“What will you do?” Mathew asked, trying not to sound too hopeful that Callie might leave her husband.
“Fly back to California next Sunday. If John Henry fails to enroll in a sobriety program, I’ll try to talk him into going.”
“If he doesn’t?”
“I will stay a week and keep trying.”
“If he still fails to commit to sobriety?” Even though Mathew knew he was pressing a little hard on a sensitive issue, this might be his only opportunity to find out how committed Callie remained to her husband.
Callie stared at the distant coastal range. She straightened her back and said in a small, tight voice, “I will pack, come back up and file for divorce.”
“If he goes for treatment, you will stay with him?”
“Provided he sticks with the program, yes I think I should. Susannah needs a father.”
Mathew gazed at her dubiously.
“He was witty and charming, even quite scholarly. The university passed him over several times for promotion. While he is tenured, he is not on a path to become the head of his department, which remains his goal. If he gets and stays sober, perhaps he will start researching and writing again and his career will regain momentum.”
Mathew stopped, checked on Harry and Cleo and turned to Callie, placing his hands on her arms. “Where is Callie in all this? What does Callie want? What are her ambitions?”
When Callie ducked her head, Mathew let his hands drop back down. The warm August air floated around them while he waited for her to answer his questions.
“I wanted a doctorate in art history to acquire the credentials to work in a museum,” Callie said in such a quiet voice Mathew almost missed the words.
“What happened?” he asked, walking nearer to hear her words as she spoke.
“I became pregnant with Susannah. John Henry’s first wife left him, and he married me. Having to marry one of his students derailed his career or at least that is his perception.”
“He never lets you forget. Is a career in art history still your objective?”
“Now I’m torn. I love vineyard work too. More than anything Susannah comes first.”
Mathew stopped again to face Callie. He wanted to hold this woman with her troublesome husband and make her life better. Even though he condoned divorce, he interpreted a marriage commitment as sacrosanct for the duration of the marital vows.
“Susannah should perceive you as a beau ideal or a role model, as well as her mother. You can and should follow your dreams as long as you remain committed to Susannah and you make your time with her special.”
Callie’s eyes glistened in the softening light. She shivered a little, even though the evening retained the warmth of the day. Mathew put an arm around her as they turned to meander back down the hill to the house. Having her lissome body snuggled against him created stirrings in his heart and in his groin. He forced himself to suppress the arousal caused by her closeness.
“I’m here for you as a friend, Callie. Amicus est tanquam alter idem.”
“A friend is almost another self,” Callie said, translating for him. “You like Latin, don’t you?”
“Latin is the root of many English words,” Mathew said, “and I find words fascinating. I like the way certain words sound and how my tongue forms them. I enjoy discovering their derivations. Our language is so rich that neglecting words saddens me.” He paused to open the front door for Callie but before she could enter the house, the corgis burst inside the way they did, with a triumphant sense of their significance at any gathering.
Enjoyable revelry enhanced their dinner when Mathew opened three masked bottles of local wine and challenged each person to ascertain the winery and vintage. After Rick botched identifying one of his award-winning wines, the meal collapsed in a disarray of hilarity.
Over dessert Ivy and Steve described their adventures in Norway and then they put on Norwegian music, performing a folk dance learned on their travels. A big couple for dancing, Steve towered over everyone at 6’5” with a solid build. Ivy stood a graceful six feet with a curvy figure. Like Steve, she kept herself trim and in shape. They ending their dancing by falling into each other’s arms merry with laughter when they collided during a twirl.
Mathew found himself fondly watching Callie as his friends danced and wondered if she ever had opportunities to be as light-hearted as Ivy this evening. What that gentle woman suffered and might still go through with John Henry, he shuddered to imagine.
His dream persisted for finding an intelligent, caring person to grow with him. He wanted intimacy interwoven with love. Even though she remained with her husband, Callie reached a little-touched place in his heart. Free of John Henry, Callie could blossom into the fuller woman buried inside of her. Even if she left him, how long would she need to heal from the intimidation and verbal abuse of her narcissistic husband?
