Shell Game (3 page)

Taylor had called a meeting of all the staff. They were to contact the clients who knew Amy and let them know what had happened. She wanted a trust fund in Charles's name established immediately, the proceeds to go toward university education for Amy's other two children. She had gathered the women separately, setting a firm timetable for them to be at the Reid house, helping with dinner and the grind of daily chores. And just being there for the grieving family. They had set a minimum of three months. In the end, the women kept up the vigil for almost seven months. They cooked and cleaned, but more importantly, they gave Amy and her husband a new lease on life. Taylor spent more time at Amy's house than any other woman.

There was a low sound, and Taylor turned toward the door. Alan stood in the doorway, sweat dripping from his forehead, his shirt soaked. He wiped his brow with a towel and walked over to where she sat on the stool. He knelt on the floor in front of her.

“We'll survive this,” he said, touching her lightly on her knee. “We've got the house, I'm working, and you're about the most employable person on the planet.”

The tears started. Again. She wiped at them, but they streamed down her face. Alan dabbed them with his towel. “How could this have happened?” she said, her voice choked with emotion.

“The police have a forensics crew looking into it,” Alan said. “Maybe they'll come up with something.”

“Your money,” she said. “My business. They took everything we had.”

Now it was Alan's turn to choke back the tears. “It's just money,” he said after a few moments. “Feeling guilty isn't going to change anything.”

“Only money,” she said. She took his hand and squeezed. “You worked your entire life to save that money. And it's my fault it's gone.”

“No,” Alan said, taking her by the shoulders and locking eyes. “You can't think that way, Taylor. We both agreed that NewPro was a good investment. Either one of us taking the blame and feeling guilty about what happened isn't healthy. We've got to focus on where we are right now and hope the police can catch these guys.”

The doorbell rang, and Alan asked, “The real estate agent?”

She nodded. “He wanted to see the house before he did the market analysis.”

Alan gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “I'll show him around.”

“Thanks,” she said.

She heard the front door open and muffled voices in the hall. Footsteps echoed off the hardwood as her husband and the Realtor moved through the main floor of the two-story Victorian. She stood and walked to the window, looking out over Octavia Street. They had purchased the house two and a half years ago when they got married. The San Francisco real estate market had been increasing steadily since then, and their location in Pacific Heights was ideal. Taylor figured the house would fetch about one-point-four. After expenses and the mortgage, that would net them about nine hundred thousand. How much of that would have to go toward paying off the bank was the only real variable. And that depended on what they could net from the sale of G-cubed. The word was already on the street that they needed to sell, and she knew there would be low-ball offers from competitors looking to capitalize on their misfortune. She turned from the window as Alan and the Realtor entered the office.

“Honey, this is Dave Bryant,” Alan said.

She walked across the room and shook the man's hand. “Thanks for coming so quickly,” she said.

“Not a problem. Referrals are important. I jump when someone puts their name on the line for me.” Bryant's name had been passed along to Taylor through one of her office staff who had used him to sell their house in San Mateo and find them a condo in the city. He glanced about the room, then followed Alan back into the hall. Their voices diminished as they moved to the back of the house.

Taylor checked her watch. Almost three o'clock. On any normal day she would be at the office working on an ad campaign or at a client's office making a presentation. Not so now. In two hours someone from the corporate fraud division of the San Francisco police would be paying them a visit.

Corporate fraud.

Why didn't they see it? How could they have fallen so hard for the scam? Why did they invest so heavily? Questions, so many questions. And right now, no answers.

She closed her eyes and wondered if there would ever be any answers.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

Detective Sam Morel shook his head. He'd seen cleanout jobs before, but nothing quite like this one. The office space was absolutely bare, not a stitch of furniture or paper. The forensics crew dusting for fingerprints was almost finished and they had yet to find one usable print. Morel snapped his notebook shut as two men in dark suits entered through the main doors. Morel knew cops, and these ones reeked of feds. He waited for them to approach him. At ten feet the badges came out, and at five feet one of the suits introduced himself.

