Shell Game (7 page)

The two men walked past the alley entrance without a glance. She waited a few minutes, then moved through the garbage-strewn lane back to the street. It was dark, the only light coming from a streetlamp halfway down the block. She looked both directions, her eyes taking in every detail. The street front was lined with retail shops: a butcher, a bookseller, a tailor and a small deli stood on the far side of road. Her eyes saw into every doorway, every shadow, every niche. Nothing. She ventured out from the alley until she could see into the recessed doorways on her side of the street. There was no sign of the men. She resumed walking north on the street, her senses on high alert.

Some people would call her actions paranoia. She called it common sense. And not just because she lived in New York.

Alicia Walker was undercover FBI, working in the corporate fraud division. She was trained to notice the small details and to recognize and eliminate danger before it eliminated her. Six years with the Bureau and so far she had managed to sidestep the violence that so often plagued undercover work. She had pulled her weapon three times, but had never fired. That was something she was extremely proud of. Most of her working days were spent in posh offices with white-collar criminals, amassing enough evidence for the boys from the J. Edgar Hoover Building to swoop in and arrest the major players before they could pull their scam and close up shop. She had been successful many times, but this one hadn't gone well. Not that it was really her fault; she had come in at the last moment, too late to stop the con from going down.

Six weeks ago, Alicia had met Tony Stevens at a SoHo art gallery featuring a new Manhattan artist. He was attractive and charming, and from minute one she had suspected he was involved in some sort of con. The signs were all there. He was more than willing to talk about himself, but reluctant to reveal too much about NewPro, even though she showed a real interest in his company. She didn't push too hard, but spent some time going over the company's SEC application. Bells started to go off immediately. She dug deeper and after two weeks was convinced that Tony Stevens and his cronies were not interested in going public, but were setting up their victims for a big crash. She kept in touch with him, as a new friend, not a business associate. He revealed precious little to her, but with the scraps she managed to pry loose, she was positive NewPro was a scam.

Twelve days ago her suspicions had proved correct. Overnight, NewPro had vanished. The front doors were locked and the offices inside stripped bare. Any paper trail at the New Jersey manufacturing plant was gone, and the key players, including Tony Stevens, had disappeared. With them, they took almost ten million dollars of their investors' money. She was disappointed but not surprised; she knew the scam was wrapping up when she got involved. Another week, maybe two, she might have had enough on Tony Stevens to get a positive ID. From things he had said, she suspected he was from Stockholm, but she had no idea what his real name was. The FBI and Interpol computers had no record of anyone matching his description, and that worried her more than anything else. Usually by the time a con artist was scamming his victims for ten million dollars, he was in a criminal database somewhere. But not Tony Stevens. This meant whoever was running the operation was bringing in partners with no prior arrest records. That made them tough, if not impossible, to find.

Alicia reached her apartment on West Twentieth Street in Chelsea. It was a typical New York brownstone walkup, with eight steps leading from the street to the landing. She checked the street, then let herself in, locked the door behind her and headed straight for the bathroom. She filled the bathtub and lowered herself into the steaming water after securing her gun in a small cavity next to the tub and hidden by the shower curtain. The warmth felt good, even though it was a mild mid-September evening. She let her mind drift back to Tony Stevens and NewPro.

Even though the con hadn't taken her by surprise, the size of the scam had. Including the other cities they had targeted, the take was more than two hundred million. That number was huge. The Bureau was treating the case with the attention it deserved. District offices in every city where Stevens and his accomplices had been active had agents working the scene and trying to identify the players. To date, they had very little. The best penetration into the group was her attachment to the New York chapter. Although Tony Stevens had been tight-lipped, he had inadvertently given them something to work with. Tony had talked about a luxury boat he owned and kept moored in the Bahamas. She wasn't sure where exactly, but he had spoken a couple of times of Freeport and Port Lucaya on Grand Bahama Island. The boys stationed in the Caribbean were running the registered owners of every boat over thirty-five feet, trying to find a connection back to the mainland. It was a long shot, but the best they had right now. The phone logs and utility accounts had netted them exactly nothing. Tony Stevens was no fool. He had been extremely careful to leave no clues.

Alicia pulled the plug and stepped out of the bath. She toweled off and rubbed on some body cream. A full-length mirror was affixed to the back of the bathroom door, and she stood staring at her reflection for a few moments. She was twenty-nine and in prime physical condition. There was no tummy or weight on her hips and no fat on her legs or arms. Her body was lean, her B-cup breasts just the right size for her chest. She had dark hair that fell just past her shoulders and a face that was attractive, but not beautiful. She could turn some heads when she put on makeup, but if she really wanted to get noticed, she just needed to dress in Spandex. She never did.

Alicia slipped into her bathrobe and headed for the kitchen. Tuesday night and no date. No friends calling on the phone to have coffee. Nobody wanting to spend time with her. Such was the life of an FBI agent. All the glamour of getting to carry a gun to work, none of the James Bond love life. But tomorrow was a new day, and her boss had hinted he may have another assignment. Time to go undercover again. No truths, all lies. Never let anyone close. Never let your guard down. Never.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

Alan Bestwick pulled up in front of the old Victorian and left the motor running. He stared at the for sale sign and took a couple of deep breaths. This just kept getting better. The U2 song finished on the radio, and he switched off the ignition. He locked the five-year-old Mazda and made his way slowly to the front door.

