Illicit Intent, page 5
Gang was really the wrong word to describe his business associates. The Circle had built a small drug and prostitution empire. With their limitless manpower of displaced urban youth, a flare for the vicious, and Roman’s creative accounting, he and his colleagues had become very rich men. But Roman quickly learned that there was no such thing as rich enough.
By 2010, he was a multi-millionaire, by 2013, a fifty millionaire. He had begun to glimpse a cross-section of society he had never seen, the elite. Roman began to crave something new, something more unattainable than cash. He had married and divorced twice in an effort to gain the one thing that continued to elude him, respectability. His first wife was the daughter of a Stanford professor, but her family wasn’t from the area, and Roman quickly learned they had no interest in ingratiating themselves with the well-to-do. His second wife was the wildly unattractive daughter of a well-connected local, but when her father was arrested for embezzlement, the marriage, too, had gone up the river.
Roman did everything right. He created a charitable trust in his mother’s name to combat homelessness. He purchased a home in the heart of the old-money enclave of Pacific Heights. It wasn’t the grandest on his quiet street; he wasn’t trying to make an obtrusive splash but rather slip into the pool unnoticed, like a crocodile. His landscaping was impeccable, his seasonal decorations tasteful, his windows pristine. He was the model neighbor, the exemplary businessman, and the compassionate philanthropist. Still, he couldn’t gain admittance to the right clubs or penetrate the inner-circle of white-shoe, lock-jawed, Ivy League and Stanford-educated blue-bloods. Sure, he had killed people, sent pregnant women and children to live on the streets; he’d even deliberately set fire to a block of dilapidated row houses—after planting evidence of a meth lab—in order to clear the way for a new development, but still…
Roman had been on the brink of a breakthrough; he felt it. He had been approached about joining the board of a highly respected charity that serviced the homeless community, and enticing invitations had increased in frequency. Unfortunately, the timing was terrible. His business had hit a downturn, and Roman had been dipping his fingers into pots he ought not. He had myopically stayed the course, living in denial while the company flailed. Then he did something stupid, well, something else stupid. He began siphoning funds from his mother’s charitable trust. His company was taking a hit, he had borrowed money from men who killed people for rooting for the Seahawks, and there was a void in the philanthropic trust that would have to be explained to the IRS. Enter Phipps Van Gent.
Phipps was one of those guys who always knew someone who knew someone. Oh, you play squash with so-and-so? I used to summer in the same town as his college roommate. Oh, you’re married to what’s-her-name? I dated a sorority sister of hers. And so it went. Roman was introduced to Phipps by chance at the bar at Spruce, a trendy Bay Area restaurant, and Roman’s greed overshadowed his due diligence. No, the first sin wasn’t actually greed; it was envy. Phipps had a local politician and a society heiress in tow, both of whom had pulled Roman aside and declared Phipps nothing less than a magician. Words like savant and guru were bandied about like hello and goodbye.
Phipps put his arm around Roman’s shoulders and, for the first time, Roman felt like a member of the club. Did you go to Dartmouth? You look like a Dartmouth man. Less than a week later, Roman had shifted a substantial percentage of his assets, and the assets of his colleagues, The Circle, to Gentrify Capital Partners. When the haze of Phipps’s dazzle and shine lifted, Roman did a little Monday morning quarterbacking and smelled a rat.
After exhaustive research, Roman concluded that Phipps Van Gent might not be what he appeared. The owner of Phipps’s rented Greenwich, Connecticut estate and the leasing company for his private jets were both taking action for overdue funds. Maybe Phipps simply had a glitch in his personal finances, but Roman suspected something much more nefarious. Roman also knew if he waited for the feds to crack down, he would be one in a long line of victims who would never see their money again. Roman couldn’t let that happen. So he did what he did best.
In the course of his business dealings, Roman had crossed paths with a brilliant sociopath: hacker name, Cataclysm, for whom nothing was off-limits if the price was right. So, with the promise of a percentage of the recovery, he gave Cataclysm the green light for a virtual hunting expedition.
