“Yes, that’s him.”
“He was after information about Gentrify.”
“But I don’t have any other information,” she protested.
“I guess he thought differently. And when you could identify him as the man in your home, you became a loose end.”
“So he hired a hitman,” Tox concluded.
“Exactly,” Finn confirmed.
“So what happened to this fucker?” Tox was seething. He wanted to revive Roman Block and kill him again.
“Looks like he became the loose end. The guy was in shit up to his neck. The feds were conducting a RICO investigation, and the IRS and the SEC were nosing around. He’s got ties to an organization known as The Circle. Nobody seems to know shit about them except they’re bad news. Lots of suspicions. No proof.”
Finn took a swig of beer and continued. “Roman Block isn’t as mysterious as his associates. The SAC in the Fed’s San Francisco field office seems to think they had a pretty tight money laundering case. The guy didn’t do nearly enough to cover his tracks.”
“I know him.” Calliope’s blurted words stopped the two men.
“You know Roman Block?” Tox asked, his brows drawn together in confusion.
“No. Finn. I know Finn.” She blurted.
The waitress deposited three plastic baskets on the table each overflowing with french fries and a dripping cheeseburger. Finn dove in then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
Tox was momentarily consumed with jealousy. So distracted, he hadn’t even noticed the waitress slip the piece of paper with her name and number under his red plastic basket. He, with some effort, masked his fury. Apparently unsuccessfully, because suddenly Finn let out a laugh so uncharacteristic and so loud that the bartender stopped cleaning glasses and looked over. When Finn got a hold of himself, he tossed the fry he was holding back in the basket and grabbed his friend’s shoulder. “Not like that,” he sighed and ran a hand down his face. “I can’t add anything to this conversation. I’ll take this to go.”
Finn withdrew some cash from his wallet as he stood. “You two get your shit straight.” Then to Tox, “I’ll see you later.” He nodded once to Calliope and walked out.
Calliope shifted in her seat. “Could you pass the ketchup?”
Tox set the old-fashioned bottle down gently in front of her and waited while she smacked the bottom. She picked up a fry. Set it down. Took a sip of water.
“Whenever you’re ready, Cal.”
“When I turned eighteen, my stepfather knew I was going to fly the henhouse, as they say. He told me it’s okay to wander, but it’s not okay to have no direction. He suggested something.”
“I’m listening.”
“The U.S. State Department’s Bureau of International Narcotics and Law Enforcement, INL, has a program: Early Detection of International Criminal Threats, EDICT. With the permission of the host country and coordinated with the U.S. Embassy and Interpol, the Department sends an observer to places where intel suspects potential international criminal enterprises are cropping up. It’s not some black-ops spy mission. Very few countries would even authorize undercover investigations into entities that are rumored to be engaging in illegal activities. I simply go into an area, get a job, and watch and listen.”
She took another sip of water. “In Barcelona, I worked as a waitress and made note of the people a local shipping company executive met with at the restaurant. In Berlin, I worked at an art gallery where intel suggested the owner was smuggling stolen artifacts. The wildlife photographer I worked for? I was in Tanzania for six months trying to gather information on an international poaching ring in the Serengeti National Game Preserve.”
“And your guru in Bhutan?”
“He was suspected of running a massive phishing scam.”
“And The Harlem Sentry?”
“That’s actually kind of funny.”
Tox didn’t seem to think so.
“They don’t give me a lot of details—just what I need to look for. Farrell Whitaker had requested some documents under the Freedom of Information Act that led the powers-that-be to believe he was investigating Gentrify Capital Partners. Phipps Van Gent was doing business with a Middle Eastern diplomat with some very sketchy ties. INL sent me to the Sentry two years ago to see what Farrell knew but also to learn what other relevant suspicions Farrell Whitaker had—I mean he’s a nut, but sometimes his paranoia is spot on. Plus, The Sentry was a buffer between INL and Gentrify, to avoid stepping on other agency toes. My main goal was to try to get assigned to the Gentrify story, which, after eight months, I did.”
“Jesus, you’re an operator.”
“I’m not an operator. I’m more of a nosy neighbor. All I do is make observations. In Tanzania, I reported that I had seen one of the game preserve officials in the company of a rather striking Japanese woman. I’d only seen them twice, but the woman was so stunning, I remembered her. That single bit of intel led to the dismantling of a huge black-market ivory cartel. Most of the time, my contribution is marginal, but occasionally, like with Phipps, I discover something significant.”