Illicit Intent, page 1
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters and events in this book are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Illicit Intent
Published by Gatekeeper Press
2167 Stringtown Rd, Suite 109
Columbus, OH 43123-2989
www.GatekeeperPress.com
Copyright © 2021 by Debbie Baldwin
All rights reserved. Neither this book, nor any parts within it may be sold or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
The editorial work for this book is entirely the product of the author. Gatekeeper Press did not participate in and is not responsible for any aspect of this element.
ISBN (hardcover): 9781662908781
ISBN (paperback): 9781662908798
eISBN: 9781662908804
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020952736
"In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit."
—Albert Schweitzer
KHC, NBR, IAD, thank you for being my spark.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About The Author
Las Vegas, Nevada
April 14
Franco Jasic stood in the middle of the casino floor and breathed in the oxygenated air.
Home.
His debt with his bookie was settled; he had two bodyguards flanking him—courtesy of his employer—and a substantial chunk of change in his wallet just begging to come out and play. He had also arranged for a considerable line of credit, thanks again to said bookie, so things were looking up. Cocktail waitresses fluttered around him. Patrons eyed him, wondering who could he be? The only thing that needed to be attractive about him in Vegas was his wallet. He wore a well-tailored black suit he kept for just such occasions and diamond cuff links he’d won from a loudmouth fish years ago.
Standing here, in this moment, Franco was whoever he wanted to be—a rock star, a racketeer, a royal—anything but an errand-boy-gambling-addict with a bankroll burning a hole in his pocket. Sure, he had given himself a mysterious moniker, “The Courier,” but it didn’t change the fact that he was nothing more than a black market UPS man. But here and now, it didn’t matter what he was; it mattered what he looked like. And Franco Jasic looked like a whale.
He didn’t look around, didn’t signal for attention; he knew exactly how to play the game. In under a minute, a concierge and a pit boss were at his side.
“Mr. Jasic, welcome.” The concierge spoke first. “I wanted to let you know your suite has been comped and upgraded. I have your key.” He handed Franco a small envelope. “My card is in there as well. If you let me know of any dining or entertainment preferences, I’ll be happy to handle those.”
Franco had his own method of arranging his “entertainment preferences,” and food was of no interest, so he simply nodded and said, “Thank you…”
“Raymond.”
“Thank you, Raymond.”
“And this is Jim Pitts. He can keep you apprised of any games that may interest you.”
“A pit boss named Pitts?” Franco raised a brow.
“I guess I was born for it,” Pitts added with a practiced shrug.
“Well, it’s early yet. If you can arrange for a dealer in a high-limit room, I think I’ll start with a little one-deck blackjack.”
“Of course, sir. If you’ll follow me.”
Pitts led the way through the crowded floor, speaking into his earpiece as he escorted Franco into an elegantly appointed room. Leather couches and chairs surrounded low glass tables without a smudge or condensation ring in sight. The bar was an elaborate oak affair with rows of top-shelf liquor set before a distressed antique mirror. The bartender stood at attention, prepared to whip up a frothy sidecar or the perfect manhattan. The room was currently unoccupied, but that would change as the evening progressed.
Franco palmed a hundred dollar bill and thanked Pitts with a shake of his hand as he transferred the tip. From another doorway, a stunning Asian woman with a sleek, black ponytail that cascaded down to her lovely derriere entered the room. She took her place behind the blackjack table and broke the seal on a new deck.
Pitts thanked Franco. “Best of luck to you, sir.”
Franco barely heard the parting words, the siren song of the cards already snaring him. He purchased his chips and placed his first bet. She dealt the cards.
“Player has blackjack. Congratulations.”
Franco allowed himself a small smile and placed another bet. His penultimate day on earth was off to a very promising start.
Thirty hours later felt like minutes. The only way Franco would have known it was morning was by the eggs and pastry assortment that had replaced the dinner selections on the buffet in the dining room of the massive suite. Fuck food. Franco was up. Way up. He had gambled close to a million dollars and had a nice nut to show for his effort. Adderall and cocaine and American bourbon flowed through his system, but their effects were superfluous. The cards got him high, kept the adrenaline coursing through him.
He was currently sitting in the 8,000 square foot penthouse of John Vacarro; the people in the room who knew Vacarro called him “Johnny V.” Franco had never met the man before tonight, but like most people on his side of the law, he knew who Johnny V was. If they didn’t, one look would have said it all: slicked-back gray hair, tanned and battered skin, a well-worn cardigan covering an understated $300,000 Patek Phillipe watch that peeked out when he adjusted the dime store readers on the end of his nose or repositioned the unlit Cuban Cohiba at the corner of his mouth. Franco liked him on-sight.
