Illicit Intent, page 14
“Yeah, you don’t want the bear to hurt anyone.”
“No, Miller. I don’t want the bear to hurt you.”
In the lobby of the building, Tox pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to Calliope: Are you free tomorrow? I’d like to take you to dinner.
Her response had him grinning as he emerged onto Broadway: Definitely.
Boston, Massachusetts
December 1985
Patrick Reardon reached through the wreath on the thick oak door to find the lion’s head knocker and began striking it against the wrought iron plate without pause. John Reardon threw open the door fully clothed despite the late hour.
“Jaysus, Patrick. It’s two in the morning,” he whisper-yelled to his nephew.
“We got pinched, Uncle John.” Patrick snaked past his uncle and stood panting in the grand front hall. “I was just the driver. The boys said it would be a quick in and out. That diamond merchant on Mass Ave. When they cut the wires on the alarm, the thing started blaring. Must be some new design. The cops were there before they could even smash the cases. The precinct’s a block away. Eejits!”
Patrick was pacing and running his fingers through his hair, bits of snow and sleet dripping onto the Aubusson rug.
“Did the cops make you?”
“I think so. And those boys will roll on me in a second to make it easier on themselves.”
John made no move to welcome his nephew into his home. He stood calmly in the front hall and waited for Patrick to face him.
“You’re going away for this one, lad. So here’s what you’re going to do. Get into the car and drive straight to the precinct. Ask for Detective Murray. Tell him you’re here to turn yourself in, and you have all the information he needs to put the others away for a good long time. Then you spill the beans. Every robbery, every scam, every loan, you tell ‘em. I’ll have my lawyer meet you there. Go now.”
Patrick suddenly looked like the young boy John remembered sitting in his office all those years ago. “I don’t want to go up the river again, Uncle John.”
“You should have thought of that before you decided to rob a jewelry store. Go on now. The quicker you get there, the shorter your sentence. The cops’ll give the deal to the first one that cracks. I’ll make sure that’s you.”
“You’ll look out for me?” Patrick asked.
“I always have, and I always will.”
Patrick nodded, resolute, and headed back to the car. John waited until the taillights vanished from view, then he turned and headed back to his office. The only change in the room during his nephew’s untimely interruption was the expanding pool of blood on the painter’s tarp which covered the carpet. The corpse’s rheumy eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling. The two men who had accompanied the dead man stood silently at attention.
John resumed his seat behind his desk and returned the trusty Derringer to the drawer it had occupied for thirty years.
“Now. As I was saying. The shipment is paid in full. The cargo is on the dock waiting for pickup. My man’s name is Frank. Tell him I sent you for the shipment of watches from Hong Kong. Watches from Hong Kong, got it?” He repeated. Both men nodded. “I want to make myself clear. I’m retiring. My son Eoghan is taking over, and he has plans to move the business in a different direction. Our business is concluded. You have the contact information for the new shipper. He’s trustworthy, but do your own due diligence. Take Uri here and go. I trust you know how to make sure he isn’t found.”
One of the men smirked. Together the two men bent to roll the body in the tarp when John’s words halted them. “The last time I retired, it took three ‘Uri’s’ to convince my colleagues of my intentions. I hope this time it will only require one.”
The two men nodded with deference. The one who smirked extended his hand. “Schasty. It means good luck in my country.” John took the man’s hand and nodded his thanks. The two Ukrainians, with the body of their colleague hefted between them, made their way out the back, tossed the body in the truck of their Delta 88, and disappeared.
Once John could no longer hear the sedan on the gravel, he picked up his phone.
“Sorry to wake you, Bruce. My nephew needs you down at police headquarters. Got collared robbing a jewelry store. He’s with Murray. He’ll fill you in.”
“I’ll be there in twenty.” The Reardon attorney was terse, but he got the job done. John liked both qualities in the man.
