Illicit Intent, page 8
“Yeah, my dad is semi-retired, so they’re pretty much homebodies now. I’m obviously not to that point yet.”
“And where is this tiny town?”
“It’s a pinpoint on the map.”
“Try me.” Tox challenged.
“The closest city is Faro. It’s ...”
“I know it.”
“Really? It’s not exactly a hot zone.”
Tox chuckled imagining the quaint European locale, the farthest thing from a war zone. “No, but I had some leave after an op in… south of there. It’s a beautiful place.”
“It is. I think it’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”
“You must miss it.”
“I miss my parents, but the town is as pretty as a postcard and equally boring. My mom, it’s weird. We never stayed anywhere for more than a few months. Now, she travels sometimes with my dad, but most of the time she’s just happy at home.” Calliope’s words were tinged with disbelief.
“I mean. I’m happy they’re happy. My mom and my stepdad are like teenagers.” She made a barfing motion with her finger. “They have literally excused themselves in the middle of dinner and gone to bed. To have sex. With a kid at the table!”
“Maybe she found what she was looking for..”
They sat on a green slatted wooden bench.
“I never thought of it like that.” Calliope stared at the sky.
“And you inherited her wanderlust?”
“I feel like it’s imprinted in my DNA. I can’t see myself ever living in the same place for the rest of my life. My grandmother calls me her Kalimpri; it’s Greek for hummingbird. I’ve lived in a ton of cool places, but there’s so much more to see.”
She didn’t wait for any affirmation from Tox as she plowed on. “You’d think the advantage of having two madly in love parents who only have eyes for each other would be that I could do what I wanted, but they are surprisingly overprotective. My dad worked for the government, so he probably saw a lot of messed up stuff. We had security cameras, bodyguards. I couldn’t use social media. I didn’t go to the local school, so I didn’t really have any friends. For my twelfth birthday party, I invited our cook, Frieda, my French tutor Lyse, and our mailman, Carlito.
“That story has a happy ending though. Frieda and Carlito started seeing each other after that. They got married six months later.” She gave a frustrated sigh. “I sound self-involved.” She looked at him then, her expression serious. “If I could start that story over, I would say I have loving parents who are a little too concerned with my safety. There. That sounded so much saner.”
“I understand. You shouldn’t cage a hummingbird.”
“Yes. That’s it exactly.”
“I know this will come as a shock,” Tox’s sarcasm evident, “but no one really paid attention to anything I did.”
“Why?”
“My folks died when I was young. My twin brother and I lived with my grandmother until she died. Then we went into the system. Pretty much self-parenting for me.”
“You’re a twin? Someone gave birth to two of you? At the same time?”
“Well, I was smaller back then.”
“Sorry to interrupt. Keep going with your story.”
“My twin brother and I got separated in foster care. Then he died in a house fire when we were twelve. So…”
With his forearms on his thighs, hands dangling, he stared at his feet. The air was wet with the coming storm.
Seeming to sense his reticence, she took the ball. “So, when I turned eighteen, my dad knew I was going to venture out on my own. We figured out a solution that made us both happy.”
“What was that?”
“My dad has a lot of connections from his work. He made some calls and gave me some options. I started off as an intern with an event planner in Antwerp. After that…let’s see. I worked at a ski lodge in Verbier. Oh, I apprenticed with a landscape architect in Budapest.”
“Anything strike your fancy?”
“Not so far. I mean I love learning about all that stuff, but nothing so much that I would commit a career to it. My dad says I flit. Too bad I can’t make a career out of flitting.”
She tugged on her earlobe then changed the subject.
“I’m sorry about your brother. What was his name?”
“Miles.”
“Miller and Miles. Cute.”
“He was the cute one, the charmer. Always getting us in trouble, then always getting us out of it.” He smiled at the memory. “I didn’t speak until I was four, because Miles always did the talking.” She noticed he did that thing with his lips again. “Sorry.”
“Why?”
“TMI.”
