New York City
April 19
Calliope emerged from Big Bob’s Electronics and pocketed the disposable cell phone she had purchased to replace the smashed one currently residing in her junk drawer. Farrell wouldn’t have insisted she pay for a new phone, but she felt responsible for breaking it. Plus, the discount store was directly across from The Harlem Sentry office, so it was an easy fix.
The meeting with the Feds the day before had gone just as Calliope had expected. She’d explained about the flash drive and handed over the device—after she’d made a copy for Twitch, of course. She had answered every question they asked with complete honesty. She had worked at Gentrify Capital Partners for eight months while attempting to ferret out information about the hedge fund’s questionable investing. She interacted with Phipps Van Gent in a professional capacity. Had she seen clients who were suspicious, angry, upset, threatening, attempting to cancel their account? Yes, yes yes, yes, and yes.
She detailed their time together on that final night—the fake painting, the late-night visitor—and then the female special agent had given Calliope her card and urged her to call if she remembered anything else. Calliope had nodded her goodbyes and left. It wasn’t rational, she knew, but talking to authority figures always made her feel like she was in trouble somehow, like if she said the wrong thing, she was going to get caught.
She was about to step into the intersection when something caught her eye: a silhouette emerging from the 128th street subway station. A figure that grew larger and larger with each step up to street level. Tox.
When he reached the sidewalk, he turned with a smooth familiarity and headed away from her. The light changed and Calliope stared as Tox’s familiar frame disappeared around the corner. Brimming with questions and turning against the current of pedestrians, Calliope hurried after him. Time for a little investigative reporting of her own.
Tox was certainly easy enough to spot. Rounding the corner she spied him halfway down the block, his hundred-yard stride eating up the pavement. Then, abruptly, he stopped. He didn’t pretend to read a flier on a lamp post or browse a menu in a restaurant storefront; he just stopped. His hands hung loosely at his side as he cracked the knuckles of each finger with the thumb of the same hand. Practiced sidewalk commuters skirted him without a hitch, or perhaps they didn’t want to throw their snark at the Goliath blocking their way. Calliope stopped as well and quickly ducked into the alcove of a shoe repair shop. Unversed in the art of the tail, she pretended to dig through her purse. Then she pretended to tie her shoe. Then send a text. Then apply lip balm. When she peeked out onto the sidewalk Tox was halfway down the next block. He had stopped again, this time in front of a side entrance to a bookstore. Another man was waiting for him, with his arms crossed and a prosthetic leg bent back against the wall. A handshake, a hug, a back slap, and the two men slipped in through the door.
Calliope dipped around to the front entrance of Harlem Reads and pushed through the door, a little bell announcing her arrival. A group of children huddled on a carpeted area preparing for story hour, patrons browsed. Behind the counter, a man of about seventy with a patch over one eye greeted her with a broad smile.
“Can I help you find something?”
“I think I’ll just poke around. Are there more books in the back? I noticed people going in another door.”
“That’s a veterans’ support group meeting.”
“Like AA or something?”
“AA meets on Saturdays. This is for vets. To talk through their issues.”
“That’s nice of you to let them use the space.”
“I usually attend. Been out of the Army thirty-eight years, and I still struggle sometimes.”
Calliope gave him a warm smile. “I’ll just look around. Can you point me toward historical fiction?”
Calliope followed his finger to the back corner of the shop. The back corner where Tox had just emerged from the break room holding an empty box of coffee filters.
Quick as a flash Calliope dodged up the nearest aisle, knocking a stack of books off the sale table. She stopped midway and glanced up at the sign indicating “Self-Help.” Ignoring the irony, she ducked down as Tox moved down the adjacent aisle to the proprietor. Calliope inched closer to eavesdrop, peering through the spaces above the rows of books.
“Hey Vernon, you got any more filters?”
“Should be a fresh box in the cabinet above the sink.”
“Thanks.”
“How’s he doin’?”
“Brody? He’s better. The new prosthetic is helping a lot. And he’s got a job interview—security guard at the box store. I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that?”
“You get the coffee going. I’ll come on back when Lettie gets here.”
“Copy that.”
Calliope watched Tox retrace his steps. Halfway down the aisle he stopped, lifted his chin, and inhaled through his nose. She didn’t hear it, but his nostril flared ever so slightly. She didn’t wear perfume, and there was no chance the floral scent of her shampoo was carrying over to the next aisle, so she waited in a crouch until he resumed walking and disappeared into the back room. She snatched up the two books she had knocked over and placed them on the checkout counter without looking at the titles.
“The Comfort Food Cookbook and Don’t Eat Your Feelings. Seems like you’re shooting yourself in the foot here.” Vernon chuckled.
“Oh, um, it’s for a friend.”
“A guy came in yesterday and bought a book on poisons and a book on marriage therapy. I just sell ‘em; I don’t ask questions.”