The hacker had predicted it would take weeks to track the funds if they even still existed. One of the trademark qualities of a Ponzi scheme was that money was constantly flowing in and out of accounts, the sheer volume of activity diverting closer scrutiny. Nevertheless, Cataclysm had been confident a large amount of money was being skimmed and hidden. So his hacker went to work tracking both Roman’s initial investment and Phipps Van Gent’s little cookie jar. First, they had to find the money. Then they had to steal the money. For now, he waited.
He wanted to kill Phipps Van Gent. Hell, he’d enjoy it, but he couldn’t act yet. This situation mandated a subtlety that was unfamiliar to Roman. With money and power came an obligation: not to be law-abiding, but to be tidy. He would have to learn to look upon violence with distaste. The rich got their way without splitting their knuckles. Pity.
Roman finished his drink and poured another. He needed an update from his hacker. Then, as if the universe had heard his desperation, his phone rang.
“Hello.”
“I’ve got good news and bad news.” Cataclysm didn’t bother with a greeting.
Roman sighed and downed the drink in his hand. “Give me the bad news first.”
“It’s one piece of news. It’s both good and bad.”
“What?” Roman was already impatient.
“Someone triggered a failsafe in the Gentrify system. That means someone tried to download certain unauthorized files from a private server and triggered a virtual percussion grenade in the system.”
“What does that mean exactly?”
Cataclysm chuckled, and Roman’s hackles rose.
“It means someone either tried to install a tracking program on the Gentrify server or tried to download specific information that initiated the system shutdown. I’m guessing the latter based on the activity leading up to it.”
“How is this in any way good news?”
“Actually, it could be great news. Someone destroyed the Feds’ access to any hidden or suspicious accounts.”
“Wouldn’t he have a backup?”
“Yes, but not electronically. He most likely wrote vital information down manually and hid it somewhere. I mean the whole point of the failsafe is to eradicate digital data.”
“Still waiting for that good news.”
“If you want to go after Phipps and the hard copy of the information, that’s on you. I don’t do humans. However...”
Jeez, the drama. Roman was about to scream when Cataclysm broke the suspense.
“As I explained, a hack on a financial institution is a risky proposition, not to mention the mountain of data, so I began with peripheral measures—penetrating aspects of their tech that aren’t as closely protected or monitored: systems upkeep, human resources, employee internet usage, that sort of stuff. I also installed a program that alerts me when Van Gent’s terminal is accessed. Last night at 10:08, this woman logged on.”
Roman held out his phone and examined the image that Cataclysm had texted.
“Now bear in mind, I was only alerted to system use. However, Van Gent’s personal computer is a different story. He has almost no security—not that he needs it for his expansive collection of fetish porn and online gaming. That laptop sits in his office, so I accessed that computer’s webcam. I could clearly see the woman sitting at Van Gent’s desk, working on his office machine. She poked around for about half an hour then she must have tried to download a file that executed the failsafe. Now it gets good.”
Roman counted to ten in his head. Losing his temper would not help.
“She got a phone call while she was nosing around. After speaking with the caller, she shifted to take a picture of something on the actual desk, but the cell phone detector on Van Gent’s computer monitor prevented her from getting too close or she risked setting it off.”
The hacker paused as if assuming Roman Block could put two and two together. He did not. Cataclysm huffed a parental sigh. “I think she backed up far enough that the document up on the screen was in the shot—the document that triggered the shutdown when she tried to download it. Without even realizing it, I think she photographed a document that contains information so sensitive that Van Gent was willing to torch Gentrify’s internal transaction history to prevent someone from accessing it. She inadvertently photographed the file that triggered the system purge.”
Roman’s phone pinged again, and he examined another photograph Cataclysm had captured from the webcam; this one of the same woman, about three feet back from the monitor, holding up a cell phone.
