Illicit Intent, page 27
Again, not his concern. He had found his twin brother alive and well, and he had more job opportunities than he could possibly accept. He would deliver the sketches, take Lizette to dinner, or perhaps Marthe, and enjoy the spoils of war. He exhaled a satisfied sigh. All was right in his world.
The gentle click of the deadbolt had his eyes shooting open. Caleb reached a hand over and patted the briefcase which held the two Degas sketches—the attaché occupying the spot normally taken by a willing woman. In a swift, silent motion, he moved to sitting, grabbed the Colt 1911 Classic from the bedside table, and thumbed the safety.
Moving like a ghost, Caleb drifted past the galley kitchen and into the small, generic living room. Shadows shifted, a police siren hee-hawed from the street. The front door was closed. He circled the couch, checked the small coat closet, cleared the room. He checked the peephole and opened the door. The hallway was empty. When he was mostly satisfied the sound had come from another source, or his imagination, he returned to the apartment.
The bedroom was exactly how he had left it six minutes ago, the covers tousled, his packed suitcase on the floor by the dresser, the closet door ajar. Nonetheless, Caleb felt something in the air, a disturbance. He physically shook his head, banishing the thought; there was no way into the room except by the door he had just passed through. The windows were locked, and, while the door from the bedroom to the bathroom was open, the door that led out to the hall from the bathroom was deadbolted. Caleb crossed to the bed, a ball of fire forming in his gut as he recalled the click of a deadbolt that had awakened him. He entered the combination to the locked briefcase and popped it open.
There, nestled in the cushioned interior, sealed in plastic, was a mint condition 1988 San Bernardino Spirit Ken Griffey Jr. rookie card #1. Caleb picked up the card reverently and ran his fingers over the plastic. He shook his head and spoke to the empty room. He should probably thank her for saving him the trip to Dordogne. The sketches would be delivered to Reynard, just not by him.
“At least buy me dinner first, Clara.”
He snapped the case shut and checked the time just as the alarm on his phone signaled a wake-up. He stood, stripped off his boxer briefs, and headed into the shower. A smile tugged at his lips. This wasn’t checkmate; it was just the opening gambit. The little minx needed to be taught a lesson.
Seventeen hours later, the composed, debonair businessman, Caleb Cain, was boarding a return flight to the states. Washington D.C. this time. A nasty mess involving sex workers and a Supreme Court Justice needed tidying. Another day, another political scandal.
The flight attendant, Delphine, brought the orange juice he had requested as he took his aisle seat in the second row. The suited man next to him had a tablet on his lap open to the Wall Street Journal but was staring out the small window. He wore a Tom Ford custom suit, and smelled vaguely of…baby powder? When the man returned to the article he was reading, Caleb recognized the profile he had seen only once in person, in his brother’s apartment. Nevertheless, he knew exactly who the man was.
Neither man minced words as the plane hurtled down the runway.
“Do you find yourself in Paris often, Mr. Bishop?”
“Nathan. Please.” Nathan extended his hand and the other man accepted it as he continued. “My wife is pregnant with our third. She was craving tarte Tatin.” Nathan held up the small bakery box tied with a string.
“You can’t take that through customs.”
“I think you and I both have ways of getting contraband through customs.” Nathan met Caleb Cain’s impassive gaze.
“So this is quite a coincidence.”
Nathan huffed a laugh.
“If you’re looking for something in particular, I’m almost relieved to tell you I was robbed last night. Some valuable artwork was stolen.”
“That’s for the Feds. We were involved to ensure Calliope Garland’s safety. She’s safe.” Nathan paused as the flight attendant paced by their seats. “I wanted to speak with you, and I didn’t want to go to the trouble of peeling the onion on your holding companies and identities to find your apartment. A man deserves his sanctuary.”
Caleb Cain a.k.a. Miles Buchanan gave a firm nod then scratched his jaw at the base of his ear. “I appreciate that.”
Nathan watched the familiar gesture with amused wonder.
“It’s amazing, really. You two have been separated for nearly twenty years, yet you have the same expressions, the same mannerisms. I have twin boys, and I already see it in them. They’re fraternal, like you and Tox, but they share the same little quirks.”
Caleb nodded his understanding then got to business.
“I’m assuming you arranged this little interlude because there’s more you want to discuss than genetic concordance.”
“Quite.” Nathan withdrew another tablet from his bag, tapped the screen awake, and passed it over.
Caleb scrolled through the pages, his stoic expression cracking.
“This is madness.”
“It’s actionable intel.”
“Why are you showing this to me? It seems to be above my level of clearance.”
“Not if I hire you.”
Caleb passed the tablet back. “Sorry. This isn’t exactly my field of expertise.”
Nathan closed the file and opened another on the tablet. Caleb glanced at the photo on the screen. “You’ve done work for him in the past, correct?”
“Not a minute longer than I had to. He’s a cafard.”
Nathan didn’t need a translation to get the gist.
“He’s neck-deep in this thing.” Nathan met Caleb Cain’s curious gaze. “And he’s about to have a problem that needs fixing.”