“Honesty.” Calliope stood. “Want to climb a tree?”
“What?”
“That tree over there, it’s practically begging to be climbed.”
“Um, sure,” Tox said.
“I studied with this really ground-breaking guru in Thimphu.”
“You lived in Bhutan?”
“For about four months,” she nodded. “Anyway, full disclosure, he’s in jail on racketeering charges, but I think he’s very insightful. He says after emotional exertion you should do physical exertion; it helps your body process grief and anger.” She hopped up on the lowest branch and went up the tree like a lemur.
“Well, with that kind of reliable research behind your words, how can I say no?” Tox moved in behind her, and while he climbed more like a grizzly, he moved with equal speed and agility. About halfway up they stopped and perched on a branch.
“I actually do feel better.”
“Good. I feel sticky.” She held up her hands. “Sap.”
Just then a man walked by twenty feet below them. He was speaking on the phone in low tones. The man ended the call and spun in a slow circle, then continued walking.
“I’m covered in sap and pine needles. I’m a walking caramel apple.” Calliope laughed.
They sat for a spell in the tree listening to the receding thunder, just their pinky fingers touching as they braced on the branch.
“I really want you to kiss me right now.”
“Sap and all?”
“Sap and all.”
“Good to know.” He winked.
Tox maneuvered down to the next branch of the Eastern White Pine and declared, “You know, I think your incarcerated guru is onto something. Next time, I’ll get you on the mat. Teach you a little Krav Maga.”
“I’d love that. I’m not big on violence, but some of those moves are like yoga. Pure poetry.”
Calliope swallowed the rejection, gifted him with a bright smile, and followed his lead.
When they were back on solid ground, Tox pointed to the sky. The clouds had dissipated, and patches of blue peeked through. “You never got your rain shower.”
“It’ll come,” she nodded.
“It is April.”
“Hey, are you hungry?”
“Cal? I know you don’t know me that well, but the answer to that question is always yes.” He gave her a crooked smile and that devastating dimple appeared.
Calliope laughed. “Your reputation precedes you. Twitch says your nickname should have been Blue Whale because you cruise around all day and eat a million calories. Anyway, my favorite diner is around the corner.”
“Sounds great.”
“It gets better. They have these incredible pancakes they serve all day. They’re like the size of the plate, and they issue this challenge: if you can eat three, your meal is free.”
“I’m your guy.”
Calliope led him out of the park, surprised by how much she liked Tox’s last statement.
New York City
April 18
The next morning, Calliope sat in her cubicle at The Harlem Sentry gossiping on the phone with Twitch like they were high schoolers in the cafeteria.
“Nine?”
“Nine. Plus he ordered a side of bacon and three over-easy eggs. By the sixth pancake, the owner was sitting in the booth with us with his jaw on the table. He paid for our lunch and jokingly told Tox to never come back.”
“What did Tox say?”
“He asked him what kinds of pies they had today. I’m telling you Twitch, I’ve never had a you-had-to-see-it-to-believe-it moment like that in my life.” Through tears of laughter, she absently added, “Did they not feed him enough as a kid?” Then remembering Tox’s story of his childhood, she instantly regretted her words.
Sensing Calliope’s perceived misstep, Twitch was quick to reassure her. “He ate just fine as a kid. He told me once, Barb, that’s his foster mother, converted their mudroom into a pantry. I mean think about it. He’s actually slimmed down over the past year. Imagine feeding that guy as a teenager. It’d be like living with a T-rex.”
That sent the women into another chorus of hushed giggles, prompting Calliope’s cubicle neighbor and friend, Terrence, to pop his head over the divider.
“Do. You. Mind?” he huffed. “Some of us are trying to eavesdrop. Speak up or hang up.”
After confirming their plans for the following evening, Calliope ended the call and directed her attention to Terrence.
“What’s all this pssst pssst pssst? Did someone meet a boy? Did you pass him a note in study hall? Are we expecting a promposal?”
