Shell Game (14 page)

“Did you catch his reaction when he saw the picture?” Taylor asked.

“Oh, yeah. He knows who Brand is. No doubt about it.”

“Why would he snap shut like that? He sold Brand an antique. Why not just tell us about the sale?”

Alan lightly grasped her arm, and they stopped on the sidewalk, out of earshot of the car. “Think about it, Taylor. If this guy really knows who Edward Brand is, then he knows that Brand is a criminal. And keep in mind Alicia Walker. She stuck her nose in the works, and she's dead. And she's an FBI agent. If Brand had that Tony Stevens guy kill Alicia Walker, he wouldn't think twice about getting someone to knock off some antique shop owner. No wonder he's scared.”

Taylor was thoughtful. “So what now?”

Alan took a few seconds to answer, then said, “Now we get creative.”

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WENTY-ONE

Fernando Domínguez switched off the lights and set the alarm. A low glow emanated from the night-lights positioned at sporadic intervals throughout the antique store. He exited and locked the door before the sixty-second delay on the alarm kicked in. The sidewalks were filled with young
Chilangos
, dressed for the night. He kept close to the front of his building, then cut down a narrow passageway between the building and the one to the west. There was no lighting and the old cobblestones provided little grip for his dress shoes. He almost slipped once, but caught the rough edge of the brick building and steadied himself. Domínguez disliked cutting through the narrow gap, but it beat a three-block walk to get from the front of his business to the rear, where his car was parked. And thanks to Mexico City's lax building codes in the 1980s and early 1990s, another building owner had erected a wall between the rear exit of his business and where he parked his car. So every night he slipped through the hole in the wall, wondering if this was the time a young street punk would be waiting for him. He touched the leather holster under his arm and felt the cold steel of his pistol. It was reassuring.

He reached the far end and pulled his keys from his pocket, thumbing the key fob—the parking light blinking twice in the dark. The Lexus was warm from sitting all day, and he cranked up the air-conditioning. He pulled out of the alley onto Avenida Chapultepec, heading west toward Lomas de Chapultepec, the wealthy enclave of estate homes where he lived. His antique store was busy and his markups almost criminal, giving him a quality of living that surpassed most doctors and lawyers. And he was his own boss—had been for twenty years.

He steered off the busy boulevard and onto one of the quiet side streets leading to his house, his mind briefly touching on the visit from the two Americans who had visited his shop. They had been very focused on what they wanted, and it wasn't a Negretti and Zambra telescope. Edward Brand. He knew the man. And Brand himself had told him not to be surprised if someone came looking for him. Brand himself had described tonight's event as inevitable. That someone in fact
would
show, asking for him. But a fat bonus on top of the already marked-up price on the telescope had sealed his lips. One thing he had learned many years ago was that two kinds of people kept secrets—smart ones and dead ones.

He saw himself as smart.

A long sloping drive appeared on the right side of the road, and he touched a button on the upper visor. The wrought-iron gates parted, then opened fully, and he drove into the walled estate. The gates closed automatically behind him. He rounded two curves, and the house came into view. It was colonial style with four pillars juxtaposed against the broad but flat facade. He pulled the Lexus up to the edge of the circular driveway fronting the house and stepped out.

The air was warm and the night sky clear. What a night. What a life. Everything felt right, even the slight breeze that stole gently through the surrounding trees. But even though he was in tune with what surrounded him, there was one thing that Fernando Domínguez was not aware of as he opened the door to his house. The late-model Mercedes that had followed him along Avenida Chapultepec and through the winding streets. The Mercedes that was parked outside the gates leading to the house. Inside the car, three people stared at the walled estate.

“We know where he works and where he lives,” Taylor said, sitting in the Mercedes. “What now?”

Alan continued to stare at the closed gates. “I'd like to ask him a few more questions. Like where Edward Brand is. That guy knows more than what he's saying.”

“I think so too,” Taylor agreed, “but what can we do? We can't beat the information out of him.”

