Page 43 of The Honest Affair

Interlude I

“Page Six”

New York Post

December 19, 2018

Friend or faux? Socialite indicted for fraud

Socialite and three-time divorcée Caitlyn Calvert (age 30) has been indicted on charges of fraud and identity theft related to the human trafficking case against New York real estate financier Calvin Gardner, estranged husband of Nina de Vries. Ms. Calvert, who was until this October known briefly as Mrs. Kyle Shaw, was charged with impersonating Ms. de Vries in order to use her name and connections to associate Ms. de Vries with a shell corporation that funneled money for Mr. Gardner’s trafficking operations. Ms. Calvert also faces civil charges in a suit filed by Ms. de Vries herself.

Ms. Calvert has a strong connection to Calvin Gardner, who was charged with masterminding a ring that trafficked underage Eastern European girls into prostitution in the Northeast in return for falsified immigration documents. His trial date was delayed again following the sentencing of his wife for accessory. A new date for the trial has been set for March.

“There’s even speculation that Caitlyn Calvert isn’t her real name!” said an anonymous source close to Ms. Calvert’s circle. A Post investigation revealed no records of a Caitlyn Calvert born anywhere in the Paterson, New Jersey, area, from which Ms. Calvert claims to hail.

Could Calvert be yet another pseudonym? Perhaps Calvertovsky might be more fitting!

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The Village Voice

December 28, 2018

Trafficking ring mastermind files for bankruptcy

While awaiting trial on charges of fraud, money laundering, and human trafficking, Calvin Gardner’s company, Gardner Investments, filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy Friday afternoon. This can’t be good news for the scandal-plagued investor, whose ongoing divorce from socialite Nina de Vries has been widely publicized, particularly following his estranged wife’s guilty plea to aiding and abetting a human trafficking scheme allegedly masterminded by Gardner himself.

“Gardner Investments has been in trouble for a while now,” vouched a source from inside the company who spoke only on the condition of anonymity. “Mr. Gardner has always wanted to be considered one of the top investors in the city, but the truth is, he was always more like a little kid trying to play baseball in the majors.”

Though reports have confirmed that Mr. Gardner still retains his residence at the couple’s Upper East Side penthouse (despite the fact that it is owned by Ms. de Vries’s family), it’s clear that Gardner’s funds have quickly been drying up, as both his and his estranged wife’s personal assets have been frozen and under review during the divorce. He is reportedly doing everything he can to have the will of Celeste de Vries, Ms. de Vries’s grandmother and the former CEO and chairwoman of DVS Industries, overturned in probate.

“He’s been making the rounds trying to get loans and credit,” said another source from a competitive firm. “But people are just shutting him out. The truth is, without the de Vries name behind him, he’s nothing. Maybe he always knew it from the start. Honestly, his best chance at staying afloat in this town is through his wife either way.”

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New Year’s Eve, 2018

Calvin Gardner sat at a rusted card table in the basement of an old building in Harlem, drumming his thick fingers on the torn plastic surface. He was starting to feel like he might be running out of air. The room had no windows, only cinderblock walls, and every few feet large green pipes curled in and out of the concrete like the coils of a great snake.

Gardner shuddered. He hated snakes. He hated most animals, but snakes in particular made him feel queasy.

There was also a leak somewhere in the building. He had been listening to the drip since he’d arrived an hour ago, and by now it was practically a jackhammer.

Drip. Drop.

“You know what?” he said suddenly to the empty room in the slightly roughened English that hadn’t born any trace of Hungarian since he was twenty-two, maybe twenty-three. “Fuck this. And fuck them.”

He stood with a screech of his chair, his belly pressing uncomfortably against the metal edge of the table. Yeah, he would leave. And who was going to stop him? What the fuck was this, the Skull and Bones? Janus was a joke now, and everyone knew it.

He ignored the way his palms grew sweaty at just the thought of challenging the most prominent—and deadly—secret organization in America. No, he was going to do this. He wasn’t going to sit around to be made a fool of. Not now, not ever.

But just as he turned toward the door, it opened.

Immediately, Gardner collapsed into his folding chair, which creaked from the force. A dead giveaway.

Two men entered the room. Michael Faber, sometimes known as Finn, was heir to a wine conglomerate that owned half of Napa. He was tall and thin and dressed in the kind of suit Gardner had commissioned at least five times over the years but which had never looked that classy on his short, squat frame.

The other was much more casual, a muscular man in a black t-shirt and jeans. He took a military stance against the wall next to the door, hands folded at his belt, legs a shoulder-length stance apart. Security, obviously.

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