“Oh my God, stop. I didn’t meet a boy,” Calliope laughed. “I already knew him.” She rested her chin on her palm. “And he’s a man. Definitely a man.”
Terrence disappeared and reappeared in her cube, sat in her guest chair, and set his elbows on her desk.
“What’s the dope Cally-ope?” Terrence took great pleasure in mispronouncing her name knowing how much it irritated her. Of course, when he wanted something, she was once again Cal-i-oh-pee.
“Okay, something’s up. You’re pink as a poppy and your voice dropped an octave. The last guy you dated, you forgot his name.”
“Oh yeah. He was a nice guy.”
“Josh! His name was Josh.”
“Josh. Right.” She knocked her forehead with her palm.
“He played for the Mets!”
“Meh,” she shrugged.
“This new one must be Captain America or The Hulk.”
“He’s kind of both.”
Terrence gave her a probing look then sat back in his chair. He steepled his fingers, pressing both index fingers to his lips. “It’s the Colossus.”
“Hmmm?”
“Coy doesn’t suit you, dear.”
“Fine. Yes, it’s Tox.”
“Who?” Terrence put a hand to his ear as if he hadn’t heard.
Calliope put her face in her hands as she recalled their drunken conversation on the ferry back to Cape Cod after Emily’s Nantucket wedding. “Helios, the mighty sun god, The Colossus of Rhodes.”
“I really hope you shout that out when you’re in bed with him. You’d do wonders for the man’s ego.”
“I assure you his ego is fit as a fiddle.”
“Noted.”
“You heard about Phipps Van Gent?” She wanted this conversation away from her personal life.
“Let’s see. Four notifications on my phone, one very loud ‘I knew it’ coming from Farrell’s office, every other story on the CNN crawl… Yes, I heard something about it.”
“Farrell wants 2,000 words by the end of the day. And that’s a follow up to the article I posted yesterday,” Calliope added.
“He’s in a real follow the money mood. I guess he figured if it worked for Woodward and Bernstein, it’ll work for him,” Terrence shrugged.
Calliope and Terrence paused their conversation as three suited men and one woman marched in lockstep past her cubicle.
“You know those windbreakers they wear with the big yellow letters on the back? They should have them sewn onto their suits. Very Gucci.”
“I imagine they want to talk to me.”
“So vivid, that imagination of yours.” Terrence stood and re-buttoned his jacket. “I’m off to the diamond district.”
“Shopping? Or does Farrell have a theory about conflict diamonds and the Hasidim?”
“Neither. I have a theory, but I need to do a bit more research before it’s fully formed.” He blew her a kiss. “Ciao.”
Never one to procrastinate or nurture drama, Calliope stood, grabbed the original flash drive from her bag, smoothed her apricot wrap dress, and headed down the hall to Farrell’s office where four dour federal agents stood waiting.
Boston, Massachusetts
June 1945
The cop banged on the door of John Reardon’s Beacon Hill townhouse. A moment later, the wide blue eyes of a ten-year-old boy peeked through the crack from inside.
“Hey there Eoghan. Is your dah home?”
The little boy nodded at the policeman and disappeared into the house. A minute later, John Reardon appeared at the door looking every bit the distinguished businessman he was, but for the young boy wrapped around his leg. John rubbed his son’s head, then withdrew a gold pocket watch from his vest, flipped open the cover, and checked the time. Replacing it, he greeted the patrolman, making no effort to mask his irritation.
“What did he do this time, Matty?”
“Caught ‘im snatching the Radio Flyer from the front of Sullivan’s Toy Store.”
“I was taking it for a test drive,” fourteen-year-old Patrick Reardon smirked from behind the policeman.
