s head off.”
Twitch took over, replacing the photo with a floorplan of the Gentrify office. “According to Calliope, she passed a man she assumed was a client with a late-night meeting at the elevator. She estimates three seconds passed between her entering the elevator and the first shot. That would put the client about here.” She made an X with her stylus on her screen and the mark appeared overhead in the middle of the floor plan’s reception area. “Van Gent’s office is here.” Another X at the back of the floor plan. “Based on when the guard at the building entrance clocked the mystery client leaving, we have to assume he hid and waited for the shooter to leave, then took the elevator down to the lobby and left. The guard said the man seemed fine. He barely remembered the guy.”
“So where did the shooter go?” Steady asked.
“There was an event that night. Not unusual. The building has a restaurant on the mezzanine level that does catered events for the building’s tenants. That night a well-regarded private equity firm that occupies the ninth and tenth floors hosted a dinner. The event ended around ten and the catering staff was cleaning and breaking down tables until just before midnight.” Twitch read the information on her screen.
“So he takes the elevator down to the mezzanine and filters out the back with the catering staff,” Tox concluded.
Twitch nodded. “It’d be the only way out of the building that didn’t require a card swipe or passing a guard.”
Cam chimed in. “Doesn’t this seem a little, I don’t know, convenient. A guy smuggles a gun up to Gentrify Capital. Waits until the building’s nearly empty. Van Gent shows up out of the blue. The guy blows him away, and there happens to be an event going on where people are coming and going unmonitored so he can make his escape? I’ve seen a lot of hits go down, but this is like an assassin’s fairy tale.”
Ren spoke next. “Or an opportunity. What if the shooter worked there? He brings in a gun, maybe even in pieces, and has it hidden. He knows what he needs to make the hit: an empty office, an event going on downstairs, and Van Gent. So he waits. Maybe it takes six months, but eventually, those three planets would align.”
“He has the means: the shotgun, and the motive, which we can guess, and he just waits for the opportunity,” Cam nodded.
“Exactly,” Ren confirmed.
“So not a hired hitter, a premeditated murder,” Steady added.
“If that’s the case, Van Gent’s murder is an unrelated or tangentially related event,” Nathan deduced.
“With a motive nobody seems to know,” Ren surmised.
Steady chuckled. “Considering the victim, I think we can make an educated guess.”
Twitch typed at lightning speed. “The last employee to log out of the Gentrify system that night was Freddy Kerr at 8:52 pm.” More typing. “He’s a twenty-three-year-old client relations specialist. Huh.”
“What?” Steady asked.
“He developed a stock tracking algorithm and software program in high school. Smart kid. Other than the janitor, he was probably the last employee to leave that night.”
Cam shrugged. “Two hours before the hit.”
“With no obvious motive,” Steady added.