“Detective Morel, I'm Special Agent Hawkins, and this is Special Agent Abrams. We're with the San Francisco office of the FBI.”

Morel glanced at the creds. He didn't quite loathe FBI agents, but it was close. They always dressed the same, talked the same and most importantly, thought the same. Brent Hawkins was six feet tall and thin, his face chiseled rather than formed. He wore his dirty-blond hair short to his scalp, which only served to highlight his intense blue eyes. His hawklike nose was a touch too big for his lean face, and his jaw was set in a permanent scowl. John Abrams was softer, in the eyes and around the midsection. He topped out at five-ten, and his face was caught somewhere between full and chubby. His hair was at the maximum length the Bureau would allow, and his suit was off the rack, not tailor-made like his partner's. Both men were mid-thirties.

“What makes an agent special?” Sam Morel asked. “As compared to just a regular agent?”

Hawkins ignored the barb. “We understand you're in charge of this operation,” he said.

“Yes, I am,” Morel said, knowing full well that he wouldn't be for long. FBI agents didn't show up at white-collar crime scenes for no reason. Somewhere, somehow this scam had crossed state lines, and it was now federal.

“We have reason to believe that the people involved in this fraud were also operating in New York, Chicago and New Orleans. The information is still coming in, but this appears to be a well-organized setup, with offices across the country. And if they are tied together, then the case will come under federal jurisdiction.”

“I understand,” Morel said. There was no up-side to arguing with the suit. The best approach was to cooperate and hand over the file. Hell, his department was already busy, he hardly needed the business. The FBI could have this one if they wanted. In fact, just that morning he had stared at himself in the mirror, seeing the creases running back from the corners of his eyes to the tufts of hair he called sideburns. His face was thicker than when he was in his thirties. Not pudgier, thicker. He didn't seem to have as much neck either, almost like his head was settling into his shoulders. That wasn't good; he'd never been taller than five-nine at any point in his life. He still had all his body parts, a healthy head of graying hair and sturdy teeth. And his prostate was in fine form. Life was good; no sense letting a few wrinkles mess with his mind-set.

Morel said, “We had the place sealed for two days until we got search warrants, so we only got in this morning. My CSU guys are almost finished. If you want to bring in your own experts I'll arrange for access.”

Hawkins nodded. “Thanks. Have you requisitioned the phone logs?”

“First thing. The company operated out of this space for eight months. We've got a request in for a complete list of incoming and outgoing calls over that period. We've also identified the bank they used to pay their operating expenses and have asked for copies of the corporate seal, the directors' names and all transactions since inception. I'll forward that ahead to your office.”

Hawkins raised an eyebrow, then handed Morel a business card. “We appreciate the cooperation, Detective Morel.”

Morel smiled. “We're on the same side, Agent Hawkins. I try to keep that in mind.”

“Thanks.”

Morel glanced at his watch. “I've got a meeting with two of the victims in half an hour. Want to come along?”

“That would be good,” Abrams said. They had planned on conducting their own interview within twenty-four hours. This just made things easier.

Morel scribbled Alan and Taylor's address on a piece of paper and held it out. Abrams took it. “See you there at five,” he said. He started toward the door, then stopped. “Hey, I've gotta know something.”

“What is it, Detective?” Abrams asked.

“Do you guys take a course on always talking in proper English? You know, never using slang or saying ‘Sure' instead of ‘That would be good.' ”

Abrams looked like he was going to blow, but Hawkins smiled. “They teach us to be polite, Detective. And to never swear.”

“See you in half an hour,” Morel said, grinning. Life at the Bureau was certainly different from SFPD.

