Illicit Intent

By Debbie Baldwin

Calliope Garland’s newsdesk assignment was fairly straightforward—dig up the dirt on the sketchy CEO of a Wall Street hedge fund. But when the man is murdered and valuable data destroyed, a simple investigation turns deadly. Calliope is unwittingly in possession of vital financial information and a priceless work of art; either of which may get her killed. With an ever-growing list of people who want to harm her, Calliope must set aside her reservations and turn to the one man she knows she can trust.

Miller “Tox” Buchanan is a study in contradictions: kind but lethal, passionate but distant, self-possessed yet hesitant. He knows he should keep his distance, but when Calliope is hurled into danger, Tox will stop at nothing to protect her.

...Her first instinct wasn’t to dial 911 but rather to call a certain Navy SEAL. She forced down the antiquated damsel in distress fantasy floating around in her head and rationalized the police would surely ask questions she was unwilling or unable to answer. She brought up her contacts. At the bottom, she touched the entry labeled, Tox, and the call rang through. A grizzly bear answered.
“This better be good.”
“Tox?”
“Calliope?”
“I need your help...”

Be advised: this story contains scenes of violence equivalent to an R-rated movie and explicit sexual situations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gatekeeper Press
• Release date: Jan 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781662908804

Debbie Baldwin

Debbie Baldwin is a successful print media and television writer. She is a graduate of Princeton University and the University of Virginia School of Law. Debbie and her husband live in Saint Louis, Missouri with their puggle, Pebbles. They have three children in college.

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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 pair. So far so good. The betting continued.

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.

Yes, sir. He was dead when the EMTs arrived.

Saves me the trouble.

Should I retrieve the package?

This man with my property? You know who he is?

He passed out business cards when he walked in the room.

Send me the information.

Reynard ended the call and immediately entered a number he knew by heart. This situation required competence and intelligence, but more importantly, it required finesse.

He needed Caleb Cain.

New York City

April 16

Come on, come on, come on. Calliope Garland willed the indicator bar on the monitor displaying the percentage of download completion to move faster. Fourteen percent, twenty-seven percent. Then it seemed to stop at thirty-two percent as if it were deciding whether to continue. She rubbed the side of the CPU, encouraging the beast to comply. She checked the time on her phone: 10:17 p.m. The slick, suited brokers and analysts had abandoned their laptops and balance sheets for dirty martinis—and other pastimes with dirty as the descriptor—at a chic nearby nightspot Stock around the corner. The offices of Gentrify Capital Partners that occupied the top two floors of the Financial District tower were all but abandoned. The low hum of a vacuum cleaner down the hall and the faint voice of a newbie client-retention specialist trying to earn his stripes were all that remained. No one should interrupt her.

Her little undercover assignment was proceeding seamlessly. Farrell Whitaker, her boss at the news site where she worked, The Harlem Sentry, smelled a rat at this prosperous asset management firm, so he sent her in to investigate. She arranged to be hired as a part-time receptionist through a temp agency and had worked at the front desk for two weeks when she caught her target’s eye. Calliope’s editor had then arranged for the target’s personal assistant to get wind of a massive federal investigation in the offing, and the woman had quit without notice. Badda bing, badda boom, Calliope was in.

Gentrify Capital Partners was housed in a soaring monolith at the bottom of Manhattan. The office was a shrine to eighties’ financial corruption. From the sky-lighted two-story reception area to the interchangeable super-model receptionists to the boys club of Ivy League analysts, the place was a throwback. It was as if the man who created it, Philip Phipps Van Gent, had developed his fantasy business model during the era of Ivan Boesky and Michael Miliken, and had duplicated that world without update.

Calliope had worked at The Sentry for nearly two years, longer than any of the other dilettante jobs she’d had over the past six years. She actually liked it, but it would soon be time to move on. Where would she go next? Maybe a nanny in London or an aid worker in Khartoum. She shook herself out of her revelry. First, she needed to make sure she didn’t end her career as an investigative reporter with a literal bang.

At the moment, she was sitting at Phipps Van Gent’s desk—nothing out of the ordinary. He often called her from the road to retrieve some piece of information or update a spreadsheet. Other than the late hour, there was nothing suspicious about her presence. Furthermore, the minions seldom popped in to see the boisterous CEO, on the rare occasion he was in the office. Despite the fact that half of this floor was a private apartment, and his office alone was bigger than most Manhattan studios, the eccentric man spent most of his time at his estate in Greenwich or on his yacht, currently anchored in Palm Beach. No subtle, hidden-gem locations for Phipps Van Gent; he chose the most obvious ways to display his wealth.

Fifty-eight percent. Calliope glanced around Van Gent’s inner sanctum. Other than the desktop computer she was currently breaking into and his rarely-used personal laptop sitting open on the desk—a pin-dot of light at the top of the screen—one would hardly suspect this was a place of business. She wouldn’t describe the office as gaudy, more like an elite hodgepodge. It was as if the decorator, or more likely Van Gent himself, had selected the most expensive item in any given category and put it in the room. Calliope guessed his tactic: if a potential client knew art, he or she would be impressed by the Rothko over the fireplace or the Hopper behind his desk. If they knew antiques, the imposing Goddard and Townsend desk would elicit a response. It was the same with the Persian rug, Tiffany lamps, and the ego wall filled with photos of Phipps with Oscar winners, heads of state, professional athletes, and so on and so on. It was the very definition of conspicuous consumption.