Tomorrow was his granddaughter Imogen’s twentieth birthday. Eoghan and his wife, Peggy, were throwing her an intimate party at her favorite little Italian restaurant off Harvard Square. Then she and her fob of a boyfriend, Win, were heading to the festivities for the young people. Eoghan had mentioned that Win Brewer had asked for his permission to propose, so an engagement was in the offing. Well, he supposed there were worse prospective grooms. Win Brewer’s family had been in Boston since the Mayflower dropped anchor in Plymouth. The Brewers had been millionaires when the Reardons were picking pockets around Faneuil Hall.
John chuckled, imagining Bridget and Eoghan’s wife, Peggy, planning the wedding of the only Reardon daughter in three generations. He wasn’t going to let his nephew’s problems put a damper on this magical time in his life. He’d help Patrick as best he could. He didn’t know why he bailed the boy, well, man now, out of trouble again and again. There was no payoff for his effort. Nevertheless, Patrick was family and John would take care of him.
New York City
April 22, present day
Calliope was locking her front door when a man cleared his throat from the sidewalk behind her. She spun around to find a balding man with a slight paunch standing with his arms out in a placating gesture. His cheap blazer was spread open, revealing the badge at his hip.
“Didn’t want to startle you.”
“Can I help you?”
“I’m Detective Costello, First Precinct. I have some follow-up questions regarding your statement.”
“Oh, um, a detective from your office already called about a follow-up interview. I’m supposed to come in next week.”
“I know. I’m going to be at a funeral. An old partner of mine was killed in the line of duty. Anyway, I wanted to run a couple of things by you. My partner, Pete Brigger, may ask you some of the same questions. If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear it from the horse’s mouth.”
He gave her a pleading smile. Calliope liked him on sight. He had kind, trustworthy eyes, and while he was clearly experienced, he didn’t seem jaded.
She trotted down the stairs. “Sure. Can we walk and talk?”
“I was going to suggest the same thing. Passed a donut shop on my way here, but it’s bad for the image.” He chuckled.
“So, you probably know I didn’t see anything.”
“Sometimes you see things you don’t realize are important.”
“I guess.”
“Before you left Van Gent’s office, did anything unusual happen?”
Calliope had omitted crashing the computer from her initial statement, but she knew it would have to come out eventually.
“Um, there were some issues with the computer. The system crashed.”
“Yeah, the feds are handling that. What about Van Gent? Was he acting differently? Anxious?”
“No. The opposite in fact. He was his usual boisterous self. He had just won some huge pot in a poker game. I’m pretty sure he was drunk.”
“Lucky stiff. Sorry, gallows humor sort of goes with the job. How much did he win?”
“Jeez, like two hundred grand. Oh, and that painting.”
“The painting we found at the scene?”
“Yeah. I guess he got taken. Phipps said it wasn’t worth anything.”
“It wasn’t. Cheap knock off. How’d he bring it into the office? Was it just packed in his suitcase?”
“It was in his suitcase in a plastic tube. Like a sturdy version of a poster tube, but shorter and wider.”
“What happened to the tube? It wasn’t logged at the scene.”
“Phipps threw it in the trash, but it was a recycle item so I took it with me.”
“I see. So you found a recycling bin.”
“Actually, I kind of forgot about it. A friend ended up giving me a ride home. The tube rolled out of my bag, and my friend wanted it to fix a leaky pipe in his apartment. I gave it to him.”
“Must be a handy friend.”
“He’s former military, a Navy SEAL. Shit, I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you that.”
“I won’t write that down.”
“Thanks.”
“It doesn’t sound like it’s relevant anyway.”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, well, I think that’s all I need,” the detective said.
“That guy I saw in the office that night? Did you guys find him?”
“Not yet, but we have some leads we’re running down. We’ll get him.”
“It’s just odd, you know? Why wouldn’t he call 911?”
“That’s not such a big mystery, Ms. Garland. People don’t call the police all the time. They don’t want to get involved or they have their own secrets.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“If I had a nickel for every time I’ve been on a case where a neighbor or a witness didn’t report a crime, I could retire,” he smiled. “You okay to get to the subway? My car’s back the other way.”
