Illicit Intent, page 7
He never advised, be smart, or be careful, simply be wise. Calliope sighed. Wisdom felt a bit out of reach. Impetuous still seemed to be blocking the door for wisdom to enter. Oh well. She leaned against the kitchen island and took in her home.
Calliope’s Brooklyn Heights brownstone was too big for her, but she adored it. The ground floor was a garage-cum-studio apartment rented by a lifelong resident of the neighborhood; Mrs. Woodruff was a widow in her seventies currently visiting her daughter and grandchildren in St. Louis. The remaining three stories comprised Calliope’s home. The first floor had a shotgun layout consisting of a large, eat-in kitchen in the back, a formal dining room that currently served as a home office in the middle, and a large living room with an oriel window that looked out over the street. A wide hall with the original oak staircase and broad banister ran the length of the right side and linked the three rooms.
Other than her bedroom on the second floor, these were the only furnished rooms in the house. And furnished they were. The word that came to mind for most visitors was inviting. The kitchen and living room were predominantly pale blue and daffodil-yellow. The kitchen had a chipped-paint farm table and brass pots and pans hanging from a rack above the island. An arrangement of dried wildflowers filled the non-working fireplace. The living room was decorated with overstuffed furniture, colorful pillows, and cozy throws that made a guest never want to leave. The bay window that looked out over Sydney Place had a cushioned window seat and no curtains or shades; a story above street level, it was difficult to see in, and Calliope loved looking out at her neighborhood, at her freedom.
The wall opposite the bay was her favorite thing in the whole house. A mural she had painted on a whim. She took inspiration from her new surroundings and some paint she had found in a storage closet and gave free rein to her inner Basquiat. It wouldn’t receive accolades from the avant-garde, but she was pleased with the result. The rushing chaotic swirls of blue, gold, and turquoise seemed to converge at the center in a vortex. It was a bit like looking into a debris-filled tornado from above. And the pale void in the middle, that if you tilted your head just so, was heart-shaped? She didn’t give it much thought. She just liked her art.
After taking a quick shower and changing into yoga pants and a long sleeve t-shirt, Calliope was once again standing at her kitchen island eating a bowl of muesli. She upended her messenger bag and discarded a lip gloss that had lost its top on the sidewalk. She attempted to power on the shattered work phone and, when nothing happened, tossed it in her junk drawer with the slew of items—tape measure, screwdriver, packing tape, safety pins, a rasp, coral nail polish, batteries, a hole-punch—that she never used but never discarded. Then, she retrieved the flash drive and headed to her makeshift office with her cereal.
She perched on a balance ball at her dining room table—two parallel slabs of driftwood covered with glass and supported by four cut birch trunks at the corners—and scrutinized the documents she had downloaded as she ate. Coco lolled on her plaid flannel dog bed in the corner. Just as she withdrew a spare flash drive from her bag to copy what she had downloaded so Twitch could help her analyze the data, her personal phone chimed, and she glanced at the text. Speak of the devil.
Twitch: Knock knock.
The knock on the door startled her into a laugh. Coco barked and her nails tickled the hardwood as she scurried to the front hall. Calliope expected to see the spritely ginger, but when she pulled open the door her gaze met the sculpted chest of Miller “Tox” Buchanan.
“Don’t you check who’s at the door?” he growled.
“Twitch texted a stupid Matrix reference. I thought she was stopping by.”
Tox rolled his eyes. “She must’ve tracked me.”
“What’s up?”
He knelt down to give Coco a proper greeting. Glancing up from his crouch, he said, “A lot. Phipps Van Gent was found dead in his office this morning.”
“What?”
“We don’t have all the details yet. Someone shot him.”
“Oh, God.” She staggered back, then muttered something in another language Tox couldn’t make out. He guided her into the house and closed the front door.
“I’m sorry. Did you…were you close?”
“No. He wasn’t a ‘get close’ kind of man. He didn’t even know my name. And I know he was sketchy, but he was...nice. Well, he seemed nice. Always smiling. He always had some crazy story.”
