Shell Game (23 page)

“I'm still waiting for the final installment,” he said once they had traded greetings.

“It's coming,” Brand said. “Give it another week or two, just to make sure your end of things is under control.”

“Everything is fine here,” the man snapped back. “Just get me my money.”

Edward Brand watched the harbor lights slip past as the boat neared the marina entrance. Brand knew the man on the other end of the line had the potential to be very dangerous to his freedom. But only in the United States. Right now he was in Mexico, where he planned to stay for quite some time. Which put him in a favorable position for negotiating and also for how much crap he had to take. He decided today wasn't a good day to take any.

“You'll get your money when I decide to send it,” he said coolly. “That will be when I know for certain all loose ends on NewPro are tied down. Including Taylor Simons.”

“The woman is not a threat. She's wandering around like a lost puppy right now.”

“What do you mean?” Brand asked.

“She flew to Paris and stayed for a few days. Now she's in Washington, D.C., visiting a friend. Following her movements is simple—she's using credit cards everywhere she goes. She's dragging an electronic trail behind her like a comet's tail.”

Brand stiffened at the mention of France. “When did she go to Paris?”

“Monday, December fourth. Why?”

“How long did she stay?” Brand asked, ignoring the man's question.

“Three days. She flew back to Washington on the seventh.”

“What else do you know?” Brand asked, sitting forward in the chair as the boat passed the final marker and entered the marina.

“Not much. We weren't very interested, so we didn't watch her too closely. We know from her credit card purchases that she stayed at Edouard VII. It's an upscale hotel on Avenue de l'Opéra.”

“Shit,” Brand said. He knew Paris and he knew where Alan's flat was located. Too close for coincidence? He didn't know. “Get me everything you can on what she did, where she went,” he said.

“Let's back up a bit,” the voice said. “This conversation started with me wondering where my money was. I don't recall asking for more work.”

“Your money is coming. It's safe. But it won't be if I'm in jail. I need to know what Taylor Simons was up to in Paris. I'll pay you an additional fifty large to find out.”

“Okay, but I want this wrapped up quickly. I feel like my ass is hanging out of my shorts, and I don't like it.”

“Like I said, you'll get your money.” Brand clicked the end button on the phone and set it on the table next to his coffee mug. The
Mary Dyer
was barely moving now, the captain keeping the wake in check as he navigated the narrow channel between the docked boats. Brand leaned on the railing and watched the people watch him—wondering who this man was. If only they knew.

Taylor Simons's trip to Paris was probably just a strange coincidence. She was probably still in some sort of shock over Alan's death. Grieving at least. But there would be no benefit to Taylor having a chance run-in with her husband, who lived in a second-floor apartment in the Latin Quarter. Brand checked the time, calculated the difference to Paris, then realized he didn't care. He dialed Alan's number.

“
Bonjour.”
The voice that answered was tired but coherent. It was Alan Bestwick.

“Alan, it's Edward,” Brand said.

“Yes,” Alan said hesitantly, switching to English. “I thought you weren't going to call here.”

“Unless the situation warrants it. Right now this is one of those situations.”

“Is everything all right?” Alan asked, wide awake, concern creeping into his tone.

“Yes, fine. Taylor was in Paris recently. Did you see her?”

“No.” Now there was anxiety in his voice. “What was she doing in Paris?”

“I thought you might know.”

“Taylor thinks I'm dead. There's no reason for her to be in Paris looking for me.”

“I hope not,” Brand said. “You're positive that you didn't leave something that would tie you to France?”

There was a long pause as Alan Bestwick went back over things in his mind. Finally he said, “No. Taylor had nothing that could lead her to Paris. Nothing. I'm sure of it.”

“Okay. Just keep a low profile. I'm going to have someone watch her. I'll let you know if she comes anywhere near you.”

“Maybe I should take off for a while,” Alan said. “Head south. Lie on a beach somewhere.”

