Shell Game (5 page)

“That's easy,” Billy said, relieved that Morel's request was generic and not specific to the hot merchandise he traded daily. “I'll keep my eyes open.”

“Thanks. You get something that might be it, call me right away.”

“Done.”

Morel hung up and searched out another number. The FBI was smart about some things, but they didn't always see the whole picture. That picture included getting rid of the equipment that had been used to keep the office up and running for the past seven or eight months. Putting it into storage was dangerous. It kept all the equipment together, and with that many computers and servers, a forensic audit was bound to turn up something. Dumping it in a landfill was akin to lighting a neon sign asking to be investigated and arrested. That left letting it filter out to the second-hand market. Not all at once, but a bit at a time. He didn't have to explain that to Billy; the fence knew how these things worked. They would release them in a few batches; a handful of computers here, a couple of servers and printers there. Nothing that would raise too many eyebrows. The market for resale computers and office supplies was an interesting one. But it was who they would release them to that was the key. The papers were full of used computer equipment, but no self-respecting thief would ever leave a phone number where the police could simply call him, set up a meeting, then bust him with the gear. They relied on fences to middle the merchandise, and Sam Morel knew those fences. Billy was one in the know, and Sam relied on Billy a lot. In return, Sam made sure no one ever touched his source. Tit for tat. Lots of rubbing each other's back going on. That was how things worked on the street. And that was the part of the equation the FBI often missed. They stuck out like a fat man in a marathon. They didn't like to work the sordid little details in case they got their suits dirty. It wasn't that Morel didn't like the feds—he was indifferent.

Morel found the number he was looking for and dialed. A man answered, but the voice sounded young. That's because the person talking was only twenty-two. Two years over twenty and already a master at recovering information from hard drives that had been wiped clean by their owners. So good at it, in fact, that he had spent six months in juvie for hacking into the Department of Defense's mainframe and changing all the employees' pay scales. Nobody complained when their pay was deposited, but the accounting department went ballistic. The judge found the stunt mildly amusing, but still serious enough for a short stint in one of the minimum-security juvenile detention centers. He ordered the young man to perform two hundred hours of community service. Sam Morel wormed his way to the front of the line and got the two hundred hours for his department.

“Jamie,” Sam said. “How ya doing?”

“Hey, Sam,” the kid said, his voice upbeat. He liked working with Sam. It sure beat spending time with other kids who thought mainlining heroin was fun. “What's up? You got something for me?”

“Might have. I've got one of my guys watching for some computers that were used in a corporate fraud. If we get our hands on them, I'll need you right away.”

“Not a problem. I'm in college Monday through Thursday, but I've got evenings and Fridays, and the weekends of course.”

“Good. Just make sure you don't check out for any length of time. No more than twelve hours between checking your voice mail and your e-mail, okay?”

“Sure, Sam. This one sounds cool.”

“It looks big, Jamie. Real big.”

“Man, I hope you find one of those babies.”

“Me too. Talk to you later.” Sam hung up and leaned back in his chair.

Edward Brand. Who was he? The FBI would be running him through their computers, just as he was running records checks on every police computer he could access. Brand was, without a doubt, not the man's real name, but sometimes aliases emitted clues. Sometimes. But one thing was for certain: Edward Brand had pulled off one hell of a scam. If the initial figures were correct, the man had scooped up more than one hundred and eighty million dollars from unsuspecting investors. And he had done it wisely. At no time had he completed the Securities and Exchange Commission requirements and taken the company public. If he had, the microscope NewPro would have been operating under would have made pulling the scam off almost impossible. No, Edward Brand was no dummy. By all appearances he had succeeded in doing exactly what he had set out to do: relieving a lot of rich people of their money.