“He owns an antique shop,” Alan said. “Do you think there's a law in place that makes dealers in antiquities register every sale. If there is, then he would have a record of Brand's purchase. And maybe a sales receipt with an address or phone number.”

Taylor nodded. “I wonder why he lied. Do you think he's really that scared of Brand?”

“Absolutely,” Alan said. “The proof's in what we saw a couple of hours ago. He's willing to lie to cover up the fact that he knows him. Who would do that unless they were worried about the guy coming back looking for who snitched on him?”

Taylor was quiet for a few moments. After about thirty seconds, Ricardo said, “Are we finished here?”

“Sure,” Alan said. “Could you take us back to La Condesa? Maybe we'll have a couple of drinks and dance a bit.” La Condesa was the trendiest of the colonias bordering Zona Rosa, filled with dance clubs and discos.

“Now you're talking,” Ricardo said. “What kind of club do you want?”

“Not too loud, but with good dancing music,” Alan said, slipping his arm around Taylor and drawing her close. He whispered in her ear. “Enough following around after suspicious people for one night. Let's have a little fun.”

She couldn't help but smile. “Okay. Fun it is.”

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WENTY-TWO

The electronic key sliding through the reader on the hotel door partially wakened her. The muffled sound of the door opening caused her to sit bolt upright in bed. Taylor glanced next to her for Alan—he was gone. The bed was empty. Her heart was racing as she glanced at the clock on the night table. Just after four in the morning. They had returned from the nightclub after midnight, made love, then drifted off to sleep. She pulled the covers up to her chin to hide her naked body as a figure entered the bedroom. It was a man's figure, Alan's size, but he was moving unsteadily. Then, just inside the door, the man collapsed.

“Taylor.”

It was Alan's voice, but faint and filled with pain. She shot out of bed, wrapping a sheet around her as she moved quickly to where he lay on the plush carpet. He was groaning slightly and cradling his right arm. She flicked on the light and gasped. Her husband was curled on the floor, his entire right side covered with blood.

“Oh, my God,” she exclaimed. “Alan, what happened?” She bent down, her eyes scanning his body, trying to determine the extent of his injuries. His right hand was bloodied, as was his forearm. His shirt was soaked with blood, but not torn. She couldn't tell whether the blood had run down from his hand and arm or if he had been shot or stabbed. His face was unmarked, but his eyes were filled with pain.

“I'm okay,” he said. “Just shaken up a bit.”

She stroked his hair back off his forehead. “You're not shot?”

“No. Nothing like that. It probably looks worse than it is.” He uncurled slightly and then lay stretched out on his back. “I'll be all right. I was unsure on my feet when I got here. I think I just need to clean up.”

“I'll get a towel,” she said. “Don't move.” Taylor scurried to the bathroom and grabbed one of the bath towels, wet it under the shower, then snatched another dry towel and hurried back to the bedroom. Alan had propped himself up against the foot of the bed. She took the wet towel and began dabbing at the bloodied areas. He grimaced in pain when she touched his hand.

“Where were you? What happened?”

“I went back to the antique shop,” he said in a raspy voice.

“You did what?”

“The antique shop. I went back after you fell asleep to have a look at Domínguez's computer files.”

“Just a minute,” she said, disappearing back into the bathroom and reappearing with a glass of water. He drank it slowly. “That better?”

“Much. Thanks.”

“Why would you do that?” Taylor asked, wiping at the blood on his hand and arm. He was scraped and had a few cuts, but nothing that would require stitches.

Alan's voice was stronger now. “I was lying in bed, just thinking. I couldn't sleep. The one thing that kept running through my mind was that Fernando Domínguez was our only connection to Edward Brand. And that he probably knew more than he let on when we were in his store. Instead of just lying around all night, I thought I'd have a look inside his files. See if Brand's name and address were in there somewhere.”

“Are you crazy? Look at what happened to you. You could have been killed.”

He shifted a bit, trying to get comfortable. “It's not that bad.”

