“He poses as a neighbor and searches your house while a separate group of bad guys chases you around Brooklyn.”
“Explains why he didn’t touch the flash drive or any of the financial documents. He was looking for the tube with the art,” Cam confirmed.
“But the cylinder was at Tox’s. He took it in the car that night to fix a leaky pipe.”
“So he keeps digging.”
Twitch added a grainy image to the screen.
“Enter your fake detective. Costello. I caught an image of him from an ATM camera you passed. It’s not clear enough for facial recognition, but same height, same build except for the beer gut which is probably padding.”
“Who the fuck is this guy?” Steady rubbed a hand down his face.
“That’s a more difficult question to answer,” Nathan replied.
“Caleb Cain is on several countries’ radar, but he isn’t wanted for any specific crime. Interpol has no active warrants on file,” Twitch reported. “He’s an independent contractor.”
“A hitter?” Cam questioned.
“Nope. More of a fixer. Although, he has been in dubious proximity of a couple of suspicious deaths, most notably Frank Stoddard.”
“The DEA agent?” Cam asked.
“Never heard of him,” Steady said.
“Lucky you.” Twitch continued. “Stoddard was undercover with a smuggling ring that operated out of the Florida Keys. His penchant for young boys blew the investigation and sent him into hiding with the organization he was sent to bust. Nobody could find this guy. Then one day a John Doe shows up at the morgue, a homeless guy. Cause of death was a presumed heroin overdose. Except this homeless guy had twelve-hundred-dollar shoes and a collection of kiddy porn on his phone that would have made a vice cop sick.”
“Stoddard.”
“Cause of death was asphyxiation as a result of administration of sodium cyanide.”
Steady gave a low whistle.
“Right around that time, Caleb Cain had arrived in Palm Beach on a Delta Airlines flight out of New York. According to the concierge at the Faena Hotel where he was registered under his own name, Cain was an unremarkable guest. Stayed for five days. Ordered room service. No special requests. Return flight to New York. He was back in The City before the body was discovered.”
“Damn.”
“The other coincidence is another pedophile, an Afghan governor known for his proclivity for very young girls. Security at the Kabul airport shows a relief worker named Carson Holmes entering the country on a British passport. Facial recognition was a ninety percent match to Caleb Cain. He flew into Kabul eight days before the governor was found dead in his bed beside a sleeping eleven-year-old girl. COD was, again, cyanide poisoning. The CIA kept that one quiet.”
“If this guy’s killing pedophiles, I say we leave him to it.” Steady grabbed a muffin from the plate in the middle of the table and peeled off the paper.
“There have been mysterious men showing up at every turn. Could they all be this Caleb Cain in disguise?” Calliope wondered aloud.
“Write down every unexplained person and alias. One of them has to trace back to something. We find out who this guy is, we find the connection to the stolen art.” Nathan passed her a pad of paper and pen.
“At Gentrify Capital he was Caleb Cain.”
“Carson Holmes in Kabul.”
“When he impersonated the cop he was Detective Costello.”
“Your neighbor from the bakery? The guy we assume broke into Calliope’s house?”
“Garfunkel. Dan, I think.”
“Seriously? Like Simon and Garfunkel?”
“Yeah. He even joked he was no relation.” Calliope jotted the name down.