Sam Morel knew one thing. Once criminals had the cash, they didn't like to give it back. If Brand was organized enough to pull this off, then he had enough insight to look ahead and plan what to do once he had the money. Morel closed his eyes and replayed the looks on the victims' faces. Alan Bestwick, ashen white with heavy bags under his eyes. Taylor Simons, a strong woman driven close to her breaking point, desperately trying to keep her emotions in check. For a moment he wondered what would happen to them if no one could find Brand and they lost all their money. It wasn't pretty. What made it so reprehensible was that the odds were overwhelmingly in Brand's favor at this point. Sam had one more thought before he got up and went in search of some stale coffee. If he were a betting man—and he was—his money would be on the bad guy.

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

Edward Brand stood on the balcony overlooking English Bay. The sun had been out since he had arrived in Vancouver three days before, but the weather forecasters were calling for a massive cloud bank to sweep in off the Pacific Ocean in the next twelve hours. Brand knew Vancouver well enough to know the meteorologists were seldom wrong when it came to soggy weather. He sipped his coffee and stared at the bay.

Brand was a charismatic man, the kind of guy people noticed in a crowded room. He was six feet with thick blond hair to the top of his ears and penetrating gray eyes. He had a quick smile and an easygoing nature. There was little body fat on his frame, the results of a good diet and a strict workout regimen. His handshake was as firm as the hand he was shaking, and he was either an intellectual person and a highly interesting conversationalist, or quiet as a hawk circling on the updrafts. He was whatever he had to be. Edward Brand was the ultimate con man.

Every part of him could mutate to fit the moment. If his marks were looking for a man they thought could run a multi-billion–dollar company, he was the articulate and informed CEO, dressed in Armani business casual. When the scam needed him in the pits at a Formula One race, he was there in coveralls and a Ferrari hat. On the beach in Monaco, in a five-star Paris restaurant or braced against the howling Arctic winds at a northern Canadian oil rig—Edward Brand could pull it off. He had grown rich from his talent, but rich wasn't enough. He was driven, much like the CEOs he pretended to be, to rise above average and reach the pinnacle. Rich was good, but Brand aspired to super-rich. So he continued to take people's money. Lots of it. The NewPro scam had been his best to date. Now that job was history. He had wrapped it up and flown to Vancouver, a much richer man than a year prior.

In his mind, Vancouver was the most beautiful city in the world. The layout was very similar to San Francisco, but the similarities ended there. The city was built into the heavily wooded foothills surrounding the Fraser River, and right from the start the urban planners had refused to cede to developers by allowing them to overbuild. The amount of green space in the city was staggering, Stanley Park alone covering 1,000 acres of prime real estate. The mixture of mountains, old-growth forests with intimate walking paths and water was almost magic. He loved Vancouver, but not just for its beauty. He loved it because it was in Canada, and if you ever want to leave the United States and not be hassled at a border, head for Canada.

The Canadian authorities were almost British in their politeness. They questioned why he wanted to visit the country, but never asked more than the most perfunctory questions. Then, invariably, they let him enter. When he wanted to leave, they smiled and helped load his bag on the nearest conveyor. God he loved the Canadians.

Although he was American, it was the United States Customs and Immigration officials who worried him most. They were extremely efficient, and since he always traveled with a forged passport, exiting and entering the country of his birth was a harrowing experience. He had been sweating as he departed San Francisco, and he didn't sweat unless it was a hundred degrees and a hundred percent humidity. This con had been different. Bigger. Much bigger. And wildly successful. He turned slightly at the sound of another person exiting the house onto the balcony.

“Tony,” he said when he saw who it was. The man leaned on the railing next to him. They didn't shake hands. “Any problems getting across the border?”

“None,” Tony replied. The newcomer was a tall man, almost six-three, with close-cropped blond hair and penetrating blue eyes. His build matched his height, sturdy and toned. He rarely smiled and when he did it was with his lips, never showing his teeth. He was clean-shaven and the paleness of his skin spoke to his Scandinavian heritage. “Came across in Montreal, then flew Air Canada across the country.”

Brand nodded. “Everything wrap up okay in New York?”

“Without a hitch. We had the offices emptied out by nine and the factory in New Jersey wiped down and locked up before midnight. Joey's still in New York, and Frank's already moved on to Mexico.”

“Good. Joey leaves tomorrow?”