“Of course. Sorry to make you walk all this way.”
“I could use the exercise.” He patted his paunch good-naturedly. “Too much time behind a desk. That should do it, but my partner or I will call if we have more questions.”
With that Detective Costello turned and walked back the way they had come.
New York City
April 23
That evening, Calliope stared out her bay window at the vintage Land Rover Defender in the traditional safari green idling in front of her brownstone. Tox stood in the seat and hopped over the driver’s side door to the street in a smooth vault. He was wearing a hunter green, long-sleeved, button-neck t-shirt, faded jeans, and brown leather lace-up desert boots. He looked…edible.
She glanced down at her little black dress and strappy sandals. He hadn’t mentioned where they were going or what to wear, so Calliope had dolled up. Leave it to this sky-high hulk to knock her off her game. Well, no sense in only one of them being unsteady. She pulled open the heavy door and leaned against the jamb, arms crossed, eyebrow cocked.
“So, I take it this is a casual date?”
Tox just stood at the foot of the stairs and stared.
“Just give me a minute, and I’ll run up and change.”
The only indication he had heard her was his fists balling at his sides.
“Well, come on in.” She unclasped the halter behind her neck and held the bodice of the dress to her chest with one hand as she climbed the steps. “Coco’s on the couch. I’ll be right back.”
The low rumbling growl made Calliope wonder if a motorcycle had driven down the next block.
Tox was parked on the couch with Coco’s head on his lap when one long leg made an appearance on the stairs. Her descent was like watching burlesque. An ankle, a knee, one thigh then the other. Tox shot to his feet, dislodging the dog. She had changed into frayed cutoffs, Chucks, and a cropped white t-shirt. Less formal, yes. Less sexy, no. She had pulled her ebony hair into a high ponytail that danced between her shoulder blades.
“So, where are we headed?”
“I don’t want to share you.” Tox stood stunned for a minute, taken aback by his uncensored blurt. His possessive remark was met with twinkling spectral eyes as Calliope grabbed his hand.
“Maybe I don’t want to be shared.”
“Let’s go. I’ve got something I want to show you.”
“Lead the way.”
Calliope gave Coco a farewell scratch and they headed out.
The Defender bumped along the rutted streets as Tox drove them deeper into Brooklyn. Calliope glanced out the window as the tree-lined blocks of charming brownstones faded into well-kept working-class homes fading into derelict apartment buildings and finally industrial sites. They didn’t speak for a while, but the air between them was thick. Calliope turned her head and watched his big hands effortlessly control the car, imagined those big hands effortlessly controlling her. They hit a particularly deep rut and Calliope went a few inches airborne. Tox put his hand on her shoulder to ensure she was back in her seat as if gravity wouldn’t do the trick.
“Sorry. It’s not the smoothest ride.”
“Don’t be. It takes me right back to Tanzania. We drove a car just like this at the Serengeti preserve.”
Tox grumbled “we” under his breath, and Calliope warmed at the idea that he was jealous. The concept of jealousy was anathema to her. She had never invested in another person to the point she would be upset if they left. If a guy she was dating was interested in someone else? Boa sorte e tchau—good luck and goodbye.
She guessed there had been men who had been jealous of her. A guy she dated briefly in Barcelona threw rocks at her window one night, shouting from the street that he knew someone else was in her bed. But she was never around long enough to address it. With Tox though… He was so happy-go-lucky, so unflappable, so comme si comme ça, that when something affected him, people took notice. There was lava flowing under the surface; upsetting the balance could cause an eruption. A very dark, very erotic part of her wanted to see it happen. But not yet.
“Adrian, the photographer I worked with, hated it. Said his husband drove a G-wagon and it wasn’t much better. When he wasn’t on a shoot, he was definitely a Tesla man.”
