Full Sail: Chapter Two

TWO

I have to warn you, I’ve heard relationships based on intense experiences never work – SPEED

I am a medium girl. I’m medium height and medium weight. My hair is medium brown and medium length. I live a medium life. I take walks in the forest. I’ll never hike the Appalachian Trail. I cycle on groomed paths. I’ll never ride down the Rocky Mountains or race on a BMX track. I run a decent mile, but I’ll never run a marathon. I quit kendo before going much further than the average tween. Though skilled, I’ll never master.

Sure, I have had a few adventurous moments, but no more cloak and dagger for me. No more being shot at, held at gunpoint, stalked, and terrorized. Now, I live a quiet life. I was conflicted on the merits of that.

These days, I have a nice, unassuming position at a museum near Arlington, Virginia. A middling, nine-to-five job, researching and authenticating art acquisitions for a modest, quite ordinary collection. My life at this juncture was unremarkable.

Maybe I was having a midlife crisis. That might explain my dissatisfaction with…everything. And why, after one phone call and with little thought, I jumped into what would become a very dangerous situation. I was definitely having a midlife crisis.

Even my marriage had been mundane. I married my best friend right out of college. It wasn’t a passionate relationship, but it was comfortable. Until it wasn’t.

This could be why the engagement ring I now wear weighs heavily on my hand. And why I vacillated when Colby probed for an answer to his proposal. I didn’t fully understand the reason I couldn’t take that leap of faith into marriage with him. I didn’t doubt Colby. All the doubts began and ended with me and my ability to commit. I was content with being engaged, or at least that’s what I told myself.

There was nothing ordinary about our coupling, though. We met in a hail of bullets, and our relationship intensified as we fled corrupt cops and wannabe gangsters. The sex was spicy, even as we moved from a hot and heavy long-distance courtship to living together in the suburbs. Our conversations were always stimulating. Every day with him was an adventure, and I loved him more each day. That scared the crap out of me.

I tried to tell myself I was wary because of my previous catastrophic nuptials. Colby and I had a blast together, but we were so very different. Despite our obvious chemistry, our disparate experiences gave me pause.

Before our lives collided, I was a nerdy art major. Raised by a widowed (or so I thought) single mom who sold real estate by day and moonlighted as a wedding singer on weekends. Colby was a badass lawman with a Presbyterian minister father and a civil rights attorney mother. I had experience with matrimony, while Colby was a serial dater.

And then there was my father. My unexpectedly not-dead father, who also happened to be a career criminal. Nothing about Colby and me said forever. And did I mention was wary of commitment?

There was nothing medium about Colby Jameson, U.S. Marshal. If you looked up badass in the dictionary, there he would be, all smoldering and sexy. Tall, muscular, with intense green eyes and a killer job chasing actual killers. Life with him would not be comfortable and safe. There would always be a hint of danger and uncertainty. But, Colby was the one having all the adventures. I was the one staying behind, keeping the home fires burning.

Sure, we looked like the average couple, living in a small Colonial with a cat and a dog, a fenced backyard, and a vegetable garden. We were settled, at least for the moment. Colby was spending more time in the office now that he was promoted to Senior Inspector, making it home for dinner most nights. We grocery shopped on weekends, completed cute little renovation projects, and divvied up unpleasant household chores. 

That’s what had me worried — this feeling of ennui, this overwhelming dread that this was all there was. Shuffling paperwork, paying bills, doing all the ordinary, daily tasks that made for a stable life. All while Colby ran fugitive task forces and protected the innocent. I hated to admit it, even to myself, but I missed fighting off killers, counterfeiters, kidnappers, and art thieves.

Sure, pursuing a second master’s degree had been stimulating, but the end result wasn’t exactly what I had expected. I had hoped for more mystery and felonious activity and less administrative wrangling. I thought I would be traveling to exotic places to chase down priceless works of art stolen by the Nazis and reuniting them with deserving families, or unraveling the mysteries of long-lost jewels suddenly found in an attic or chest of drawers.

Instead, most of my days were spent rifling through old records, making dozens of phone calls to verify authenticity and provenance, and then writing up reports. So many reports. I was drowning in reports.

I found myself a little envious when Colby jetted off in pursuit of a fugitive or spent a late night in a van surveilling a suspect. Despite the danger, there was intense satisfaction in kicking criminals in the balls and then watching Colby cuff them. I missed that.

And then there was my dad. Out there, living a clandestine existence, swooping in when I needed him, all while remaining in the shadows, Mr. Mysterious and Dark. He had the knack for knowing when I was in danger or needed an assist. Then he would provide the precise clue I would need to avert disaster or save a friend. And I was grateful for that, despite my indignation at his ability to know everything about me while revealing nothing of himself. I was, however, beginning to suspect that my thirst for adventure might be genetic.

All of this is why, when Mimi contacted me with her request for assistance, I was ready to jump without much thought or caution.