On Monday Cruze woke with a start. The sun moved high in the sky, flooding his little house with bright light. Yesterday was a worrisome day, and he only found sleep towards dawn. For the first time in his life, his twin brother did not contact him on their birthday. They were born forty-four years before as Cristo and Cruze Fuentes.
As the first-born Cristo had arrived about fifteen minutes ahead of him and from that moment, he became the leader. Ever since Cruze remembered, Cristo greeted him on their birthday with a celebratory salutation. Yesterday his cell did not ring. Once his brothers had bought Cruze out of their drug business and related ventures, they had agreed on no interactions between them until Cristo and Eduardo found a way to exit what they called Fuentes Enterprises. Cristo had insisted upon one exception – that he might still wish his twin brother a happy birthday. Cruze made sure to charge his phone, and he warmly anticipated his brother’s call.
Back when he wanted to begin a new life, Cristo had grown angry with him. Perhaps his resentment festered over time, and Cristo now did not want to talk to him even on their birthday.
After a shower Cruze checked the phone again. Nada. No calls. No texts. His phone sported enough bars for quality communications, but no word came in from Cristo. Cruze wanted to keep his hideaway undetected. Should he wait a few days or should he go over the mountains today and into France or somewhere else to read his emails? Cristo’s silence scared him, for his siblings and for himself.
He tugged on a clean chambray top with faded jeans and walked into the kitchen to make coffee. Was Cristo mad at him or had an underworld deal gone sour? Had the Mexicans become more aggressive about taking over the Fuentes’ business ventures? Had the FBI found a trail to Eduardo or Cristo? Could the persistent big agent have picked up the threads of the case against the elusive El Zorro Astuto, as they used to call themselves collectively? Might another gangland boss have taken Cristo out in a power-play, leaving house-bound Eduardo stranded in New Mexico?
Cruze thought about their steps to remain anonymous. No one knew their real identities or even that three brothers existed. They had taken care to ensure each trail remained untraceable. They never gave out their real names, not even for a driver’s license or a passport. They had changed IDs frequently. How could anyone trace them?
He poured himself a mug of coffee, took out a thermos and filled it too, adding cream and sugar to both. The milky liquid swirled around his spoon like eddies in a muddy stream. As he stirred and then sipped some coffee, he thought about Cristo and Eduardo.
His younger brother, Eduardo, had supplied the brains for their initiatives. More than anything Cristo and Eduardo had wanted a wealthy lifestyle. As they grew up, Cristo had served as the face of the operation to the world. He had negotiated the deals. He was the tough guy, but unlike most bruisers Cristo was smart. He had hired actors to impersonate him, allowing the Fuentes to appear in several places at one time, keeping their real locations secret.
He had always functioned as the big brother to Cruze and Eduardo. The movement and repackaging of narcotics had become a contest to Cristo where he could outsm
art their underworld associates, the cops, the DEA and even the FBI. Cristo had played well and boldly. Only Eduardo could talk him into more conservative paths to achieve the ends they wanted.
And himself? He had moved the product from Point A to Point B without detection. He had handled the cash after Cristo did the collections. He had worked as a shadow to Cristo and covered his back. Nevertheless since grade school, Cruze had harbored a desire to be an artist or craftsman.
Together they had gone from nothing to almost billionaires through their role in the drug trade. They had handled the logistics of taking poppy-based byproducts from the source to where they had repackaged the bales into small lots for street distribution. Most of the traffic they coordinated went from Colombia to Mexico to the United States. They had avoided commerce with the pushers and with the users, only supplying the larger dealers. They had operated as the middlemen who moved and traded big lots of heroin.
