New York City
April 16
Caleb Cain extracted the driver’s license from the misplaced wallet and held it in his palm. Well, that was a strange turn of events. He had come to Gentrify Capital Partners at Reynard’s request to have a conversation with the boisterous CEO, Phipps Van Gent. Fortunately for his employer, Caleb had already been in Manhattan helping a young congressman extract himself from a potential scandal. Phipps Van Gent had, quite suddenly, come into possession of an item his employer was extremely interested in retrieving.
Caleb Cain hadn’t been concerned with the knockout who passed him at the elevator. On any given day, he looked completely different. Today, he looked like a well-heeled businessman. Tomorrow, he could look like a philosophy grad student, the next day, a Persian playboy. There were probably more versions of him from various sketch artists circulating police precincts than caricatures in Times Square. Not like he had anything to be guilty of today—or most days for that matter.
Caleb was a fixer. If a client had an issue that was threatening their image, their freedom, or their reputation, Caleb fixed it. And not in a control-the-narrative/put-your-own-spin-on-it kind of way. No. Caleb Cain eliminated the problem. For good. As ominous as that seemed, the answer ninety percent of the time was money.
If a prostitute had video footage of a married congressman, or a mid-level accountant had evidence of corporate fraud, it could almost always be handled with a wire transfer and a threat. Occasionally, more drastic measures were implemented. However, despite his reputation for being ruthless and untraceable, Caleb found positive reinforcement was almost always the solution. Almost. Caleb only had one rule: no kids. Any other problem he handled.
As simple as the assignment sounded, he had sensed this situation was going to have complications. His gut instinct had been confirmed the moment he stepped into Gentrify Capital. Not ten steps into the office, the blasts from the twelve-gauge shotgun had nearly deafened him. That wasn’t even the truly surprising part. That came next. The shooter had exited the office of the CEO—while Caleb observed from the safety of the reception desk—then walked to a desk and dismantled the shotgun. Caleb couldn’t actually see what was happening, but the sounds were unmistakable. The man had then walked into another room. From the clank of coins dropping to the thunk of the can, Caleb surmised he had purchased a soda from a vending machine. Then, he summoned the elevator and descended to the mezzanine level. From there, Caleb assumed he took the stairs to a predetermined exit.
Lots of rookie mistakes, the choice of weapon being the biggest. Literally. While there were advantages to killing with a shotgun—they were nearly impossible to trace because they were often passed down from father to son or found in the attic of an old house or even purchased at a yard sale—it was a cumbersome and messy weapon. The guy wasn’t a pro, or if he was, he was green.
Nevertheless, when Caleb poked his head into the executive office, careful to touch nothing, he saw the man with whom he had come to speak. Well, his arms and legs at any rate. Phipps Van Gent had been obliterated. One blast would have done the job ten times over. This was a crime of passion, of rage. Caleb rethought the scenario. Was it a man he had seen? Yes, he felt sure. He tended to remain calm even in the most harrowing of situations. And this barely qualified. With his own suppressed Glock in its well-worn holster, he had felt no personal danger. After more than a decade of walking into viper nests, Caleb Cain knew danger when he saw it.
After a cursory glance around the office and a look inside the desk and open wall safe, he knew the item he sought was not there. But it had been. The blood-spattered Titian replica on the coffee table and the white circular cap on the floor were proof of that. Caleb left the painting where it was, but he pocketed the cap, for no reason really, except to help the police avoid following a useless thread.
Well, now he had a problem. The trail of breadcrumbs had led to Phipps, so Caleb refocused. Breadcrumbs blew and scattered. There were always other ways of finding what he needed. A chilly April breeze whirled around him as he stood on the deserted street. He looked again at the small picture on the driver’s license nestled in his palm. Perhaps Calliope Garland could lend some insight.