Illicit Intent, page 9
His Irish brogue was more prominent now. “After it happened, I made some inquiries. The bombardier’s name was O’Malley.”
The teenager nodded along, rapt.
“There are no suspects, no evidence, no investigation because there is no crime. I stole a painting that’s going to be worth a million dollars one day, and nobody’s the wiser.”
John finished his drink and gently set the glass on the desk. “So ask yourself this, Patrick Reardon, are you gonna be the—what did you call them—chumps in the painting breaking rocks all your life, or are you gonna be the guy who steals the painting of the chumps breaking rocks all their lives?”
Patrick didn’t respond, but John could see the determination in his eyes. When he glanced over the boy’s head, he spotted his wife, Bridget, standing in the doorway with an exasperated smile.
“Patrick, say hello to your Auntie Bridget and be off.”
Bridget Reardon kissed her nephew. “Greta is just taking some cookies out of the oven. If you hurry, you can snatch a couple and continue your life of crime.”
The boy shouted his thanks and hurried toward the kitchen.
John Reardon turned his attention to his wife. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
Bridget sidled over to the desk and perched on her husband’s lap. “I’ll be thirty-five next year. Will you still love me then?”
“Forever and always my one true.”
“Sweet talker. I was going to drive Eoghan over to the new house this afternoon. He’s getting excited about playing football at Exeter when he’s old enough, so I thought I’d show him the yard.”
“Eight acres ought to be enough for a field.” John’s comment was muffled as he nibbled on his wife’s neck.
“Quit distracting me. I need to change and you have a meeting shortly,” Bridget scolded but tilted her head to ease his access.
“What a twenty-year-old kid in Uganda needs with two hundred AK-47s, I’ll never know. He claims he’s enlisted in the British Colonial Army, but something’s not right.”
“Well, why don’t you tell this Mr. …” Bridget looked at the file on her husband’s desk. “Idiamin to take his business elsewhere?”
“Mr. Amin. Idi is his first name.”
“Don’t change the subject,” she said.
“He’s paying upfront. I don’t have to like my customers as long as their money’s good.”
“Speaking of money…”
“Uh oh.”
“What would you think about installing a swimming pool in the yard?”
“Like the municipal pool?”
“Yes. Only smaller. We’d be the only house in the neighborhood to have one.”
“Well then, by all means.” He punctuated his remark with an eye roll and a pat on her fanny to roust her from his lap.
“I love you, you know.” Bridget pulled her husband to his feet and ran her fingers over his jawline.
“Is it because I’d give you anything you asked for?”
She pushed up to her tiptoes and kissed him. “That certainly doesn’t hurt.”
Dordogne, France
April 19, present day
Reynard read over the information that had been couriered to him in hard copy, his computer screen dark. He avoided electronic communication in all but the most urgent of matters. He set down the file, his suspicions confirmed, withdrew a sheaf of engraved stationery, and uncapped his Montblanc pen. Then he hesitated. The intended recipient was like a daughter to Reynard, and he was loath to make the request.
He had rescued Clara; it was his role to provide guidance and wisdom. Nevertheless, Reynard had made a promise to his client, Elizabeth Brewer, and one way or another he needed to fulfill it. Without his reputation, he was nothing. He glanced briefly at the framed black and white photo of an eight-year-old girl on the mantel. In the photo, the little girl sat in a large wingback chair dressed in a velveteen party dress with bows in her hair and her cherry lips smiling. Everything about the photo was perfect, but, if examined very closely, the small garden snake clutched in her hand and hidden by her leg was just visible. The snake ended up in the photographer’s camera bag and had sent the woman screaming from the house. Clara was indeed a wonderful, devilish handful.
He had been in Paris on business, and, as was the nature of his work, he was often in undesirable places at inconvenient hours. Having concluded his meeting, he was headed back to the car when a disruption in a nearby alley caught his attention. A man was swearing and tossing aside boxes and trash as though he was looking for a rodent lurking in the garbage. Then he grabbed a child of about six or seven and in guttural French explained his intentions in detail. The child didn’t cry or scream; she thrashed—kicking and scratching despite the short knife in the attacker’s hand.