Mimi and I had spent little time together once we moved away from Boston and our lives diverged. Before that, we had worked tirelessly together, sifting through the chaos precipitated by her former boss’s arrest. Trevor Davenport was guilty of smuggling stolen art, assault, and kidnapping. Leaving both of us stunned and soon to be unemployed.

But first, we were tasked with dismantling his ties to the buildings he owned in the South Boston neighborhood where we lived and worked, so they could be sold. We were paid well for our efforts – enough for me to pay for graduate school – but it was emotionally exhausting. It did give us the time needed to process the betrayal we felt from his villainous actions.

After that, we shared a townhome while I returned to grad school and Mimi set about restoring her reputation. Neither project was easy, but we had each other and the men in our lives to get us through. Well, I had Colby. Mimi had an assortment of beaux. Most of them could not understand her drive and passion. They would drift away as she threw herself deeper into her work. And then another would drift in.

Our days together changed after I finished my degree and Colby asked me to move in with him in Virginia. Then Mimi took off for Paris. Frequent phone calls and meeting up when we could, kept our friendship strong. But with my job and her relocation to Los Angeles, it had become more and more difficult. Her call for assistance was a welcome invitation and a potential respite from my personal discontent.

“TJ,” she began when I answered the phone. I could tell from the excitement in her voice that this wasn’t just a catch up call. “How are things in the heart of democracy?”

“I’m muddling along. I just finished piecing together the history of an Art Deco ruby and diamond necklace. You would love it.”

“Oh, yes! What did you find out about it?”

“I used its French hallmark to trace it back to the original owners, pre-WW II,” I began. “And was able to determine the patron’s family had smuggled it out of France and the museum could accept the donation.” Mimi knew as well as I that provenance was important with items from that time period. The Nazis had stolen so many works of art that then made their way into private collections. Museums and art dealers were finally doing the right thing and ascertaining the ownership history before any additional transactions occurred. This is why I proudly proclaimed, “It made me a real hero to the Board.”

“You could be a real hero to me, TJ. I need an assist,” Mimi said, getting directly to the point, as always.

“What’s going on? Trouble with your tech-bro boss?”

Mimi had left Boston behind for the sunny climes of Los Angeles. She had been working with a fancy gallery in the Art District, an area in downtown Los Angeles. Soaking up the art experiences at the Getty Center, the Museum of Contemporary Art, and the Los Angeles County Museum of Art.

There was also plenty of beach time and thrift stores filled with unbelievable treasures. When she first moved, she would call every week to gush about a new find. And then proudly declared that she had entirely furnished her studio apartment with discards from the ridiculously rich. The busier we both found ourselves, the more time passed between calls.

One day she called to tell me that a frequent visitor to the gallery, Tom Meadler, had approached her. Meadler had worked in Silicon Valley, making a fortune in the tech world before cashing out and moving to Los Angeles. He made her an offer she couldn’t refuse.

He asked her if she would help him build his personal collection with an eye to one day opening his own gallery. With a mansion in Pacific Palisades and warehouses in Long Beach to be filled, there was a promise of steady work. She jumped at it.

I was a little surprised, considering how our last engagement with an art entrepreneur had ended – with him in jail and Mimi and I unemployed – that she would be eager to take a similar risk again. Perhaps I should take a lesson from that.

“I found something,” she began. “Something I need your expertise to verify its authenticity.” Mimi was always one to cut to the chase. “It’s almost too good to be true, so I’m suspicious and being super cautious before I let Tom purchase it.”

“Sounds intriguing. What do you need from me?”

“How would you like to fly out to LA, all expenses paid, for a week or so?”

“Are you kidding?” I looked out the window at the never-ending gloom that had been late winter. “Is it sunny? Is it warm? And I get to see you? I’m in.” I should confer with Colby, as couples do, but I needed a change, and this seemed perfect.

Mimi laughed. “Aren’t you even interested in what I found?”

“I suppose, but I don’t think the answer is going to change my mind. I’m already deciding which bathing suit to pack.” Quickly, I scribbled some notes on my desk pad: call my boss, reschedule the cleaning service, and get the suitcases. Mimi interrupted my list-making.

“TJ, are you listening? I had someone contact me this week regarding an original oil painting from an old movie, a film noir classic. No one has seen it in decades, since before the film was released, and I have to determine if it’s authentic.

“Oh,” I said, a bit deflated. “Mimi, I know absolutely nothing about classic films. Nothing. Nada.” Tracing the history of a piece of movie memorabilia was not exactly in my wheelhouse. My movie knowledge started with the great films of the eighties and nineties and continued to the present day. What I knew of classic films was no more than what I gleaned from the few classics I watched on TCM.

“I’ve learned a lot, so I can help there,” Mimi reassured me. “I just need someone who knows how to do this type of research. Tom really wants this piece, and he told me he would pay any expert who could authenticate it. You were the only expert I wanted.”