Calliope sighed. She was sure a lot of people would say Phipps had it coming. Nevertheless, he was always in a good mood. He never made her uncomfortable. He always gave cash to the homeless woman outside their building. Okay, so he probably stole a gajillion dollars, but still. Now, Calliope felt like that neighbor who lived next door to a serial killer and told the police he was always so quiet and friendly.
She must have gone pale because Tox disappeared down the hall and returned a moment later with a glass of water. As he held it out to her she had an ill-timed flash of him handing her a glass of wine. She had hoped that if Tox Buchanan had ever appeared at her door, she would invite him into her home for some flirting, some wine, and a little groping. That wouldn’t be happening today.
“Let’s sit,” she sighed and accepted the drink.
Tox looked around as he followed her down the long hall, admiring the original woodwork and the quirky design touches. God, this was perfect Calliope—classic and elegant with just a hint of weird. She turned to face him in the middle of the hall, and Tox had to suck in a breath. Her irises were so pale blue they were nearly white, with tiny shards of dark blue shooting through and a dark blue perimeter—the eyes of a sorceress. She gestured to the dining room. Coco returned to her plaid flannel bed in the corner, spun once, changed direction, spun again, and flopped down.
“Let’s talk in here.”
Tox skirted the red balance ball on the floor and pulled out a chair.
“Don’t tell me you sit on that.”
“Sometimes I stand on it,” she smiled.
“No way.”
“Watch.”
Calliope deftly placed a bare foot in the middle of the balance ball and in one swift motion lifted herself to standing. She shifted to center herself then swooped her hands out in a voila gesture.
Tox nearly swallowed his tongue. If that weren’t enough, Calliope gracefully moved into mountain pose, lifting one leg and bringing her hands together at her chest. Tox surged to his feet. These pants fit fine this morning. His sudden movement caused Calliope to falter. Arms wheeling, she tumbled off the ball…and Tox caught her like a Wallenda.
“Did you do that on purpose?” Calliope asked from her surprisingly comfortable arm-hammock.
“Nah, but I probably will next time.” Tox gave her a little squeeze and returned her to her feet. “That was impressive.”
“I’ve been doing yoga since I was ten.”
Calliope got them back on track. “So, I mentioned I was doing some investigating for The Sentry.”
“Yeah.”
“I heard a gunshot. After I was in the elevator. I think I heard a gunshot.”
They both sat. “Start from the beginning. I want to know everything.”
Calliope recounted the events of last night from her tech snafu to her encounter with Phipps. Tox hung on every word. When she got to the mystery man from the elevator, Tox spoke for the first time.
“Tell me about this man.”
“I don’t know. He was handsome. Well-dressed. Older than you, maybe mid-forties. He looked, I don’t know…I assumed he was a client. He certainly looked the part.”
Tox had to consciously stop himself from grinding his teeth.
“How old are you anyway?” she asked.
“Thirty-two.”
“When’s your birthday?”
“May fifth.”
“A Taurus. I should have guessed. I’m a Scorpio. November seventh. We’re astrological opposites.”
Tox glanced around the room at the funky dining table, the array of art, the uncleared breakfast dish, that damned balance ball. “Sounds about right.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway.”
“He couldn’t have killed Phipps though. If the loud blast I heard in the elevator was the gunshot, that guy was too far away from the office to get there.”
“You’re sure.”
“Positive. He stopped. I don’t know, maybe he saw the shooter or something, but just as the doors closed, I saw him stop in the main reception area. Then, maybe a few seconds later, bang. That poor guy must have been so freaked out. He called 911, right?”
No, he hadn’t. Tox shot a text off to Twitch. Even if this mystery man wasn’t the shooter, he was a witness—a witness who had left the scene without reporting it.
“All right. Let’s get back to Van Gent’s office and the computer.” She had already informed Tox about downloading the client list and the strange file that had caused the system to crash.
“After that, I got the heck outta Dodge. That’s when you crashed into me.”
“When I crashed into you?”