“Yup. He'll be in Rio by this time tomorrow. That's the last of our New York crew.”

“Excellent job, Tony. Do you know what your final numbers were?”

“Somewhere close to nine million, I think.”

“Over nine. Closer to ten. We got Stilling's money just before cut-off time. That was almost a million.”

Tony Stevens grinned. A hint of white showed. “Got the fucker. He was so damned tough. I didn't think we'd see anything out of him or that shrew of a wife of his. Christ, what a pair. He reminded me of a pig farmer every time I saw him. I think it's because he looked like a pig. Ugly bastard. And his wife, what a total bitch. I don't think she ever said one nice word to him.”

It was Brand's turn to smile. “It sounds like you're happy we got their money.”

“Fucking ecstatic. Couldn't have happened to a nicer pair of total shitheads.”

“You did well. Ten million.”

“What was the final count in San Fran?”

“Eighteen-five. Most of it from the couple who owned G-cubed.”

Tony whistled. “Eighteen-five. Wow. What was the total?”

“With your extra million coming in just under the wire, about two hundred and twelve.”

Now the man smiled, his teeth visible. They were crooked and the front ones pushed back, like someone had punched him in the face the day his adult teeth came in. “Christ, Robert, we really fucked them, didn't we?”

“What did you say?” Brand said, his head snapping around, the tone of his voice absolute ice. “What did you call me?”

“Christ, sorry. Edward. Edward Brand. Never our real names. I know the drill. Damn it, that was stupid. Like Mr. Pink and Mr. White and all that shit on
Reservoir Dogs
. Sorry, Edward.”

Brand cooled. “Okay, Tony. But for Christ's sake be careful. We use the names until the job is over. It's the little things that fuck you up. Remember that.”

“Yeah, the little things.”

A silence settled over the balcony, just the slight whisper of wind coming in off the ocean. “Who was your favorite?” Brand asked after a minute.

“What?”

“
Reservoir Dogs
. Who was your favorite guy?”

“Shit, no doubt about it, Mr. Pink. Loved Steve Buscemi in that movie. Thing about Buscemi I can't figure out, is why he doesn't get his teeth fixed. The guy must have enough money by now.”

Edward Brand leaned over the railing and focused on the water. “I liked Mr. Blonde.”

“Yeah, he was cool.”

“They sure fucked up the robbery, though. What a mess. Too much testosterone.”

“And a police informant. That's where the wheels came off. The snitch.”

Brand shifted slightly and glanced at Stevens. “Yeah, the snitch.” He was silent for a minute, then said, “You know, Tony, we've got a lot of people in the know on this one. Crews in New York, San Fran and six other cities. That's a lot of people.”

“What are you saying?” Tony asked, concerned.

“Nothing. Just wondering how long we can keep expanding before one of our key people is on the wrong side.”

“Shit, that would be bad. Really bad.”

“Yeah. Worse than bad. We'd have to take care of them.”

Tony Stevens wasn't smiling now. “Kill them?”

Brand finished his coffee and looked north to the mountains. The view from the upscale neighborhood of Kitsilano was stunning. The skyline of Greater Vancouver was framed against Mount Seymour and directly across English Bay was Stanley Park, lush green resting on the tranquil waters of the Pacific Ocean. He took a deep breath and tasted the salt air. When he answered the other man's question, it was in a soft voice, but one that was unmistakably serious.

“Yes, Tony. We'd have to kill them.”

C
HAPTER
S
IX

Alan Bestwick was worried about his wife. She was lethargic, a ghost of the person he had known only eight days ago. He had to constantly remind her to eat, and she had stopped exercising on the treadmill. Her color was washed out, pale except for the dark shadows under her eyes. Even her normally vibrant red hair looked muted. He finished filing his nails and set the file on the night table beside their bed. He walked over to where she sat looking out the second-story bay window and placed his hands gently on her shoulders. She glanced up and smiled. It was forced.

“It'll be okay,” he said. “Your staff will understand. They knew the company had to be sold.”