Johnny V had come and gone from the table, and players had cycled through, but Franco couldn’t let himself miss a minute. The next hand could be the big score. He wasn’t going to be caught napping when that hand was dealt. He had left the table only a handful of times: to use the facilities, to get a blowjob from one of the prostitutes circling the room, and once to make a phone call to his employer to assure him everything was on schedule.
He had just folded his hand when the door to the suite burst open, and a larger-than-life man entered the room. He was visibly drunk and holding a wad of cash: a douche bag from his crocodile loafers to his diamond Rolex. Franco was glad Johnny Vacarro’s men had relieved him of the snub-nose .38 Special he kept in an ankle holster, or he may have shot this asshole in the face for the fun of it.
“Gentlemen, and I use that term loosely,” the man boomed. “What’s the buy-in?”
Three hours later, Franco was ready to blow. This Armani-wearing motherfucker had taken his entire nut. The guy could not lose. Franco wished he had left the table the minute this jackass and his bad juju had walked through the door. But this was gambling. Things turned on a dime. And they were about to turn his way. He could feel it. Franco popped another couple of antacids; his indigestion was brutal tonight. He shifted in his chair, trying to ease the fist between his shoulder blades. Pretending to blow his nose, he swiped at the cold beads of sweat dotting his brow. Jeez, he was going to need a break at some point, but not yet.
The game was Texas hold ‘em. Franco looked at the pair of jacks he’d been dealt and placed his bet without expression.
The Flop: three cards dealt face-up in the center of the table: four of spades, nine of hearts, four of clubs.
The Armani asshole choked on his drink. Franco had two
The Turn: one card face-up: jack of spades.
The clouds parted. The angels sang.
There it was. His jack. Highly unlikely anyone at the table could beat him. Even if Gucci Loafers had a full boat, it wouldn’t be as high as his jacks over fours. Six players, only two had folded. The pot was up to a hundred grand.
The River: one card face-up: eight of spades.
The betting continued. Franco could win back his nut and some to spare on this one hand. The only problem: he was out of money. He waved over one of his bodyguards, turned his head from the table, and said under his breath, “go to the room and get the package.”
“Franco…”
He fisted the back of his chair. God, his back was killing him.
“There’s ten Gs in it for you. Just do it.”
The guard left the room, and Franco turned to the table. “Gentlemen, a moment please.”
The guard returned with a wax-sealed white plastic tube and handed it to Franco who, in turn, placed it in the pot. “This will cover the bet.”
“I’m not a drug dealer or a fence, Franco,” the third player in the game grumbled.
“It’s legal, and it’s worth more than the pot. Come on, boys. Live dangerously.”
The men murmured their acceptance.
The first player turned the pair of cards in his hand: ace of spades, five of spades, combined with the three spades on the table: the four, the jack, and the nine, gave him a flush. The player to his right threw down his cards in disgust. Franco was next. He turned his pair, revealing the jacks that completed the full house, his expression smug. The smugness turned to concern when he saw the look on the face of his nemesis. The man flipped his cards with a flourish: four of diamonds, four of hearts. Franco’s eyes ran to the two fours on the table.
Four of a kind.
Franco surged to his feet, the word “no” on his lips, when his chest seized and his lungs froze. He fell to his knees, then to his back. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. The room became a pinpoint in the distance. He saw those pretentious crocodile loafers hurry past him, out of the suite. As the world began to fade, Franco stared up at the ornate chandelier hanging over the table and wondered where he could scrounge up the cash for another hand.
Dordogne, France
April 16
Reynard was a procurer of the unattainable and priceless.
Deep in the bowels of Chateau de Beaulieu-sur-Dordogne, the man, known only as Reynard, sat at his desk, a perch he rarely left. The manor had been built in 1417 by a particularly paranoid and reclusive minister of Charles VII. The inviting sandstone exterior with its soaring towers and whimsical spires masqueraded the labyrinth of tunnels and arcane rooms created by the mad Duke. Reynard, an accomplished acquirer of items of questionable provenance, had found the estate well-suited to his needs. He’d purchased it on the spot.