Reynard did not involve himself in such matters. Success in his business hinged on the clandestine, and anything that jeopardized that was avoided. But this situation was so compelling even Reynard’s bodyguard, who would never raise a hand without orders, had taken an involuntary step forward. Reynard had stayed him with a slight gesture and commanded the attacker, “Relâchez l’enfant.” Release the child.
The man spun, the child suspended by the collar he gripped, and gave Reynard a toothless smile. “Quel est elle vaut?” What’s she worth? It always came down to money.
Reynard opened his suit jacket. His wallet nestled in the breast pocket, his Walther P99 semi-automatic holstered at his side. He pulled out the gun and, in a move bred of years of practice, put a bullet between the man’s eyes, muttering to no one in particular, “Ta vie.” Your life.
Then something truly remarkable had happened. He assumed the child would scurry away, back to the labyrinth of backstreets and passageways. Instead, the moment her feet hit the ground she ran to him and wrapped herself around his leg. He cast a puzzled glance to his bodyguard, then tapped her on one filthy shoulder. She looked up at him and through the grime on her face and the snarl of matted hair that might be yellow, he saw eyes as wide as teacups and the color of the Adriatic blinking at him without guile. Reynard gestured to the open back door of the Mercedes, and she had climbed in without fear or hesitation. In the back of the car, he had said only one thing.
“Je suis un criminel.” I am a criminal.
And she had given only one reply. “Les crimes sont sur les mains. La bonté est dans le cœur.” Crimes are on the hands. Good is in the heart.
And that was that.
Clara became his ward—Reynard found a fond romanticism in the dated notion. She was a bright, eager child who excelled in her schoolwork, athletics, and arts. She had no surname, so she had chosen Gautreau after the subject of John Singer Sargent’s illustrious portrait, Madame X. They would dine each night, and she would prattle on about the most inconsequential activities of her day that seemed to Clara like small miracles—a beehive she found in a tree or a cloud in the shape of a peacock.
Reynard had hung on her every word, his joy at being given the responsibility of this remarkable child immeasurable.
As talented as she was, she had one skill in particular—despite Reynard’s scolding and discouragement—that stood out among the rest. Clara was an incomparable thief. She would pick the pockets of the guards and leave the items for them at the gatehouse. She had cracked the safe in Reynard’s own bedroom while he slept. The following night he had come to dinner and found a particularly meaningful signet ring in the center of his gleaming dinner plate. Clara had joined him at the table and eaten, telling stories of her day while Reynard did everything in his power to mask his pleasure at her antics.
Now, at twenty-four, Clara was his pride and joy. She was prepossessing and astute, and she was still an exceptional thief. And while he discouraged her hobby, nothing escaped his notice. He knew she occasionally relieved a shady businessman of an ill-gotten item; she wasn’t Robin Hood, but nor was she Atilla. In his traditional psyche, he hoped Clara would find a man worthy of her and settle down, but Clara had her own mind, a quality he had recognized from the first moment in that fetid alley. It was also the quality that had him finally putting pen to paper to make his request. If anyone could do what he needed, it was Clara.
New York City
April 19
Calliope emerged from Big Bob’s Electronics and pocketed the disposable cell phone she had purchased to replace the smashed one currently residing in her junk drawer. Farrell wouldn’t have insisted she pay for a new phone, but she felt responsible for breaking it. Plus, the discount store was directly across from The Harlem Sentry office, so it was an easy fix.
The meeting with the Feds the day before had gone just as Calliope had expected. She’d explained about the flash drive and handed over the device—after she’d made a copy for Twitch, of course. She had answered every question they asked with complete honesty. She had worked at Gentrify Capital Partners for eight months while attempting to ferret out information about the hedge fund’s questionable investing. She interacted with Phipps Van Gent in a professional capacity. Had she seen clients who were suspicious, angry, upset, threatening, attempting to cancel their account? Yes, yes yes, yes, and yes.