New York City
May 16
Miller and Miles Buchanan sat in the back booth of the bustling Midtown deli. They had laughed over shared memories: Miles breaking his leg jumping off the roof of their childhood home with game boards taped to his arms in an ill-conceived attempt to fly, Miller vomiting during their school’s holiday program. They made a plan to visit their parents’ graves, something neither man had ever done, and planned for the future.
Tox bit into his Ruben and chewed pensively. “And this is something you want to do?”
“I want to do it. Be nice to know my paycheck was coming from somebody I respected.”
Tox nodded.
“And South Carolina?”
“It’s as good a place as any. We went there once. Remember?”
Tox furrowed his brows.
“We were five. Maybe even four. Mom and dad took us to Hilton Head? Dad caught that big stingray?”
Tox’s eyes widened. “Oh yeah. The guide took the stinger to make a necklace. I remember that trip now. It’s funny, the first time I went down there with the team, I thought it felt familiar. Must have been the dormant memory of that trip.”
“Like when you saw me on the street with Calliope that first time, dressed as an old man.”
“I didn’t pay any attention to it at the time, but on some level there was recognition.”
“For me, it was on the top level. I knew it was you. I knew my foster mom had lied to me. I felt like my skin was going to blast off my body. I don’t know how the fuck I held it together.”
“Speaking of Calliope,” Tox said.
Miles set his turkey sandwich down on the brown paper bag and cocked his head just so.
“She’s it. I’m gonna ask her to marry me.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. She’s lucky to have you.”
Before Tox could reply, his brother pulled a pen out of his jacket pocket, uncapped it, and scrawled something on the paper napkin.
“It’s in the diamond district. Ask for Avi. Tell him Hutch sent you.”
Tox folded the napkin and shoved it into the front pocket of his jeans, while Miles tossed a tip onto the table.
“Like Starsky and Hutch?”
“Of course.”
“So, you gonna stick with Caleb?”
“Caleb Cain is just an alias, like the rest. My name is still Miles Buchanan.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Just not many people know that.”
Tox said it again with emphasis. “Yeah?”
Miles’s eyes lit. “Y-”
“E-”
“A-”
“H!”
The twins laughed recalling their childhood cheer. They had walked into the deli as Tox and Caleb, but they walked out in matched step, as Miller and Miles Buchanan.
Dordogne, France
May 16
Clara Gautreau made her way through the labyrinth of hallways that led to her adopted father’s office. Without discussion or pomp, she had started calling Reynard, “papa” when she was thirteen. She had come into his office after a riding lesson and stomped her booted foot on the floor. When he looked up she exploded, “I cannot take lessons from Monsieur Brun anymore, papa. He is an idiot, and he is cruel to the horses.” It was as if she had simply come to a decision. Reynard was her father, and that was that. His expression had revealed nothing when he nodded his agreement, but when she went to buss his cheeks before leaving the room, he had pulled her into a warm embrace and kissed the top of her head. She had wriggled free and scampered off.
Now, twelve years later, she pushed through his office door and gently placed the two Degas sketches on his desk. Reynard gave them a cursory glance and motioned for Clara to set them on his work table next to the Rembrandt she had already acquired.
“Monsieur Cain is peeved with you.”
She shrugged. “He’ll get over it.”
Reynard gave her a probing look. “Yes, I imagine he will.”
“What will you do with them?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Where could she have hidden the rest? Imagine it, papa, missing works of art thought lost forever.”
Reynard could see the wheels turning in her beautiful head.
“Now listen to me, Clara.” Reynard employed a tone he rarely used with his adored charge.
She sighed heavily. “Yes, papa.”
“To the best of my knowledge, no one has a clue what Elizabeth Brewer was up to. She was brilliant and crafty. She had three paintings and one object from the Gardner collection that I know of, and I strongly suspect there are others. The art in her residence has been fully cataloged and authenticated. The stolen paintings are most likely being stored in a vault. The authorities are still investigating her murder, and the attorneys are still settling her estate. When the time is right, I will look into it.”
“But…”
Reynard cut her off with a lifted hand.
“The answer is no. This situation requires the utmost patience and care. No one else has this information. The worst possible thing to do at this point is tip our hand.”
“Fine.” Clara sounded more like a petulant teenager than a refined adult.
“Trust me, mon rayon de soleil, I will find that art.”
Brookline, Massachusetts
May 24
The realtor walked briskly through the kitchen, her cell phone on speaker as she moved through the house. The women on the other end of the call had lost a daughter, yes, but this was business, and their words reflected their mutual desire for expediency. With death came grief, but there also came paperwork.
“The square footage is slightly off, but that’s not uncommon with these older estates. It hasn’t been appraised in half a century. The buyer doesn’t care if it’s ninety-five hundred square feet or ninety-two hundred square feet. He knows there’s a backup offer. He wants all the furniture. His wife wants this house. They’ve been looking for over a year.”
“All right, good.”
The realtor stepped into the library and looked around. The desk had been emptied, the bookshelves cleared. She leaned a hand on the paneled wall and adjusted the strap on her shoe. “It’s a cash offer. He wants to close in thirty days. He’s the ideal buyer. He’s getting quite a deal and he knows it.” She knocked on the paneled wall behind her with the side of her fist. “This house is a masterpiece, an absolute work of art. They don’t build them like this anymore.”