Brand mulled over the idea. “No, I don't think so. All that does is introduce another variable. With you in Paris, I know where you are and whether she's close to you. If you're on a beach somewhere, my guy may know where Taylor is, but we won't know where you are. It's definitely better if you just stay put. And if she returns to Paris, we'll know something's up.”

“Okay.”

“Just keep on your toes.”

“I'll do that.” The international line clicked over to a dial tone.

The
Mary Dyer
scraped the edge of the dock slightly as the captain backed her into her assigned spot in the marina. The yachts on each side were comparable in size and finishing, giving Brand the anonymity he was hoping for. He had purchased the boat through one of his dummy corporations three years earlier with the take from another scam, and had registered it out of the Seychelles Islands. Boats were a wonderful way to stay incognito, especially if you were smart enough to leave little or no paper trail back to your real identity. They were highly mobile, traveled in international waters and could disappear from the radar in hours if necessary. He was quite pleased with his decision to live on the boat, all the while giving the police clues that led nowhere.

The FBI had spun their wheels on the Canadian connection. Brand had learned early in the game that the police always wanted to find something to put in their files. If they had a blank file folder, they got embarrassed and angry. They had a basic need that had to be filled, and they kept looking until they had enough reports to make it appear they had given the bad guy a real run for his money. For that reason, he had given them enough to find the condo in Vancouver if they were on their game, but even that hadn't happened. Now, close to ninety days had passed since he had emptied out the NewPro offices and disappeared. After ninety days the trail was growing cold, the file gathering dust. That suited him just fine.

Two hundred and twelve million dollars. God, what a scam. Every individual piece of the puzzle had fallen into place without a hitch. The only possible problem right now was Taylor Simons, and her impromptu trip to Paris. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that it was simply a coincidence. Alan Bestwick was fastidious in his attention to detail, and if Alan was sure he had left no clues for Taylor to follow, then that was the way it was. Still, he would keep tabs on Taylor Simons for a while. It was simply a matter of due diligence.

The engines slowed to an idle, then stopped. A young Mexican boy in white pants and shirt, one of the many wharf rats who worked the marina, secured the lines and clamped the gangplank in place. Two uniformed Mexicans from the port authority marched down the long wooden wharf. Edward Brand leaned back in his chair and motioned for one of his crew to refill his coffee mug. The Mexicans could come to him. Unlike Alyn Waage, who was dumb enough to carry millions of dollars with him, Brand never traveled with more than nine thousand five hundred US dollars. Never. There were banks in Grand Cayman with managers who didn't ask too many questions as long as they were sure the money wasn't coming from the sale of drugs, and there were bank machines in every port. There was no reason to invite a trip to a Mexican jail. He heard the heavy clumping of boots on the deck and smiled. They would check him out and clear him for unlimited entry to Mexico. And Mexico was where he would stay.

Things were so simple, if you didn't complicate them.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-FOUR

They left Renita Gallant in the situation room at the National Security Agency and drove back to Kelly's condo in D.C. It was suppertime on Monday and three hours since they had learned how Alan had survived the crash into the ocean. Kelly moved about the kitchen with an amazing degree of alacrity and in less than an hour whipped up an authentic paella, complete with chicken and seafood and flavored with saffron. Taylor picked the wine, uncorked it and poured for both of them. She tried the paella and gave him a slight nod.

“This is excellent,” she said. “I didn't know we had a gourmet cook working at G-cubed. You never volunteered to cook lunch for the staff.”

He speared a piece of chicken and grinned. “Once people know you can cook, they expect it. Keep them in the dark. It's a good rule of thumb.”

“Now that I know, you're in trouble.”

They finished their meal, talking about everything from politics to hot lunches for underprivileged school kids. When they were both done, Taylor cleared the dishes and Kelly poured more wine. They sat on comfortable leather couches in the living room, Michael Jones playing on the sound system, every note crystal clear. Kelly flipped a switch and the gas fireplace threw a dim flickering light through the room.