Tox nodded along, assuaged. He turned a final corner, one hand on the wheel, one on the back of her seat, and pulled to a stop on an empty street.
“Wait one sec. The door’s a little tricky.”
He vaulted out and came around the car to pry open her door and help her down.
“Where are we?”
“Bushwick.”
“I mean, where are we?”
Tox simply smiled and gestured for her to proceed down the uneven sidewalk.
Calliope glanced all around at the concrete walls surrounding what looked like a cement factory. On the other side of the street, a windowless brick building ran the length of the block. That wasn’t what had captured her attention, however. Nearly every inch of concrete and brick had been graffitied. Bold, vibrant designs lit what would have otherwise been a desolate expanse. At the end of the block two teenagers, a boy and a girl dressed alike in jeans and hoodies, were tagging a blank spot on the wall.
“Let’s go watch,” she said.
Tox stopped her. “They’ll run off. It’s technically vandalism. If they don’t know you, they don’t trust you.”
“Oh, yeah. That makes sense.” Calliope watched from a distance as the teens wielded spray paint like samurai warriors. “This is amazing.”
“Ever heard of 5Pointz?”
Calliope’s eyes sparked. “I think so. It’s a street artist collective in Queens.”
“It was this huge factory space. Street artists turned the exterior into their canvas.”
“Was?”
“It was torn down a few years back. A lot of the artists migrated over here. This is a cement factory. Across the street is a movie studio.”
At the far corner of the block, a young man walked with purpose toward them. He too was wearing jeans and a hoodie. Tox took Calliope’s hand but it was more an act of possession than protection. The guy was wiry, average height. She wasn’t too worried.
“Yo.” The man extended his fist to Tox.
“Hey, brother. How’s it going?” Tox completed the first bump.
“Good. Really good.” He cast a glance at Calliope.
“Cal, this is Murmur. Murmur, Calliope.”
Calliope warmed unexpectedly at the way Tox had called her “Cal” but introduced her as “Calliope,” like the shortened version was only for him.
“Nice to meet you,” she smiled.
“Likewise.”
“Murmur’s a cool name.”
“It’s my tag. Murmur is a mythological demon.” He gave an impish smile that made him look even younger. “My real name is Martin.”
“I like Murmur,” Calliope said, assuring him she would use his artist moniker.
“Ready?” Tox placed his hand at the small of her back and gently moved her forward.
“Ready for what?”
“The tour.”
Calliope turned into Tox’s body, halting his progress.
“This is about to be the best date I’ve ever had.”
Tox leaned down, his breath a whisper across her ear causing a delicious chill. “Don’t jinx it.”
He turned her back in the right direction, and they meandered down the uneven sidewalk.
Murmur took them up and down blocks, pausing at work he found interesting or of note. Calliope wandered over to a vibrant, violent abstract.
“That’s Thrace. She’s incredible. Really talented.” Murmur stood shoulder to shoulder with Calliope, admiring the painting that took up an entire section of a concrete wall. Tox stood behind her ever the protector.
“See that huge crack in the concrete? How it fractures out like a web? Nobody wanted this section of the wall. Then Thrace comes out one night and tags it.”
“She did this all in one night?”
“She did it all in two hours.”
“That’s…amazing.”
“See how she uses the cracks in her work, incorporates them into the piece? I told her not to use this section, that the crack was making the wall crumble. See where pieces are starting to fall out? I told her it would be a pile of rock in a year.” He scratched his shoulder, then his jaw. “She said that’s what she wanted.”
Calliope looked at the surrealist mural. Violent images swirled. A Salvador Dali-esque sun was impaled by a wrecking ball. Red paint seeped from the cracks in the concrete as if the wall itself was bleeding. In another section, a black rain cloud dropped candy message hearts into a river of lava where they burst into tiny flames. Calliope stepped back into Tox’s broad chest, reassuring herself he was there, feeling his chest rise against her back. Something about the painting was so...unsettling, she needed to feel him.