Before the patrolman could hush him, Patrick’s Uncle John gave the boy a quelling look, and Patrick closed his mouth and stared at the ground. The policeman cleared his throat. “I know that your business, eh hem, has changed, and you don’t, eh hem, do business with your brother’s group no more…” The cop trailed off, wishing he had never said anything. He cleared his throat again, attacking the imaginary frog that had lodged there. “Anyway, I didn’t want to bother Dorcas with this, with Seamus going away and all…”
John’s brother, Seamus, had been sentenced to five years for lying to a federal grand jury. John, with a great deal of effort, had left the Irish mob three years ago, no doubt sparing himself the same fate. Rumor was he had gutted three separate hitmen sent to dispatch him, each time depositing the body on the front lawn of his former employer.
After the third time and some extremely secretive and persuasive negotiations, John was permitted to move on. His new business venture, Reardon Import and Export was not only much more lucrative but had the glossy sheen of legitimacy that provided him with respectability and social status. He nodded to the constable.
“Leave him with me, Matty. I’ll have a word with my nephew.”
Matty turned to the boy with a satisfied smile.
“Ya hear that? Mr. Reardon’s gonna have a word with ya.”
Patrick Reardon grinned. “Guess you can shove off then, cop.”
John Reardon grabbed Patrick by the nape. “Too bad he was too young to go off to war. That would have made a man out of him.”
Matty agreed with a nod. “I wanted to thank you, sir. My brother Howard was in Rhineland with the 8th Infantry. The supplies you shipped over saved a lot of lives.”
John extended his hand. “I’m too old to enlist, so I did what I could.” And made millions in the process. Matty took his offered hand enthusiastically. “Your shipments did more than one man on the ground ever could.”
“Thank you for saying so.”
The policeman nodded and retreated to the sidewalk to resume his patrol.
“Now, you get in my office.” John leveled the whip crack command, and Patrick scurried down the hall to the brightly lit office. The walls were butter yellow, the chair rail and baseboards a cheery maple. The bookshelves held model airplanes, photographs, and awards for community service. The surly teen was swallowed by a sage green wingback chair, his feet barely touching the ground. John unbuttoned his suit jacket and took a seat behind his desk. “Now. I have one question for you.” He paused until Patrick met his gaze. “Do you want to be a thief or do you want to be an inmate?”
That got the boy’s attention.
“Because if you want to spend your life on a chain gang and sharing a bunk with a guy who will stab you in your sleep, keep doing exactly what you’re doing. The cops know your name. The local merchants watch you like hawks. Why don’t you just wear a fecking sign that says ‘arrest me!’
“Now what I’m about to tell you doesn’t leave this room.” John looked left and right as if to ensure they were alone. “You heard about that Mick from Dorchester that washed up in Back Bay?”
The boy leaned forward in his chair and nodded mutely.
“I don’t care if you are my nephew, Patrick. You tell anyone what I’m about to tell you, you’ll be the next one to wash up in the Back Bay.”
John Reardon spun in his chair and stared up at the painting that hung above the desk. He spoke over his shoulder to his nephew. “What do you think of this painting?”
“It looks like a couple of ditch diggers,” Patrick grumbled. “It’s a couple of chumps.”
“It’s called ‘The Stone Breakers.’ Maybe they are a couple of chumps. But what would you say if I told you that this painting is worth more than one hundred thousand dollars? What’s more, not only does nobody know that I stole it, nobody even knows it was stolen.”
“But that’s impossible,” Patrick rasped.
John opened the drawer of his desk and retrieved a clipped article from the Boston Globe. The small headline read “Priceless Art Destroyed in Allied Dresden Bombing.”
Patrick Reardon was only fourteen, but even he could appreciate the genius that sat before him.
“How’d you pull the heist, Uncle John?”
John stood and walked to the well-stocked bar. He retrieved two glasses and poured a finger of Irish Whiskey in each. Then he handed one to Patrick, took one for himself, and returned to his desk. He swallowed his drink. The boy mirrored his action, making a valiant effort to conceal his coughs. John leaned forward, his fingers interlocked and resting on the desk, and in a stage whisper he said, “The art was already stolen and on one of my cargo ships returning from dropping off supplies.” He winked. “The Allies bombing that convoy was pure Irish luck, plain and simple.”
