Shell Game (12 page)

“That's the feeling I get,” Kelly agreed. “They're resigned to the fact that the money is gone.”

“I'll call them in the morning and let them know what we found.”

They reached the front door to the precinct, and the night clerk hit a button and opened the door. Sam thanked Kelly again for his help, then returned to the fourth floor. He arranged the printouts on his desk and spent another hour going over them, comparing Jamie's work to Kelly's. The two sets of data were almost identical except for the new scraps Kelly had found on the encrypted hard drive. He stared at what he suspected was the name of the antique shop. Antigüedades Coloniart. Was that the key? Was it the one detail Brand had missed?

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

Hong Kong was starting to cool with the approach of autumn. The peak summer temperatures were gone, and an October chill was in the air. That wasn't a bad thing, considering the relentless heat and congestion of the city. To Edward Brand, standing on the eleventh hole of the Hong Kong Golf Club in prestigious Deep Water Bay, the changing weather didn't matter. Eight more holes of golf, and he was heading for Costa Rica. Hong Kong's usefulness as a city where one could easily disappear into a crowd was drawing to a close. His flight was departing Chek Lap Kok in six hours.

The foursome ahead of him moved off the green, and he swung an easy five wood, the ball traveling the two hundred and twenty yards and landing on the green, thirty feet from the pin. His golfing companions, all natives of Hong Kong and casual acquaintances, applauded the shot. He smiled and bowed slightly. He loved this game.

As he walked back to the golf cart he let his mind drift back over the last few months. The NewPro scam had gone off without a hitch. The FBI was dead in the water, unable to connect Tony Stevens back to him. They had nothing concrete to work with from any of the cities where they had run the con. Every detail had been carefully covered, nothing to chance. Still, mistakes can slip through, and the first few weeks after the con is run are the most crucial. That's when you find out if you really did cover all the bases.

He reached the cart and slipped into the passenger's seat. Losing Tony Stevens was akin to a boxer taking a hard punch to the solar plexus, but it hadn't knocked him down. The operation was in place and running smoothly. Only a few more loose ends to tie up, and they would be done. All nonessential players had been paid and were finished. Only three people remained in the know. Soon that would be down to two. Each cog in the wheel slowly dropping off until there were none left, and the gears that had driven the machine were stripped clean.

Two hundred and twelve million dollars. What a scam. Less than a year to set it up, up-front expenses of just over eight million and payouts to the key players in the range of sixty million. A lot of very happy people. And unhappy ones. He chuckled at that. It all depended on which side of the con you were on. Sometimes crime does pay—and when it does, it pays very well. His own take was somewhere between one hundred and fifty and one hundred and sixty million dollars. Not bad for forty months of his life and limited risk. The only downside to the scam was that his face was well known in the United States now, and he would have to steer clear of the country for a few years. Not a problem, he preferred Europe and Mexico anyway.

His partner pulled up by the green, and they walked onto the manicured grass, putters in hand. He waited for his turn, then read the green and tapped the ball. It broke hard right to left and rimmed the cup. Everyone groaned. He tapped in for a par and gave his buddies a grin. They were all rich, and shitty golfers. Common for Hong Kong. Lots of money, no time to get out for more than a couple of rounds a year. Brand slid back into the cart, and they headed for the next hole.

He had given the police and the FBI the Canadian connection, the computers and the tie to Mexico. And they had done exactly what he expected them to. Follow up, looking specifically for him. But Edward Brand didn't exist. Nothing about him existed. They were hunting for a ghost, and that's exactly what they would get. A mist that dissipated every time they got close. Nothing of substance. Nothing—ever. He smiled. Leading the police was so simple. They took the bait and ran about like lemmings until they finally headed for the cliff and the inevitable sea. The only real threat the authorities represented was that he might eventually get sloppy simply because they were so easy to manipulate. That was the only true danger.

They reached the tee box for the twelfth hole. He had the honors and hit first, his drive straight down the middle, two hundred and eighty yards. Again, the appreciative clapping. Jesus, golfing with these guys was an ego-booster. He smiled and retook his seat on the cart. He returned the polite clap when one of the others in the foursome hit a good shot. They started down the fairway, the breeze cool and invigorating.