Ninety-one percent. She rolled her eyes. She could afford any or all of these items in her own right but preferred the sparse interior of her Brooklyn brownstone, decorated with thrift store furniture, quirky accents, and street art. The photos she displayed were of people and places that mattered to her: Calliope with her mother playing in the sand on a beach in Corsica, her dog, Coco, looking at the camera lens as if it were edible, her mother and stepfather looking at each other as if no one else existed.

She had conducted dozens of these surreptitious fact-finding missions. Most were as simple as watching who came and went or copying shipping records or a calendar. Computer piracy was a little out of her league, but Farrell had a bee in his bonnet about this particular story. Based on the proudly displayed photos of her publisher Occupying Wall Street years ago she could guess why. Nevertheless, her role had always been observer, not filcher. She should simply be telling Farrell that the files existed, not duplicating them. She shuddered at the implications of this little theft. Some people in some very high places were going to be livid.

Download complete. Just as she sighed her relief and reached to snatch the little flash drive from the port, she noticed another document on Van Gent’s desktop. It was titled Golf Scores, but the S in Scores was a dollar sign: Golf $cores. She clicked on it, and a password prompt appeared. She checked under the keyboard—where Phipps had told her his login information was kept—and sure enough, there, on another Post-It, was a second password. She entered it and voila. The document consisted of a single-page spreadsheet listing a series of numbered codes Calliope couldn’t interpret.

Her computer genius friend immediately came to mind. Twitch will know what this is. Then, as if Calliope had conjured her, the disposable cell phone in her pocket buzzed.

How did you get this number?

Please. Calliope could hear the mischief in her friend’s voice. How goes the wet work?

Nerve-racking.

Oh, take a picture of his desk photos. Be interesting to see who’s in Van Gent’s inner circle. It’ll take the Feds forever to get a warrant for that office.

Calliope turned back to the monitor and extended her hand to snap a picture of the cluster of framed photos on Van Gent’s desk when a device mounted on the side of the screen started beeping.

Shit. I’m setting off the cell phone detector on the monitor. I gotta go.

Calliope cut Twitch off mid-protest, pushed back in the chair to stay out of range of the device, and snapped the picture. Then she tossed the disposable phone into her purse and returned to the mysterious Golf $cores document.

When she tried to drag the document to her flash drive folder an ugly noise sounded and an additional password prompt appeared. She re-entered the second password, and the evil wonk sounded again. Double-checking the letters and numbers, she retried it and was denied a second time. In a final attempt, she entered the original login password. At the third failed attempt, a box appeared in the center of the monitor: initiating security protocol.

Now she was sweating. A countdown clock in the corner of the monitor was ticking down from five. Four... Three… At zero the screen went momentarily blank. Was that the distant bing of the elevator’s arrival? No way was this going unnoticed. She imagined a tiny room with an IT tech sitting at a desk filled with monitors and drinking coffee from a Styrofoam cup while alarms clanged and red lights flashed, signaling the breach. Who knew? Phipps was a strange guy. At this very moment, his wall safe sat open above the credenza. She could see stacks of cash and documents. Honestly, if she took several thousand dollars and left a note on the safe door, she didn’t think Phipps would care. It wasn’t that money didn’t matter to him, it was more like money wasn’t real.

Calliope shook away the thought and returned to her task. Something bad was happening, something very, very bad. A progress bar appeared in the middle of the screen. Below it, commands flashed: removing files, wiping backup server, clearing logs. With each notification, a new progress bar would start and run up to 100%. Calliope didn’t know much about computers, and she certainly didn’t know if touching something would improve or exacerbate the situation, so she sat there and watched until the screen went dark and an ominous message appeared in the center of the monitor: security protocol complete. All the more reason to skedaddle. Just as she was reaching down to extract the flash drive, the imposing double doors to Phipps’s office flew open with such force the knobs put a dent in the drywall.

Boof. Ten blocks north of Gentrify Capital, Miller Tox Buchanan was in the basement security room of a Chinatown office building. He was being held by two men and beaten by a third. The punch was nothing, but Tox needed to make this look good. A series of jabs and he stifled a yawn. Qi was maybe five-five, a full foot shorter than Tox, but he was well-built. Nevertheless, the blows were about the same force his buddies nailed him with when he told a bad joke. He just needed to keep these guys busy until his partner, Steady, got the cameras and bugs planted.

Their client’s son had been abducted two days earlier by her estranged husband. She came directly to Bishop Security for help. The security company was an offshoot of defense contractor Knightsgrove-Bishop. Heir apparent, Nathan Bishop, had eschewed the CEO position in favor of running this humble branch. Bishop Security took a variety of national and international jobs—bodyguard to black ops—but the team’s pride was The Perseus Project. Born of ghosts haunting Nathan Bishop after his childhood friend, now wife, Emily Webster Bishop, had been abducted, The Perseus Project worked to rescue victims of kidnapping. They rarely charged money, and they never received recognition.

This was exactly the type of case for which Perseus was created. The missing boy’s father was a powerful man with connections to organized crime and enough money to buy silence. The good guys needed to break into his Manhattan offices, plant the cameras and bugs, put a trace on his technology, and