He walked outside, breathed in the warm mid-day air, sat down on the steps and speculated about how someone might have traced his brothers to the house in New Mexico. After considering his options, he elected to drive to Madrid and fly to Zurich. From there, he could make calls and try to find out if his brothers were alright.
After going back into the house, Cruze emptied the coffee mug, washed it and snatched up the small duffel bag he kept packed for times like these. He used a pry bar to tug up a broad floorboard for access to the safe cemented into the ground. Two new sets of IDs, corresponding credit cards, a stack of Euros and another cell phone would be sufficient. If compelled to run, he had other money and identification squirreled away in Amsterdam, Istanbul, Budapest and Rome. He closed and locked the safe, then tacked the floorboard back in place.
Walking across the yard to an outbuilding housing his dusty four-wheel-drive VW, he strode past his glass-working center with reluctance. He wanted to keep this place of refuge for his glasswork because this was his best home since his childhood.
The VW started up with a little cough of dust. He eased the SUV out of the yard and headed left, taking a seldom-used dirt road which ran away from the village and over the mountains. Was he fretting needlessly over a missed phone call?
Cristo was his rock. Only dire circumstances or death would keep Cristo from making his birthday call. Cruze went back to worrying.
Chapter 3
Brian and Moll called Steve to ask about holding a business meeting at Spook Hills with him, Mathew and Ivy. All three of them served as board members, lending their qualifications to the credibility of the startup company, dubbed Noble Fir Forensics. At first the business had been slow to start. As banks realized the value of their software and their consultation for detecting potential money laundering transactions, the demand for their services took off.
With their young supervisor, Fred, and Lenny handling the day’s tasks on the vineyard, Steve made Ivy and Mathew aware that Brian and Moll would arrive in a few minutes. Brian Tovey stood about six feet. Slender and often called model-handsome, he had dark brown hair going to silver at the temples and concerned eyes the color of rich chocolate. Brian balanced an outgoing and likable nature with his abilities to perform meticulous analysis and documentation. Those traits led to his success as an outstanding FBI agent and now as an entrepreneur.
Equally tall yet intriguing in an off-beat way, Moll O’Leary’s curly ash-brown hair went with his laid-back personality and creative intellect. His laissez-faire demeanor hid a driven man who scrabbled away from his mother’s flower-child world of easy morality and hallucinogens. Using whatever financial resources he could patch together, he had pursued a first-rate education leading him to the Bureau and from there to their business enterprise. Moll’s resourcefulness and perceptivity made him an indispensable contributor to their venture, in the same way he had added value to their FBI teams.
Mathew had made friends with the two men in law school and worked with them on cases whenever possible during their fifteen years with the Bureau, including work with Steve for the last few years. They shared strong bonds between themselves, with Steve and now with Ivy. Amongst them, help was never further than a phone call away.
The cases they handled at the Bureau, particularly once they served on Steve’s teams, concentrated some of the largest, most complex international cases that FBI investigated. Most of the cases involved extensive data analysis as they strove to link financial transactions to illicit activities, from drug movement between Colombia, Mexico and the United States, to human trafficking between Bulgaria and locations in Western Europe and the United States to international jewel theft and resale and beyond.
Steve’s track record for bringing the worst perpetrators to justice was legendary at the Bureau. Mathew, along with Brian and Moll, had been honored to serve as his three lead senior agents. Steve had only one level between him and the Director of the FBI and he had the Director’s ear. Working for Steve was hard. He was exacting. He demanded commitment and long hours. And he expected the best from his team members every day.
Late that morning they gathered around the dining table where Brian explained their dilemma in his methodical way. "While we need to respond to this significant prospect, work for our current customers is maxing us out. We can’t even find time to make this sales pitch. Since this is a major financial institution and contracts can take time, we hate to decline."
Steve could see that the long hours and the level of responsibility were taking a toll on the two entrepreneurs. Even though they were used to working long hours for him as FBI agents, he believed they must be over-extending themselves with their new business.
