Paris, France
May 15
Caleb Cain slept peacefully. His flight from JFK to Charles de Gaulle had been uneventful, and he was pleased to be in the one residence he actually considered home. From his bed, he could see the only personal item in the flat: a framed photo of two young boys playing in leaves, the same photo he discovered in his brother’s loft. Brother. He basked in the intoxicating joy of the word. The distant sounds of the city hummed like white noise as he rested. He had completed his assignment.
He neither knew nor cared what Reynard was planning to do with the two Degas sketches, currently in the case beside him, now that the buyer, Elizabeth Reardon Brewer, was dead. He postulated that Reynard would get as far away from the rest of this mess as possible…for the time being. Mademoiselle Brewer had been in possession of some extremely valuable art at the time of her demise; Reynard would watch and wait as her affairs were set in order. He wasn’t an impulsive man, but he was not about to ignore what he suspected sat in a Boston bank vault or hidden in plain sight.
Again, not his concern. He had found his twin brother alive and well, and he had more job opportunities than he could possibly accept. He would deliver the sketches, take Lizette to dinner, or perhaps Marthe, and enjoy the spoils of war. He exhaled a satisfied sigh. All was right in his world.
The gentle click of the deadbolt had his eyes shooting open. Caleb reached a hand over and patted the briefcase which held the two Degas sketches—the attaché occupying the spot normally taken by a willing woman. In a swift, silent motion, he moved to sitting, grabbed the Colt 1911 Classic from the bedside table, and thumbed the safety.
Moving like a ghost, Caleb drifted past the galley kitchen and into the small, generic living room. Shadows shifted, a police siren hee-hawed from the street. The front door was closed. He circled the couch, checked the small coat closet, cleared the room. He checked the peephole and opened the door. The hallway was empty. When he was mostly satisfied the sound had come from another source, or his imagination, he returned to the apartment.
The bedroom was exactly how he had left it six minutes ago, the covers tousled, his packed suitcase on the floor by the dresser, the closet door ajar. Nonetheless, Caleb felt something in the air, a disturbance. He physically shook his head, banishing the thought; there was no way into the room except by the door he had just passed through. The windows were locked, and, while the door from the bedroom to the bathroom was open, the door that led out to the hall from the bathroom was deadbolted. Caleb crossed to the bed, a ball of fire forming in his gut as he recalled the click of a deadbolt that had awakened him. He entered the combination to the locked briefcase and popped it open.
There, nestled in the cushioned interior, sealed in plastic, was a mint condition 1988 San Bernardino Spirit Ken Griffey Jr. rookie card #1. Caleb picked up the card reverently and ran his fingers over the plastic. He shook his head and spoke to the empty room. He should probably thank her for saving him the trip to Dordogne. The sketches would be delivered to Reynard, just not by him.
“At least buy me dinner first, Clara.”
He snapped the case shut and checked the time just as the alarm on his phone signaled a wake-up. He stood, stripped off his boxer briefs, and headed into the shower. A smile tugged at his lips. This wasn’t checkmate; it was just the opening gambit. The little minx needed to be taught a lesson.
Seventeen hours later, the composed, debonair businessman, Caleb Cain, was boarding a return flight to the states. Washington D.C. this time. A nasty mess involving sex workers and a Supreme Court Justice needed tidying. Another day, another political scandal.
The flight attendant, Delphine, brought the orange juice he had requested as he took his aisle seat in the second row. The suited man next to him had a tablet on his lap open to the Wall Street Journal but was staring out the small window. He wore a Tom Ford custom suit, and smelled vaguely of…baby powder? When the man returned to the article he was reading, Caleb recognized the profile he had seen only once in person, in his brother’s apartment. Nevertheless, he knew exactly who the man was.
Neither man minced words as the plane hurtled down the runway.
“Do you find yourself in Paris often, Mr. Bishop?”
“Nathan. Please.” Nathan extended his hand and the other man accepted it as he continued. “My wife is pregnant with our third. She was craving tarte Tatin.” Nathan held up the small bakery box tied with a string.
“You can’t take that through customs.”
“I think you and I both have ways of getting contraband through customs.” Nathan met Caleb Cain’s impassive gaze.
“So this is quite a coincidence.”
Nathan huffed a laugh.
“If you’re looking for something in particular, I’m almost relieved to tell you I was robbed last night. Some valuable artwork was stolen.”
“That’s for the Feds. We were involved to ensure Calliope Garland’s safety. She’s safe.” Nathan paused as the flight attendant paced by their seats. “I wanted to speak with you, and I didn’t want to go to the trouble of peeling the onion on your holding companies and identities to find your apartment. A man deserves his sanctuary.”
Caleb Cain a.k.a. Miles Buchanan gave a firm nod then scratched his jaw at the base of his ear. “I appreciate that.”
Nathan watched the familiar gesture with amused wonder.
“It’s amazing, really. You two have been separated for nearly twenty years, yet you have the same expressions, the same mannerisms. I have twin boys, and I already see it in them. They’re fraternal, like you and Tox, but they share the same little quirks.”
Caleb nodded his understanding then got to business.
“I’m assuming you arranged this little interlude because there’s more you want to discuss than genetic concordance.”
“Quite.” Nathan withdrew another tablet from his bag, tapped the screen awake, and passed it over.
Caleb scrolled through the pages, his stoic expression cracking.
“This is madness.”