One more detail and the con was wrapped up. One more. This should be fairly simple. It involved planning and execution, but then, what didn't? He glanced at the surrounding hills, home to the extremely wealthy and privileged of Hong Kong's society. Li Ka-shing, the reclusive real estate billionaire and Hong Kong's richest man, lived in those hills. What a life. But then, why did anyone really need more than a hundred and fifty million dollars. He could buy houses wherever he wanted and live out the rest of his life in luxury on the money the NewPro scam had generated. Whether he would or not was debatable. The lure of taking other people's money from them was too great. He had been wealthy before the NewPro job, but had still taken the time and risk to pull it off.

The truth was—he loved the risk. The adrenaline rush of knowing you had taken somebody completely by surprise and stolen something of great value. Because aside from children and family, nobody cared about anything as much as they cared about their money. They were all like Scrooge McDuck, alone in his money fortress, dancing on piles of coins and dollar bills. The silly fools.

Dance on. And enjoy it while it's there. Because you never know when someone might come along and take it.

And then what?

He grinned. That was a question only people like Alan Bestwick and Taylor Simons had an answer to. He was fine not knowing the answer to that question.

C
HAPTER
N
INETEEN

The Federal Bureau of Investigation in Washington, D.C., made the decision. It was up to Special Agent Brent Hawkins, as the senior agent in charge of the NewPro case in San Francisco, to convey the results of that decision to Taylor Simons and Alan Bestwick. He phoned Sam Morel and asked him to be present as well. They met at Taylor and Alan's new house on Pierce Street at seven on Friday, October 20. The sun had dropped into the choppy ocean and a stiff breeze blew in off the water. It was cold when the three police officials walked from their cars to the front door.

Alan answered and welcomed them into a maze of piled boxes. The house smelled of stale smoke, from the previous tenants, and a couple of windows were open in an attempt to air out the rooms. Taylor was dressed in sweats while unpacking one of the larger crates in the living room, her long red hair pulled back in a ponytail. She glanced up as they entered and pointed to where the couch and loveseat sat facing each other in the center of the room.

“I'm not even going to start apologizing for this mess,” she said, sitting on the loveseat. Alan joined her, and the two FBI agents sat on the couch. Sam Morel found a solid box beside the couch and leaned on it. “What's so important that you had to see us on a Friday night?” she asked, her voice tinged with optimism.

Hawkins cleared his throat. “The D.C. office has reviewed the evidence Kelly Kramer found on the NewPro computers,” he started.

Taylor leaned back into the couch, her body language speaking clearly. The moment the FBI agent passed off the blame on Washington, she knew they had nixed following up on what Kelly had found. Nobody started off positive news by pointing the finger at someone else.

“We just don't think there's enough concrete evidence to follow up on.”

“What?” Alan said, outraged. “This is the first real lead you've had. Edward Brand purchased that antique himself. You've got the address of the antique shop in Mexico City.”

“It's sketchy at best.”

“Christ Almighty,” Alan said, slamming his fist down on the armrest. “This is bullshit. We have to bring in our own guy, and when he finds something your people should have dug out of those hard drives, you back off.” He stopped, then wagged his finger at both the FBI men. “That's it, isn't it? You're pissed off that we found something you didn't.”

“It doesn't work that way, Mr. Bestwick,” Hawkins countered. “We simply can't allocate resources to follow up on every clue we get. This one involves the purchase of an antique in Mexico City, which is out of our jurisdiction.”

“Someone involved with this whole thing killed one of your agents,” Alan said sharply. “I'd think you'd want to find these guys.”

“We do,” Hawkins shot back in a heated voice. “I knew Alicia Walker personally. This isn't any fun for us either. We want these guys as badly as you do.”

“I doubt it,” Alan said. “They didn't destroy your life.”

“They destroyed Alicia's,” Hawkins snapped. Then he took a couple of deep breaths and continued calmly. “None of us are happy that these guys are still out there.”

“Right,” Alan said, rising from the couch. “Is that it? That's all the news you have for us today?”