“Sounds like your reputation is getting out in the banking world,” Ivy said with an approving smile.
“Getting out there?” Moll said. “It’s like going viral.”
“We contacted this bank several times last year. No one would return a call. We sent our bona fides and followed up early this year. Again, never called us back,” Brian said. “Now with only a day’s notice, we are expected to be at their site tomorrow. These initial meetings work best with two of us. To pitch this new bank, we need a couple of clones. Will you help us out?”
“How about a quick refresher class for the three of us?” Mathew asked. “From using the software during the Fuentes case last year, we understand the basics. We appreciate the issues around banking transactions. Once you train us, we can back you up on sales, startups and investigations.”
“We should divvy up the tasks,” Ivy said. “Steve and I will stay here with Moll to analyze the data and document our findings for your current projects. Mathew and Brian can head to the new bank.”
“Good for the immediate issue. Longer term you must develop a staffing strategy,” Steve said. “By the looks of you two, you need to start taking better care of yourselves. Remember even with the demands of our complex FBI cases, we had a rotating schedule for exercise, time off and sleep. Plus I always made sure you ate well.”
“No matter how hard we work, we just can’t seem to find enough time. Any advice you can give us would be great,” Brian replied. “On staffing, we want to expand at a deliberate pace and be selective about our hires. Anyone you would recommend, Ivy?”
“I need to be careful about raiding my old employer, but you remember Terry?
Everyone except Mathew nodded.
“When we requisitioned client data records from the company Ivy headed up before she retired, Terry found a thread in certain bank data that led to the destruction of that insidious human trafficking ring,” Steve said.
“Oh yeah, he’s the data-guru guy, right?” Mathew asked.
“Yes,” Ivy said. “I understand he's not happy with the executive who replaced me. Too much procedure, regular hours, etc. -- all the mundane constraints Terry can’t handle. If one of you called him, he might jump ship.”
“Terry’s mind works so much like mine, he could be my brain-twinner!” Moll said. He jumped up, taking his cell phone out and searching his
directory for Terry’s number. He wandered out to the kitchen.
“Terry will be perfect,” Brian said with a sincere smile. “Should any problems lurk in an institution’s records, he will find them. Any others?”
“Terry is the best by far, but I will make a list of contractors and former employees who might be worth interviewing. Over time, I can open more doors, even though I do have to be ethical about looting too much talent from any one firm.”
Brian nodded. “Thanks, whatever you can do for us will give us a jump on finding good employees!”
Moll skidded back into the room with a face-splitting smile. “Fuckin’ A! Terry kissed your old place goodbye last Friday. We are home-free on recruiting him, Ivy. He’s grabbing his wheels to drive down.”
“Like old times at the Bureau,” Steve said, unable to stop himself from displaying his big toothy grin at the prospect of analysis and working with his former squad. He could see that Brian and Moll already seemed re-energized as talented reinforcements started lining up behind them. While Steve handled all the aspects of cases at the Bureau, he enjoyed the data analysis the most, along with putting the facts together to bring the perpetrators to justice.
Later in the day Ivy and Steve worked down in their shared office. They were going through a database from one client while Terry and Moll examined files for a different client up in Portland. Brian and Mathew were flying out to Omaha for a presentation to the new prospect the next day. When Steve’s phone rang, he responded absent-mindedly since he found the information dissection and pattern matching so absorbing.
“Whoa! Repeat what you said, Moll.” Steve laid his phone down, punched the speaker button and signaled to Ivy to listen in.
“Another bank gave us a jingle. Down in San Francisco. Like they want us at their place tomorrow. They are tight with our first client and heard we are the go-to guys for detecting unauthorized access to vast amounts of personal information. They unearthed a gnarly problem and need us to bail them out.” Moll’s typically unhurried drawl accelerated to a panicked pace. “Total overload. This is epic.”
New Growth (Spook Hills Trilogy Book 2) Page 3