“Why would Van Gent do that? Why crash the whole system over one document?”
“Because all roads lead to Rome. This probably wasn’t the only file that would trigger the failsafe. The system was designed to implode when any unauthorized user attempted to access any incriminating information. Van Gent knew he would eventually get caught, so he designed a system protocol where he could disappear without a trace.
“Whatever she photographed had to be so vital, incriminating, and top-secret that attempting to download it triggered a massive system shutdown. That document is your golden goose. What’s more? That is information that no one, no one, can access now because it no longer exists.”
“Who’s the woman?”
“I ran the photo against employment records. The information in her file is copied in your inbox. She’s a temp.”
Cataclysm continued, “She’s not with law enforcement; she’d need a warrant. Could be she works for a competitor, corporate espionage bullshit, but my guess is she’s just a temp who does what every secretary does when her boss is out of town, snoops.”
Roman wiped his face with his palm and blew out a breath. “Okay. Okay, good.”
“Find that person and I’ll find your money. But…”
Roman heard the sputter of a straw sucking the remnants of a drink.
“That being said, the photos wouldn’t have been uploaded to the cloud because there is no accessible wifi at Gentrify for security reasons, and, if you look closely at the surveillance photo of her I sent from the webcam, you can see the phone she used is most likely a burner. That’s good and bad. Bad because I can’t access the photo remotely. Good because no one else can either. So I’ll need the physical phone—again, human shit.”
“I’ll get you the phone.”
What Roman lacked in IQ points and brawn, he made up for in ruthlessness and resources. He scrolled through his contacts. All he needed was to recover one cheap cell phone, and he knew just the men for the job.
Boston, Massachusetts
December 1931
Seamus Reardon stubbed out his Chesterfield in the ashtray and blew out a plume of smoke on a long exhale. He and his brother, John, were the only occupants of the maternity ward waiting room of Massachusetts General Hospital. John folded the issue of the Boston Globe he was reading and fanned the smoke.
“How much longer, ya think?” Seamus checked his watch for the umpteenth time.
“These things take a while. That bulldog of a nurse said she’d likely be deliverin’ well into the night.”
“Ya, well, I’ve got a truck full of Kentucky’s finest bein’ delivered in three hours. Mr. Kennedy doesn’t like excuses.”
“Where’s the drop off?”
“Back of Trinity church.” Seamus chuckled at his brother’s shocked expression.
“What? Half the force is helping me deliver the whiskey. There’s no risk.” Seamus dismissed him.
“Still, doing it right under Curley’s nose is brazen, even for you.”
“We got him elected, John. I’ll take delivery in the middle of Copley Square if it suits me.”
“I’ll meet your boys if I have to. You stay here with Dorcas. Yer little girl could arrive any minute,” John teased.
“It better be a boy. That’s all I’m going to say about that,” Seamus grumbled.
“You’d pry the unicorn off the statehouse roof and give it to your little girl if she wanted it, and you know it.”
“I’m twenty-five years old, and I’ve got gray hair. I don’t need a little girl adding to my worries.”
Seamus returned to his seat next to his brother just as an attractive young nurse entered the room.
“Now that’s more like it.” Seamus gave the nurse a leering glance.
She cast a shy glance at John Reardon and blushed before turning her attention to Seamus.
“Congratulations Mr. Reardon. You have a son. Your wife said he’s to be named Patrick.”
“Aye.” Seamus blew out a breath and clapped his brother on the back. “Patrick John.”
John barely heard his brother’s honorific. The petite blue-eyed nurse had him snared. “What’s yer name, lass?”
“Bridget, sir.” She smiled. He smiled. That was it for John Reardon.
“Come on.” Seamus urged and handed his brother one of the Cuban cigars he’d purchased from the tobacconist in the lobby. “Let’s go see the baby and Dorcas. We have plenty of time to meet the boys at the church and get that shipment handled.