She detailed their time together on that final night—the fake painting, the late-night visitor—and then the female special agent had given Calliope her card and urged her to call if she remembered anything else. Calliope had nodded her goodbyes and left. It wasn’t rational, she knew, but talking to authority figures always made her feel like she was in trouble somehow, like if she said the wrong thing, she was going to get caught.
She was about to step into the intersection when something caught her eye: a silhouette emerging from the 128th street subway station. A figure that grew larger and larger with each step up to street level. Tox.
When he reached the sidewalk, he turned with a smooth familiarity and headed away from her. The light changed and Calliope stared as Tox’s familiar frame disappeared around the corner. Brimming with questions and turning against the current of pedestrians, Calliope hurried after him. Time for a little investigative reporting of her own.
Tox was certainly easy enough to spot. Rounding the corner she spied him halfway down the block, his hundred-yard stride eating up the pavement. Then, abruptly, he stopped. He didn’t pretend to read a flier on a lamp post or browse a menu in a restaurant storefront; he just stopped. His hands hung loosely at his side as he cracked the knuckles of each finger with the thumb of the same hand. Practiced sidewalk commuters skirted him without a hitch, or perhaps they didn’t want to throw their snark at the Goliath blocking their way. Calliope stopped as well and quickly ducked into the alcove of a shoe repair shop. Unversed in the art of the tail, she pretended to dig through her purse. Then she pretended to tie her shoe. Then send a text. Then apply lip balm. When she peeked out onto the sidewalk Tox was halfway down the next block. He had stopped again, this time in front of a side entrance to a bookstore. Another man was waiting for him, with his arms crossed and a prosthetic leg bent back against the wall. A handshake, a hug, a back slap, and the two men slipped in through the door.
Calliope dipped around to the front entrance of Harlem Reads and pushed through the door, a little bell announcing her arrival. A group of children huddled on a carpeted area preparing for story hour, patrons browsed. Behind the counter, a man of about seventy with a patch over one eye greeted her with a broad smile.
“Can I help you find something?”
“I think I’ll just poke around. Are there more books in the back? I noticed people going in another door.”
“That’s a veterans’ support group meeting.”
“Like AA or something?”
“AA meets on Saturdays. This is for vets. To talk through their issues.”
“That’s nice of you to let them use the space.”
“I usually attend. Been out of the Army thirty-eight years, and I still struggle sometimes.”
Calliope gave him a warm smile. “I’ll just look around. Can you point me toward historical fiction?”
Calliope followed his finger to the back corner of the shop. The back corner where Tox had just emerged from the break room holding an empty box of coffee filters.
Quick as a flash Calliope dodged up the nearest aisle, knocking a stack of books off the sale table. She stopped midway and glanced up at the sign indicating “Self-Help.” Ignoring the irony, she ducked down as Tox moved down the adjacent aisle to the proprietor. Calliope inched closer to eavesdrop, peering through the spaces above the rows of books.
“Hey Vernon, you got any more filters?”
“Should be a fresh box in the cabinet above the sink.”
“Thanks.”
“How’s he doin’?”
“Brody? He’s better. The new prosthetic is helping a lot. And he’s got a job interview—security guard at the box store. I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that?”
“You get the coffee going. I’ll come on back when Lettie gets here.”
“Copy that.”
Calliope watched Tox retrace his steps. Halfway down the aisle he stopped, lifted his chin, and inhaled through his nose. She didn’t hear it, but his nostril flared ever so slightly. She didn’t wear perfume, and there was no chance the floral scent of her shampoo was carrying over to the next aisle, so she waited in a crouch until he resumed walking and disappeared into the back room. She snatched up the two books she had knocked over and placed them on the checkout counter without looking at the titles.
“The Comfort Food Cookbook and Don’t Eat Your Feelings. Seems like you’re shooting yourself in the foot here.” Vernon chuckled.