This was important to her, I could tell, and the entire project intrigued me. I was more than willing to do the homework to enhance my knowledge of the genre. The entire enterprise sounded invigorating, exactly what I needed. I was up for the challenge and excited to see Mimi. “I’m willing to help you any way I can, Mimi. Let me talk with Colby while you iron out the travel details.”

“Thanks, TJ, you’ll never know how much this means to me.”

We disconnected with a plan to talk again after I cleared things with my boss. Mimi suggested I invite Colby along, and I hedged a bit. It’s not that a California vacation wouldn’t be fun for us, but I also thought some time apart could give me the perspective I needed to make some serious decisions.

It turned out I didn’t have to worry about making it a solo excursion. When I told Colby of Mimi’s offer at dinner, he had no concerns about the trip, but he would not be able to accompany me.

He explained, “I’ve been asked to head up a major task force, and things are heating up quickly.” Although something was off. He was short on details and changed the subject abruptly back to the trip.

I expressed my disappointment, but told him that Mimi and I would have plenty to keep us busy. As we continued to discuss Los Angeles, he was distracted. He obviously had something on his mind. His usual voracious appetite was absent, and he pushed his food around his plate.

“What’s going on?” I asked after another monosyllabic response. “Something obviously has you preoccupied.”

He put his fork down and looked at me, his face serious. Uh-oh, I thought, here comes the dreaded marriage conversation again. Or worse.

Even though we had been together for years, in the back of my mind I was always waiting for the explosion. The one that would throw my entire world into chaos again. I tried not to hold my breath waiting for his response.

He hesitated long enough that I silently saw myself with custody of our cat, Stevie, and once again putting my entire life in storage. When he finally spoke, I could not have anticipated the gut-kick.

“Teej, the task force I’m on,” he began carefully. “It’s a fugitive case. It is an intense one, someone the various agencies have been after for decades. This involves forgery, counterfeiting, and murder, among other crimes.”

He picked up his glass and tilted it back and forth, watching the water’s movements. I swallowed the urge to grab it from him and slam it onto the table, demanding he get on with whatever was bothering him.

“The Marshals and the FBI are working on this together and…” he paused again, giving me that look again. “And they have called in your father to help with the case.”

I stared at him for a long moment. It was a good thing I was sitting down. It was quite the bombshell. Not only that my dad, Thomas Joseph Wilde, ex-con, ex-witness, and current consultant, was coming to D.C., but they all knew how to contact him. That Colby knew how to contact him. No wonder he had difficulty telling me. All these years and he knew.

The most I ever received from my father these days was a card on birthdays or holidays and the occasional encouraging note around life events. My mom, who was dating a very nice guy these days, received periodic deposits into her bank account from him. Despite leaving witness protection years ago, he remained elusive, an enigma, in order to continue to protect his family. His consultant work with law enforcement agencies across the globe kept him at high risk. Or so I was told.

“Have you spoken to him?” I asked once I had processed the news.

“Not yet. He has to be cleared by the FBI first,” he explained. “Then he’ll be on the team I’m leading.”

And there it was. I swallowed hard, grappling with the rush of warring emotions. My father’s cryptic help when I was in trouble had morphed into cryptic encouragement at random moments. He always seemed to be aware when I had achieved some milestone or needed a boost. I suspected with aid from my mother.

Yet he had never reached out to meet. Now it appeared that everyone had a relationship with him. My mom, Colby, Colby’s boss, and his colleagues in law enforcement, and who knew who else in my life, just not me.

I had no idea what he looked like, beyond an old photo of him holding me as a baby. And I was angry. Angry that no one told me he was a talented artist with a sharp eye for detail, who chose to use those skills for crime over the life of a starving artist. Angry that no one told me he was alive and in witness protection, instead letting me think he was dead for most of my life. Angry that when he left WitSec, he didn’t come back to us. Angry that he abandoned his life of crime to become a consultant with law enforcement on high-profile forgery cases, yet remained a mystery in my life. 

“I suppose the fact he has resurfaced means something significant is happening that needs his extraordinary gifts,” I said flatly, not actually caring. I viciously snuffed out any hopeful thought he might have jumped at the opportunity in order to reconnect.

“Yes, it is an important task force, but I think he does want to meet you. I believe that was part of the appeal of coming on board,” Colby said gently. “There is something else.” He placed his hand on mine. “The suspect is a man who has openly threatened your father. He’s escaped capture at every turn. I think your father would like to eliminate that threat. With it gone, he might feel safer having a normal relationship with you.” His hand tightened on mine, reassuring me he was there, even if my dad wasn’t.

His words stoked a small ember in my heart that maybe what he was saying was true, that my dad wanted to come out from the shadows and be part of my life. Suddenly I could see us going to a Red Sox game together, eating Fenway Franks and sipping warm beer. Or visiting the Museum of Modern Art in New York together, dissecting paintings and sculptures. Or even experiencing the ordinariness of having dinner together.

Oh yeah, I would have to stomp out that ember, and fast. But it was not going to stay out.

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