His office was pristine. The books that lined the walls were categorized and alphabetized and stored behind glass to maintain their appearance and value. In the corner, a full suit of armor of the legendary Polish warriors, the Winged Hussars, stood watch; its polished steel gleamed and the triumphant wings of eagle and ostrich feathers brushed the ceiling. Over the fireplace hung Van Gogh’s View of the Sea at Scheveningen. Stolen in 2002 from the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, the painting had never been recovered. Reynard didn’t love the subject of the seascape; he didn’t even particularly like the artist. He did, however, love taking things from people. He was sure it stemmed from some childhood slight. Even as a small child, when the men came to his village of Padina, outside of Belgrade, and took his father, he felt no remorse, no fear. What he felt deep in his marrow was...envy.
The clanging ring of the desk phone had Reynard reaching for the handset, absently noting the appearance of age spots on the back of his hand. He was expecting the call.
“Mademoiselle Brewer. Congratulations on your new position.”
A hoarse chuckle greeted him.
“Thank you, Monsieur Reynard. And forgive my voice. I’m battling a cold. Damned Boston weather. You’d think I’d be used to it. I’ve lived here most of my life.”
“The secret, as in all things, is to wash your hands.”
“Well put.”
“So, to your business.”
“It’s taken me nearly a year to reach you, Monsieur Reynard. I’ve accomplished some of the task on my own. But as I continue my crusade, it has become apparent that I will require assistance.”
“I’ve followed your progress. You’ve acquired the Manet and one of the Rembrandts.”
Reynard suspected there was another painting, possibly two, in her collection as well, but it was irrelevant to the conversation, so he didn’t question when she neglected to mention it.
“Yes, A Lady and Gentleman in Black is in my possession.”
Reynard lifted his brow. “I’m surprised Mijnheer Visser was willing to part with it.”
There was a brief pause Reynard interpreted as surprise at his knowledge of the painting’s whereabouts.
“He was open to negotiation.”
“I find that’s usually the case,” he affirmed. Although Reynard rarely negotiated. He took.
“As for the rest…” she continued.
“This endeavor requires patience,” he answered. “Some of these will be nearly impossible to locate.” Reynard cut off the impending protest. “I said nearly. And there are two, the self-portrait and the Flink that will require more creative tactics.”
“Hence, my call to you.”
“Then, there is the matter of money.” Reynard glanced again at the unremarkable Van Gogh above his mantle, the excitement of this new undertaking making the palate appear even less vibrant.
“Money is not what drives me in this venture,” she insisted.
“So, we are alike in that sense.”
“And your reputation precedes you. I’ve made a good faith deposit to the account information I was given. I will continue to make deposits provided expenses are itemized and results are achieved.”
Reynard was already aware of the funds. “And in a reciprocal show of good faith, I have a package en route to you. My courier acquired the item in Vienna and will be making the delivery to your home in the next 48 hours.”
“That’s wonderful news.”
Reynard sighed. “They won’t all be this…uncomplicated.”
“I’m aware. I’m willing to spend my lifetime restoring this legacy.”
“I’ll be in touch,” he said, ending the call.
Reynard found “legacy” an odd choice of word by Mademoiselle Brewer. But he, perhaps more than anyone, understood the need to possess, and often, even that brief feeling of possession could leave a lasting imprint. Reynard knew for a fact that Elizabeth Reardon Brewer, this future captain of industry, this product of the right schools and the right breeding, had never actually owned the collection sought. Nevertheless, some seminal event had conveyed a profound sense of ownership.
Reynard didn’t much care one way or the other. He had always been more concerned with the “how” than the “why” of any given matter. And the “how” of this undertaking made him positively giddy. He glanced briefly at the diamond and jade rosary that sat encased in glass on his desk. Its value was negligible, but it was his first heist, stolen from the pocket of a mourning woman at the church where he worshiped as a boy. Reynard ran his fingers over the case. There had been several milestones in his life that had been equally rewarding, but this current endeavor had the potential to surpass them all. So, with an uncharacteristically optimistic sense of purpose, he set to work.
Then, like a spray of bullets to a chandelier, a terse announcement from his man at the door shattered his Panglossian outlook.
“Sir, there is a problem.” The assistant nodded toward the blinking light on the phone indicating a caller was holding.
Reynard snatched up the phone without salutation. “Out with it.”
He pinched his chin between his thumb and the side of his forefinger as he listened to the events that had unfolded in Las Vegas. He had been in this business for five decades. He had seen it all. He wasn’t a man who resorted to baser tactics unless absolutely necessary. Most problems could be handled with the fine art of persuasion.
“The courier, he is dead, yes?” Reynard asked.