“Oh, um, it’s for a friend.”
“A guy came in yesterday and bought a book on poisons and a book on marriage therapy. I just sell ‘em; I don’t ask questions.”
Calliope paid with a strained laugh and shot a glance to the back of the store.
“Meeting lasts an hour.” Vernon didn’t look up from the register. When Calliope knit her brows in confusion, he added, “I’ve still got one eye, my dear.”
Calliope was out the door and hurrying down the street before he could see her beet-red complexion.
When she was safely around the corner, she contemplated her actions with a shake of her head and an eye roll. I’m a stalker. The zen-centered, live-in-the-moment, twenty-first-century flower child was following Miller Buchanan like a deranged fangirl. Twitch would be thrilled with her exploits. Calliope gave herself a mental shake and headed back to The Harlem Sentry offices.
With a mug of freshly brewed coffee, Tox rejoined the group sitting in folding chairs at a round lunch table. Brody, a PJ or Air Force pararescueman, was telling the group about his new prosthetic, and, more importantly, how he’d asked his PT nurse out for coffee, and she’d accepted. The small group gave him a cheer and applause. Brody smiled. Tox wondered, not for the first time, if Bishop Security would be a good fit for the elite operator. Brody’s employment situation was not, however, foremost in his thoughts.
Calliope Garland had followed him, followed him. One whiff of the clean, flowery smell of her shampoo one aisle over in the bookstore and he was rock hard. He never in a million years would have pegged her for that kind of behavior. Well, she clearly didn’t do it often. He almost burst out laughing on 128th Street when he realized who was tailing him.
Then he had a flash of memory of following his ex-girlfriend on a date with her new boyfriend. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Standing there distraught in the middle of the sidewalk, watching them walk hand-in-hand. Now, Tox struggled to remember what it had been about her that had left him feeling so fraught. Hell, he couldn’t even remember the color of her eyes. They certainly weren’t the snow-blue of the enchantress who had followed him today. He still couldn’t get over it. He’d had women come onto him before. Hell, he’d had women crawl into bed with him while he was sleeping before. There wasn’t a damn thing right about that.
Tox had paid a hefty price to learn and enforce his own boundary issues. It was only natural to expect the same from others. And yet somehow, knowing Calliope had followed him today…it felt fan-fucking-tastic.
New York City
April 19
Twitch pulled the cork on the second bottle of wine. There was still some left in the first bottle, but she and Calliope would polish it off soon enough.
“You followed him?”
“James Bond-style.”
“You honestly believe Tox, a trained Teamguy, didn’t know?” Twitch cocked a brow.
Tox was more than just a “trained Teamguy.” He was a living legend in the SEALs after his single-handed rescue of his swim buddy, Finn McIntyre, from a group of insurgents, but Twitch didn’t elaborate. For one thing, Tox would kill her.
“I was very slinky.”
“Oh, I’m sure about that. So, what intelligence did you gather?”
Calliope stalled her response with a sip of wine. Attending a support group was personal, private.
“Nothing exciting. He was just meeting a friend.”
If Twitch sensed there was more to the story, she didn’t acknowledge it.
“So…” Twitch stared into her wine glass.
“So…” Calliope echoed.
“Tox seems smitten. I mean I don’t think he’s following you around New York or anything…”
“Hardy har har.” Calliope fake-laughed.
“It’s refreshing. I’ve never heard him talk about a woman, other than trying to remember her name.”
“He’s the first guy I’ve met in New York, anywhere really, who gives me the flip.”
“The flip?”
“You know.” Calliope put her hand on her stomach. “That feeling in your stomach? The flip.”
Twitch nodded, looking desolate. “Yeah.” She said on a sigh. “I know it.”
Calliope polished off her glass. She poured more for both of them and took another hefty gulp.
“I’m never in any one place long enough to have any kind of serious relationship. I can barely make friends. You and Emily are the first friends I’ve made in New York. And before that…”