“That's it,” Abrams said, also rising. Hawkins followed suit. They walked to the front door and let themselves out. The sound of the door clicking shut reached the living room.

Taylor slouched back into the throw pillows on the couch. “I don't believe this. We finally get a break, and nothing comes of it.”

Sam Morel had stayed in the living room. “I never thought they'd disregard what Kelly found,” he said. “It wasn't the reaction I expected. I thought they'd be all over this, especially with Alicia Walker in the ground.”

“They're going to get away with it,” Alan said, his voice shaking with fury. “Bastards.”

Taylor was quiet for a minute. Then she said, “Alan, we've got the address to the antique shop. We could check it out.”

“What?” Alan said. “What do you mean?”

Taylor sat forward. “Brand bought an antique from a shop in Mexico City. There's a chance that the owner of the shop may know where he is. Or who he is.”

“You're talking about flying to Mexico and seeing this guy face to face?”

“Why not? He owns an antique store. How dangerous can he be?” There was a light in her eyes, one that Alan hadn't seen in weeks. A vibrancy to her body as she leaned toward him.

“Mexico can be dangerous,” Morel said. “Even antique shops.”

“This is the one clue we've got to work with right now,” Taylor insisted. “If we leave this and let it die, we might as well just roll up in a ball and admit that they've beaten us.”

“I don't know . . .” Alan said. “You've just started a new job, and we don't have a lot of money.”

“Money we
do
have,” Taylor said. “We're sitting on a few hundred thousand dollars from the sale of the house. I can get time off if I want. Nick's happy to have me. He'll give me as much time as I want.”

“I wouldn't advise it,” Sam said. “You could be getting in over your heads. I've known some pretty street-savvy guys who got into trouble in Mexico when they poked their noses in the wrong places. One of them came back in a body bag.”

Quiet descended on the room, and Taylor and Sam looked at Alan. The decision rested with him. He rose and walked to the window, staring out. The streetlamps were on, bright yellow against the darkening sky. Taylor watched his face in the reflected glow, knowing the man and getting inside his head. Alan was a person who believed acting on opportunity was the only way. Anything less was a cop-out. But his decision would be made by weighing the risk against the possible outcome. The upside was that they may get some of their money back. The downside was that he could be putting them in harm's way. She knew it would be a difficult decision for him and readied herself to accept his decision—whichever way it went.

Alan turned away from the window and shook his head. “My head's telling me to stay here and play it safe.” He sat on the couch beside Taylor. No one spoke for a minute. A clock ticked and the sound of a motorcycle driving past the house drifted in, then dissipated. Finally he said, “But I don't think this is a time to listen to logic. I think there are times in life when you've got to walk out on the branch and listen for the cracking sound.”

“If there's anything I can do from this end . . .” Morel said.

“We'll call,” Taylor said. She leaned over and kissed Alan on the cheek. Everything had just changed. They were no longer sitting back and waiting for the police or the FBI to solve the case. They were going on the offensive.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

Taylor and Alan landed at Aeropuerto Internacional Benito Juárez at three in the afternoon on Wednesday, October 25. They found the airport that served Mexico City to be utterly confusing. The floor plan was an endless maze of departure and arrival gates jutting into the central corridors, making any sort of movement somewhere between difficult and impossible. It was beyond their comprehension how the Mexican airport authorities managed to keep people moving and flights on schedule.

Conversely, the taxi queue was short, and it only took a couple of minutes to get through the line. They gave the driver the name of the hotel and settled in the backseat, watching the city flash past. Barrios and ugly concrete commercial buildings lined the roads near the airport, but as they drove deeper into the congestion, the houses and businesses gradually changed from ill-to well-kept. When they crossed Avenida Ninos Héroes the architecture changed again, to renovated 1920 and 30s houses and buildings, colorful with trendy cafés and shops lining the main street.
Taquerías
, small stands on some of the corners of the tree-lined roads, were busy as the street vendors wrapped up the last of
comida
, the filling midday meal. Their driver pulled onto Paseo de la Reforma, slowed and stopped in front of the Marquis Reforma Hotel. The hotel's facade was stunning pink with graceful sections of curved glass, an art nouveau masterpiece in a tropical setting.