“So what now?” Taylor asked. “We know the son of a bitch is alive, but what can we do with it?”

Kelly gently swished the wine about in the glass. He took a small sip and rested the glass in his lap. “We've got a couple of things to follow up on. First off is the boat. That's our best course of action right now. The
Mary Dyer
has to be registered—all boats have to be registered somewhere. We find out where and what name it's under. Brand probably has no idea that we know about the yacht. It could be a rental, but it could also be his.”

Taylor managed a small smile. “That's good thinking. What else? You said there were a couple of things.”

“Maybe. When you were telling me what happened before Alan went over the cliff, you said Brand stopped and had lunch at a bar a few miles before the cliff.”

“Yes. So?”

“You said he used the house phone to make a call. You were specific on that—the house phone, not a cell phone.”

Taylor nodded vigorously. “Yes. He used the restaurant's phone. Why?”

“Phone logs,” Kelly said. “The Mexican phone company will have a record of the number he dialed.”

“Jesus, you're smart. I would never have thought of that.”

“Guess what that gives us?”

She shook her head. “I have absolutely no idea.”

“You're sure,” he said. “Think about it. Who was he calling?”

She stared at her wineglass, trying to figure out who Brand would have needed to speak with. It had to be logical or Kelly wouldn't have figured it out. There had been no one but Brand on the road when they had arrived at the point where Alan had gone over, so there was no reason to call ahead to have someone block the road or pretend to be injured so they would stop. Meeting Brand on the curve had been more than enough to guarantee that. So what else was there? Then it hit her. She gave Kelly a smile.

“Got it. Scuba divers can only stay underwater for a certain length of time. He called ahead to let them know he was coming so they could get in position.”

“Very, very good,” Kelly said, giving her a small clap. “Whoever was on the other end of that line is a possible connection back to Edward Brand.”

“Two avenues to figuring out who he is and maybe even where he is.”

“That's the idea.” Kelly drained the last of his wine and headed to the kitchen to put on some water for tea. He returned a few minutes later with a teapot and cups on a tray. He left it on the coffee table, giving the tea time to steep.

“You know,” he said, “checking out the yacht registry and the phone call isn't going to take a lot of time. Guess what else we could look into?”

“What Alan's real name is? I'm damn sure it's not Bestwick.”

“That's one. There's one more.”

“What?”

“I still think one of the cops is dirty,” Kelly said, pouring the tea and handing her a cup. “That stuff on the computer didn't get there by accident. We could dig around a little bit and see what we come up with.”

“Then it would have to be one of the FBI agents—either Brent Hawkins or John Abrams. It couldn't be Sam Morel. He didn't have time to rig the computers.”

Kelly shook his head. “Sure he did. The computers were sitting in the room when I got there. They were plugged in and ready to go. Detective Morel easily could have generated that invoice from the antique shop in Mexico City, then powered the systems down and locked the door. And remember, you said Morel went out of his way to keep you and Alan in the know. He was your ears and eyes to what was happening with the FBI's investigation.”

Taylor didn't answer. Sam Morel was a nice man who had tried to help her and Alan when their lives had come crashing down around them. He had been assigned by the San Francisco Police Department as their liaison between the victims and the District Attorney's office. What possible upside was there for Sam Morel to be feeding information back to Edward Brand? Except money, of course. Brand had just ripped them off for almost fourteen million—two million less than originally thought once she subtracted Alan's million and a half that had never been part of the equation. That amount of money could sway people to do things that they may not otherwise do. Kelly was right, Sam Morel was as much a suspect as a conspirator as were the two FBI agents.

“Here's a question for you: how do we manage to dredge up all the information we need on three cops—two of them federal agents?”

“I have some connections,” Kelly said.

“Ones you can use?”

He shrugged. “It all goes back to asking and seeing what they say. The worst is no.”