“You can peg the pretty nurse tomorrow,” Seamus continued after she had left the waiting room.
“Watch yerself, Seamus. Yer talkin’ about the woman I’m going to marry.”
John’s brother chuckled. “Found yer soulmate at the ripe old age of twenty did ya?” He glanced up to the ceiling. “A son. Thank you, Jaysus.”
“Just what we Reardons need.” John shook his head. “Another troublemaker in the family.”
Boston, Massachusetts
April 17, present day
Elizabeth Reardon Brewer sat at her new desk and spun in her chair. The excitement of a new day fizzed and popped inside her as if champagne ran through her veins. Through the window, the sun reflected off Boston Harbor in glimmering shards. She had completely redone the office from the lighting to the carpet. The scent of her father’s Montecristos was subsumed by fresh paint and the faint fragrance of gardenia from her Bvlgari perfume. She had scrubbed the stench of the Boys’ Club interior; the office was clean, angular, modern, minimalist. It said loud and clear, shipping isn’t what it once was and neither is Brewer-Reardon International.
Though fresh out of Harvard Business School, Elizabeth had gladly stepped up after her father’s second heart attack—and much less publicized mismanagement scandal. In her early thirties, she had been old for her class, not the oldest, but among them. After Harvard undergrad, she had spent the intervening years making contacts, exploring alternative avenues of revenue, and gaining experience. She had also started work on her pet project. The next phase of that project, the subject of the delightfully surprising conversation with M. Reynard the day before, was the source of her near-giddiness.
From a very early age, Elizabeth’s great-grandfather John Reardon had instilled in her a love of art. He would take her to the Boston Museum of Fine Art, The Gardner Museum, The Institute of Contemporary Art. They would travel to New York to visit The Met, The Guggenheim, and MOMA. Elizabeth’s favorite, however, was the time they spent in John and Bridget Reardon’s private gallery in their sprawling Brookline mansion. Each time before they entered the hidden room, John Reardon would squat down to eye level and meet Elizabeth’s gaze. Remember, Elizabeth, this place is our secret. You and I and Nana Bridget are the only ones who can know. Not even your mam and da. Elizabeth would nod enthusiastically and step into John Reardon’s magical secret gallery.
To this day, Elizabeth didn’t know if John’s art collection was more beautiful and prized than any other, but it certainly felt that way to a young girl. Furthermore, as she grew up and went on school field trips and studied art on her own, she began to suspect the provenance of some, if not all, of the art in that secret room; that only made Elizabeth love it more. So while Elizabeth was learning about manufacturing bottlenecks and supply-side economics, she was reestablishing her family’s underworld connections and envisioning her own secret gallery. She knew exactly the pieces that would fill it, but not yet. First things first.
She needed to take charge at Brewer-Reardon and right the ship. Her brother Edwin Howard Brewer V, “Pen” in tribute to his suffix, certainly couldn’t manage the task. Like everything else about him, his name was a source of tremendous pride and privilege that derived from no effort or accomplishment on his part. He was beautiful and dumb. It seemed the siblings had reversed roles. Pen would marry well and look stunning at charity events and society galas while Elizabeth would run the company.
She was not a great beauty, and she was reminded of that fact nearly every day by her mother, Imogen Reardon Brewer. Usually with a backhanded compliment: Bitsy, what you lack in looks, you more than make up for in brains. Bitsy, you look lovely. You really make the most of what you’ve been given. Her mother didn’t seem to realize that she and her father were the ones who had given these looks to her. She had her father’s weak chin, her mother’s aquiline nose, and her paternal grandmother’s beady, dark eyes. Her looks had spawned her boarding school nickname, a name which had caused her unfathomable anguish: Crow. She’d endured it though, killed the parts inside of her that ached and wept. In college, she shed both “Bitsy” and “Crow” and became simply Elizabeth. She had grown her lustrous black hair out from the practical bob, and it had done wonders. She still looked like a bird, but at least now it was a raven.