She straightened again, took another cursory glance around the room, and headed into the hall. The voice through the phone echoed in the empty space.
“Accept the terms, and let’s be done with it.” Imogen Brewer instructed.
“I’ll let them know. I don’t foresee any other issues. The inspection is in order, the property lines are undisputed. I’ll text you about the closing date, but unless you hear from me, everything is set.”
Imogen Brewer ended the call without comment. The realtor, now in the sweeping front hall, took one final look around. Knowing the checkered history of the Reardon family, she spoke to the dusty air. “I bet you’ve kept some serious secrets through the years.”
With that, she exited the house, replaced the key in the lockbox, and strode with purpose to her Lexus sedan, mentally spending her commission.
Behind that secret panel in the library, in a hidden gallery no bigger than a hallway, seven works of art thought lost forever, with an estimated collective value of $1,180,000,000.00, hung undiscovered.
Beaufort, South Carolina
May 25
Beaufort, South Carolina could have been a movie set. Nestled in a bend in the Beaufort River, the waterfront town was steeped in charm. Everything, from the pale clapboard storefronts to the lapping of the river along the city walk, welcomed visitors. Century-old live oak trees heavy with Spanish moss shrouded roads and walkways. The marina that accessed the Atlantic could only accommodate mid-sized vessels, so vacationers who wanted to flaunt their yachts went elsewhere. The boats of commercial and sport fishermen comprised the majority of water traffic. The surrounding area was wooded lowland. Intermittently, the sea would encroach, forming estuaries and marshes. Just to the north, a large swath of protected marshland played host to an array of amphibians and waterfowl. Ice cream shops and seafood joints dotted Bay Street as well as the requisite diner, hardware store, and pharmacy. The nearest big box stores were miles away; the mom and pops were safe for the time being.
Tox and Calliope walked hand-in-hand, looking in the windows of souvenir shops and specialty stores. At the end of the block, a spry older man walking three Belgian Malinois headed their way. Tox raised a hand in greeting to Nathan’s uncle, Charlie Bishop. Charlie had served his country as a soldier, a Secretary of Defense, and most recently as Bishop Security’s government liaison. He had gone by the code name of Cerberus in tribute to the three dogs currently tugging on their leashes. The name was probably also a reference to the fact that in many ways Charlie Bishop was guarding the gates of hell, like the three-headed dog of myth, but if it had been, he hadn’t mentioned it.
“I parked around the corner. Wagoneer needs a new muffler, and it’s making a hell of a racket. Mrs. Baker at the bed and breakfast will call the sheriff if I get too close. Tox, you look like a man who landed a marlin on his first time out.”
Tox gifted Charlie with a blinding smile. “Happy to be here, sir.”
“Enough of the ‘sir’ shit. It’s Charlie. Now, who do we have here?”
Calliope extended her hand. “We have Calliope Garland.”
“I know your stepdad. Clemente and I go way back. I’ve heard you share his knack for observation.”
“I hope so, sir, um, Charlie.”
“I’ve got a few friends at The Department,” Charlie commented as they walked back toward his car. “You’ve proved to be quite an asset without ruffling any feathers. That’s more of a skill than you realize.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And you, Stretch, you ready to see the new place?”
“Yes, sir. I haven’t been down here since Nathan bought it. I want to see what he’s done.”
“He’s made some improvements.” Charlie was a master of understatement.
Charlie pulled the Wagoneer up to the guardhouse and the gate retracted.
“There’s a sensor in the car. Plus, Twitch has some space-age scanner rigged up that’s probably gonna give us all a brain tumor.”
They passed through the gate and continued on. “This was all farmland,” Charlie explained. “A developer bought it in 2006 and went belly up before he even broke ground. Bank was holding onto it. Nathan got it for a song.”
Calliope looked out the window. Tox leaned around her shoulder to do the same. The miles of four-rail crossbuck fences and the three Morgans grazing and frolicking in the fields gave the impression of an aristocratic horse farm. No doubt exactly what Nathan had been going for. They came to another guarded gate. Charlie waved to the guard with his right hand and entered a code into a plasma keypad with his left.
“What, no retinal scan?” Calliope half-joked.
“Nathan has all the bells and whistles. Waste of money. This facility has the best security available.” He nodded toward the pair of Dutch Shepherds patrolling inside the perimeter. Charlie was heavily involved in caring for retired military dogs and had apparently sold Nathan on their value. Judging by the three Belgian Malinois panting happily in the way-back of the Wagoneer, Charlie took the job personally.
“Those two served for two years at the Kuwait Naval Base. They’re as loyal and dedicated as the men.”
The building was a three-story red brick structure that looked exactly like what it had once been, an elementary school. Nathan Bishop was a pragmatic man, but he also operated with a certain panache that had Tox brimming with expectation. Charlie pulled around to the back of the building and parked in the lot between the building and the outdoor training courses.
Charlie walked Tox and Calliope to the back entrance where Nathan stood at the open door. Tox embraced his friend. Calliope followed suit. Charlie returned to the car with a wave and headed back out the way he had come.