“You heard me,” Calliope deadpanned.
Tox gifted her with a magnificent grin, a perfect dimple punctuating each side of his mouth—not slashes, but little round indents, like God had poked his cheeks.
Calliope turned to the laptop and indicated the flash drive and printed files.
“This is what I found.”
Tox stretched a long arm across the table and snagged the papers.
“Looks like a client list. What are these numbers?”
Calliope craned her neck to look at the page.
“Accounts? Transaction identification numbers?” She lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “Above my pay grade.”
“Are any of these the document that triggered the system wipe?”
“No. Trying to move another document is what initiated the shutdown. It was a single page document named Golf Scores, but the ‘S’ in Scores was a dollar sign.”
“Be sure to let Twitch know. Who knows what magical recovery techniques she has up her sleeve?”
“I’ll copy the flash drive for her as well.”
“I’m texting Nathan to see how he wants to handle this. The flash drive needs to get turned over to the Feds, but Twitch’ll want to get a look at it first.”
“What can Twitch do that the Feds can’t?”
“Plenty. She’s not hampered by pesky things like warrants and due process.” The text reply was immediate. “Nathan wants you to hang onto it. No point in adding unnecessary links to the chain of evidence.” Tox moved around the table and grabbed her empty cereal bowl and spoon. “Sorry, old habits.”
“Wait.” Calliope grabbed the bowl and swallowed the milk sitting in the bottom. “Best part.” She gave him a milk-mustache smile.
He swiped at the milk on her lip with his bear paw of a hand and strode into the kitchen. Calliope followed him to the entrance where two heavy wooden pocket doors separated the two rooms. She leaned against the door jamb and observed him. At the sink, he shoved up the sleeves of his black tee. His dilapidated 501s highlighted a toned haunch, the frayed cuffs brushed soft-soled military boots. He soaped the sponge, cleaned and rinsed the bowl, and set it in the dish drainer. The entire bowl fit in his hand. Calliope had a momentary flight of fancy: Tox in her kitchen each morning, complaining good-naturedly about her mess, the two of them a couple.
“Let’s take a walk.” Calliope shot up straight.
“You sure? It’s gonna rain.”
“Positive. Big, bad soldier afraid of a little rain?”
“Sailor, not soldier. And I prefer water of any kind.”
Calliope knew Tox was a SEAL, but she also knew he never mentioned it. “Well, that’s one thing we have in common.”
Tox glanced around at the eclectic setting as they moved back down the hall. “Maybe the only one,” he muttered.
“You don’t like my house?”
“Quite the opposite. My place is a little less homey. It looks more like a mechanic’s spare…whoa.” Tox stopped at the entrance to her living room and looked at the massive mural on the right-hand wall. The image was explosive graffiti art. Images of cityscapes, human hands, vendor carts, dogs, and Broadway marquees swirled around the perimeter of the work. At the center, an empty, oddly-shaped pale blue void. Tox didn’t know if he liked it, he just knew he couldn’t stop staring at it.
“I painted that before I moved in. Just my impressions of a new city,” Calliope squeezed his hand. “I had this big blank wall and the previous owner left a bunch of paint, so…” She shrugged.
“You saw a blank wall and you had some paint, so you just painted a mural?”
“Yep. Well, I worked at an art gallery in Berlin for a few months a million years ago. They repped this wildly creative graffiti artist. I guess her work kind of inspired me.”
Tox cleared his throat. “Yeah, uh, you’re really talented.”
“Thanks.”
Tox turned back to the front door and stopped at three stunning framed black and white photos of a watering hole in what appeared to be the Serengeti. Each photo was at a different time of day—dawn, noon, and dusk—and captured a variety of animals, Cape buffalo, topi, and gazelles drinking against a backdrop of umbrella thorn trees.
“Pretty cool, huh? I worked for a wildlife photographer for a year when I was nineteen. National Geographic sent him to Tanzania for six months. I spent my twentieth birthday on Kilimanjaro. Those were Adrian’s gifts to me.”