“Here,” she said, lifting him under the left arm and directing him to the bed. “Lie down.” She unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it off. The right side of his chest and stomach were covered with splotches of blood. When she had him resting on the bed, his head propped up on a pillow, she took a towel and gently dabbed at the blood. As she worked, she asked, “Tell me what happened.”

“I caught a cab outside the hotel and the driver dropped me off about two blocks from Domínguez's place. I asked him to wait for me, which turned out to be a good thing. I had to go in through the front door, but getting in was simple. The door locks were single tumblers. Takes less than ten seconds to pick those. Disabling the security system was easy—it's a variation of the ones I installed in San Francisco.”

“Easy for some people, maybe. What happened once you were inside?”

“Aside from a couple of night-lights, the store was dark, and I had to remember my way through without knocking anything over. That was probably the toughest part. There was hardly any light coming in off the street. When I found the back room, I closed the door behind me and switched on a light. There were three computers on the desks. I powered them up and looked through their client base.”

“And . . .”

“I found a listing for Edward Brand.”

“You're kidding.”

“Nope. Brand has a house in Cabo San Lucas. Some-where in the Cabo del Sol development. That's where he lives some of the time.”

“Did you get an address?”

“No, he has invoices and shipments sent through the area developer. Note on the file said it was in case he wasn't at his villa. But Cabo del Sol is a single development. I would suspect it's not that big. It shouldn't be too hard to find him. We just narrowed the entire world down to one subdivision.”

“Crazy,” Taylor said, “but well done. That's obviously not the end of the story. Otherwise you wouldn't be all scraped up.”

Alan glanced down at the right side of his body. “I was just coming out of the shop when this guy came around the corner and yelled at me in Spanish. I've got no idea if he was a mugger or a plainclothes cop or someone who knew I shouldn't be in the shop. I cut through a narrow gap between the antique shop and the next building, but the ground was uneven and I lost my balance and fell into the stucco wall. It had a rough finish. That's what scraped me up so badly.”

“Was he still following you?”

“Yeah, but he was having trouble with his footing as well. It was dark and getting any sort of good grip on the rocks was almost impossible.”

“How did you get away?” Taylor asked.

“Ran. Ran like hell. There was a wall at the end of the alley and I was in front of him. I hopped over. Straight down the road to where the cab was waiting and back here. Paid the driver really well on top of the initial hundred.” He rolled over a touch so he could see her face. “I did okay?”

“Yeah, you did okay. Just don't do it again.”

“Promise,” he said, raising himself up on his elbows. “I think we're done here.”

“Mexico City?”

He nodded.

“Cabo San Lucas?”

“That's where Edward Brand is.”

“And when we find him?” Taylor asked.

“We get our money back.”

“And if he doesn't want to give it?”

Alan was quiet, but his eyes told a story. The story of a man who had been wronged. A man who was fed up with being taken advantage of. An angry man. A dangerous man. When he finally answered her question, his voice was intense. More intense than she had ever heard.

“I'll kill him,” was all he said.

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WENTY-THREE

Cabo San Lucas evolved since the Guaycura tribes first settled the cape and subsisted on fruit and whatever small game they could bring down with their blowguns. The Spaniards, under Conquistador Hernán Cortés and fresh from their European victory over the Moors, trampled across the Aztec empire and by 1565 were firmly in control of the archipelago. But the Spanish failed to realize the potential of the region, their maps even showing California and Baja California as Islands. They neglected the area, and when Mexico finally achieved independence from Spain in 1821 after eleven years of intense fighting, the Baja was part of the deal.

The temperate climate and world-class deep-sea fishing transformed the cape from sleepy Mexican villages to tourist hotspot. Restaurants and night clubs flung open their doors. Even rock singer Sammy Hagar, the front-man for Van Halen, discovered Cabo San Lucas and opened Cabo Wabo, a restaurant that catered to the young rock crowd. The notoriety that followed designated Cabo San Lucas as a party town for college students on spring break. Or any other time of the year.