Morel was fifty-two and three years from a full pension with the department. His waistline, a steady thirty-six for fifteen years, had recently ballooned to a forty. Grecian formula couldn't stop the constant flow of gray hair, and he needed an hour a week now just to pull out the unsightly nose and ear hairs. This was early fifties. What the hell was coming when he hit seventy or eighty? His energy levels were dropping as fast as his waistline was expanding. There was a time in his career when he would have fought the feds tooth and nail for jurisdiction, but not now. That surprised him, given the scope of what was fast becoming a major scam. White-collar crime in America was huge, and this one was shaping up to be one of the largest he had ever seen. First indications were that this was going to run into the tens of millions in San Francisco alone, even before the dollar amounts from the other cities were added in. He slid behind the wheel of his unmarked car and checked the map. Octavia Street—Pacific Heights. The high-rent district.

Twenty-five minutes later, he parked outside the restored Victorian belonging to Alan Bestwick and Taylor Simons. He called in his location, locked the car and hoofed it up the stairs to the front door. An extremely attractive woman with red hair and pale skin answered the doorbell. He slipped his badge out and held it up for her.

“Detective Sam Morel from the major crimes division,” he said.

“Taylor Simons,” she said, scrutinizing his ID. “Please come in.”

“Thanks,” he said, entering the house. He went through the introductions again as Alan Bestwick appeared. “Someone from the District Attorney's office will be here shortly. The FBI as well.” He thought it best to warn them before the doorbell rang and more warm bodies began showing up.

“Well, I suppose that's a good thing,” Alan said, leading Morel into the living room. He and Taylor sat beside each other on one of the couches, and Morel chose a wingback. “Is this normal procedure?”

“Yes and no,” Morel said, settling into the chair. It was uncomfortable. “The DA's office is on the front lines in consumer and corporate fraud. We secure the site and then share the information with them. They handle some of the investigation and all the prosecution. Having someone from the District Attorney's office is normal, but the FBI isn't.”

“Then why are they coming?” Taylor asked as the doorbell rang.

“That's probably them,” Morel said. “I'll let them explain, if that's okay.”

“Fine,” Alan said. He disappeared into the hallway and returned a minute later with the two FBI agents. A woman dressed in a gray pantsuit and carrying a briefcase accompanied them. Sam Morel nodded to the woman and she returned the gesture.

The woman introduced herself to Taylor. “Julie Swimaker. I'm with the District Attorney's office.”

Taylor shook her hand. “Detective Morel said to expect you.”

Hawkins and Abrams flashed their creds and took a seat on an empty couch. Hawkins started the conversation. “Mr. Bestwick, Ms. Simons, fraud cases such as this one would usually be handled by the San Francisco DA's office, but the FBI is involved in this investigation because we have evidence that suggests this fraud is country wide. We have confirmation of similar scams being run in New York, Chicago, New Orleans, and we just received a call that the perpetrators were also active in Dallas. Since the crime is in more than one state, jurisdiction is federal.”

“I understand,” Alan said.

“What we need from you are the details of your involvement with NewPro,” Hawkins said, taking a small tape recorder from his pocket and placing it on the coffee table. “I'm going to tape this conversation, if that's okay with you.”

Alan and Taylor both nodded, and Hawkins hit the record button.

“Who introduced you to NewPro, and how did you first meet?”

Alan glanced at Taylor and gave her a nod. She replied, “I met Edward Brand, the president of NewPro, when he came to my advertising agency about seven months ago, looking for a firm to handle an upcoming ad campaign. His business idea was brilliant. He had researched a number of products that had been off the shelves for a long time. Products that had household names.” She named off about fifteen of them from memory. “All of these products had one thing in common: Their manufacturer had dropped them, and let those household names get stale. The companies that held the trademark didn't care. They had other consumables on the market that were generating enough income to satisfy their shareholders and had little desire to reintroduce an old product to a new market. In fact, a lot of the companies had let their exclusivity to the product expire. They couldn't care less if NewPro walked in and retabled the product.”

“Edward Brand wanted your company to devise a marketing strategy to reintroduce these products,” Hawkins said.