Tox suddenly found the photographs uninspired and, frankly, a little clichéd. Adrian.
“You ready?”
Calliope followed him out the door.
“You’ve had some interesting jobs.”
“Yeah.”
“Where would you like to go?” He asked from the top of the stoop.
“Let’s see where the sidewalk takes us.” She glanced up at the dark sky and gave a contented sigh.
A fat drop hit Tox the moment they moved out onto the landing. “You sure you don’t want an umbrella or something?”
“I’m sure. I loved playing in the rain when I was growing up.”
Tox had a brief flash of a dark-haired child in rain boots stomping puddles with a mischievous grin.
“Where was that?”
“All over really. My biological father is Swiss, but he was never in the picture. My mom’s pretty open about it. He was a married banker. She was twenty. She didn’t want to destroy his marriage, so…” She shrugged. “I’ve only seen him a few times in my life.
“My mom is a fairly well-known poet, Elara Christos-Acosta. When I was really little we never stayed in the same place. She said we must follow her muse, which could lead us anywhere from an impoverished village to a mountain top.”
“That must have been hard.”
“I think it would have been if my mom hadn’t married my stepfather when I was five. He’s my real dad. Sometimes she would pull me onto her lap and say her muse had landed right here on my shoulder. She actually named me for the Muse of Poetry.” Calliope’s pale eyes misted.
“She must really love you.”
Calliope flashed him a surprised look. The sincere comment delivered almost absently had her face warming. It also had her puzzled. What parent didn’t love their child?
“She does. Anyway, on one of our adventures, she met my dad. My mom was bartering with a fishmonger at a seaside market when all of a sudden the man handed her the fish wrapped in brown paper and said, ‘presente, presente’ and waved off her money. She turned around and caught my dad signaling to the fishmonger. With the fish under her arm and me on her hip, she marched right up to him and said, ‘A fish is not a romantic gift, but it’s exactly what I wanted.’ She cooked all of us dinner that night, and they were married two weeks later.”
“Quite an impulsive family you come from.”
“My mother, yes. My stepfather, no. He’s actually pretty rulesy, but he claims he took one look at her—she had taken off her shawl to show her cleavage when she bartered—and decided he wanted to be the only man to see…” She made a face, looking like a teenager who had caught her parents kissing. “They are crazy in love. Even after all these years.”
“Good for them.”
“Anyway, he traveled a lot for work so we lived all over: London, Athens, Hong Kong. Then, when I was around twelve, he changed jobs, so we didn’t travel as much. We settled in the town where he grew up. I couldn’t understand why we weren’t jetting off to another new place. I used to keep a packed suitcase in my closet. Ready for an adventure at a moment’s notice.” She kicked a pebble along the sidewalk.
“You don’t have an accent.”
“I had an American tutor who traveled with us. But…” She slipped into a patrician British accent. “I suppose I tend to pick up the accent of the locals. Quando a Roma.” She quipped in flawless Italian. “Je parle aussi Francais. Deutsche. Portuguese. Kai ligo ellínikó.” I also speak French, German, Portuguese, and a little Greek.
“Wow. I speak Farsi, Arabic, and Spanish. Between the two of us, we could really do some traveling.” Then he pulled his lips into his mouth as if to silence himself.
Calliope simply laughed and said, “For real. Plus, I have no burning desire to go to Russia or China. I lived in Thailand for a second. That was cool, but there are other places higher on my list of dream locations.”
“What’s number one on that list?”
“Central America,” she said without hesitation.
Tox did a stutter step. Images of the pica caballo tarantula that had crawled into his pack in Nicaragua flashed. The brutal traficantes he faced in El Salvador were also a drawback, but man, he hated spiders.
“Belize, Costa Rica…” She sighed, oblivious to his eight-legged thoughts.
They aimed for a tiny local park as thunder rumbled in the distance and pregnant clouds hung heavy overhead.
He wordlessly conceded if he weren’t ghosting through a hostile jungle, Central America was probably a pretty spectacular place.
“Where’re your parents now? You said they settled in a small town?”