Inside the house was dark, the curtains and blinds drawn, cutting off the afternoon sunlight. He slipped off his shoes and walked silently in his sock feet through the house to the kitchen. Taylor was sitting on the window bench in the bay that overlooked the tiny backyard. A closed hardcover book rested in her lap. She was staring into the yard as he entered. She glanced up, then looked at the clock.

“You're early,” she said.

He sat beside her and put his hands on her knees, which she tucked up to her chest so he could sit. “Gus is shutting down the company,” he said. “I'm laid off, effective immediately.” Angus Strang owned the corporate security company he worked for.

Taylor stared at him. “What?” she said, her voice a whisper. “When did this happen?”

Alan swallowed. “Gus has been talking about retiring for about a year now. He decided that this was as good a time as any.”

“But the timing . . .”

“He apologized. He feels really bad about it, but if he doesn't shut operations down now while we're between jobs and he takes on another big contract, it could be a couple of years before the opportunity comes up again. He wanted to come and talk to you personally, but I told him it was okay.”

She nodded but didn't say anything.

“He paid me out for the rest of September and cut a severance check as well.”

“How much?” she asked, not believing she actually said that.

“Fifty thousand.”

“That was nice of him.”

“It'll help.”

She looked out the window again. “There's a showing this evening. The Realtor says the people who are interested are serious buyers. They've looked at a few houses in the area, but he thinks this could be the one. If the house has to sell, let's hope nice people buy it.” She forced an upbeat tone into her voice. “It's a wonderful house, Alan.”

He held her as she cried, feeling her body tremble. She was a strong woman, but even strong people had their limits. She had worked so hard for so many years to build G-cubed, and then to lose it overnight had been devastating. The house was equally as stressful. He knew Taylor was a nester, not a wanderer. She needed roots, and without that anchor she was a lost soul.

For ten minutes they sat silently on the window bench, just holding each other. Finally, she said, “I'm going to lie down for a while.”

“Okay.” He kissed her forehead.

Taylor forced herself to walk down the center of the swaying hallway. Her equilibrium had been getting worse in the last week or so, probably a combination of low blood pressure and an iron deficiency. She'd always had problems with low blood pressure and had had a few instances of light headedness, but nothing like this. The bouts were almost constant now, and she was having trouble functioning. She didn't want to alarm Alan and had seen the doctor without telling him. Her doctor had prescribed iron supplements and told her to rest. She was trying to do as she was told, but her rebellious nature kicked in and she often missed her pills.

She sat on the side of their bed and stared ahead. Her eyes were drawn to the night table and she opened the drawer and opened the book on Picasso to page 108. A four-by-six photograph of Alan on a street corner stared back at her. It was her favorite picture of him. Every part of him was laughing, especially his eyes. The background looked European, but she had never asked him where the photo was taken. She just loved the man in the moment. It was her private piece of him, and she cherished it. She tucked the photo back in the book and closed the drawer. At least she still had him, she thought. How bad can life really be when you have the person you love?

Not bad, she decided as she slipped under the covers. She was asleep in seconds.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

A light rain had settled in, and the lower mainland was awash in clouds and mist. It was beautiful but depressing, a week from the start of October and already the wet winter weather was settling in. Vancouver was like Seattle, wonderful when the clouds cleared, sunlight-deprived when they settled on the mountains surrounding the city. Edward Brand buttoned his coat against the wet cold that penetrated right into his bones. He was tired of the rain and wanted to leave. But plans were plans, not to be messed with. He was in the Canadian city for at least another week. He sipped his tea and leaned on the railing, watching the small craft navigate a misty English Bay.

The front doorbell sounded, and Brand walked to the door and opened it. Tony Stevens was folding his umbrella as he waited under the portico. Brand waved Stevens into the house and sat in the living room near the wood-burning fireplace. Flames were licking at the birch logs, and an occasional snap broke the silence in the room. Stevens sat on the couch across from Brand. The room was rustic, with open rough-hewn beams and native Haida Indian art on the pine furniture. The acrid smell of smoke commingled with the salt air, and the mixture was somehow pleasant.

“We have a problem,” Edward Brand said.

“So I gathered from your message,” Stevens said, brushing an errant drop of water off his trouser leg.

“We have a leak in New York.”

“Who?” Stevens asked, leaning forward.

Brand took a small sip of tea and asked, “You want a beer?”

Stevens nodded. “Sure.”

Brand disappeared into the kitchen and returned a minute later with two beers. “Canadian. Much better than most of our American beer. Five percent alcohol as well. Only takes a few before you start to feel them.”

“I like Canadian beer,” Stevens said, accepting the bottle from Brand. He wanted to know what was going on in New York but waited. Edward Brand would offer the information when he was ready.

“I have a source inside the Bureau,” Brand said. “I've had this person on the payroll for six years now. To date it's been nothing but a monthly output of cash with nothing to show in return. But that just changed. They've given me the name of the FBI agent who managed to worm her way into your organization.”

Tony Stevens felt a trickle of sweat run down his side. The room was warm, but not overly so. “Who is it, Edward?”

“What worries me more than who it is, is how did she get inside? That definitely worries me, Tony.”

“I can see why,” Stevens said, now sweating profusely. Where was Brand going with this? He had been in charge of the New York operation, and it had come off without a hitch. And the longer Brand continued to be elusive, the more worried Tony was getting. “You going to tell me who it is?”

“Sure,” Brand said, taking a long drink of beer and running his free hand through his dark hair. “It's Alicia Walker.”

Tony was mute. He had allowed Alicia to get close to the operation, although he had been careful to keep some distance between her and the day-to-day setup. In retrospect it wasn't that difficult to believe she was FBI. Her appearance at just the right time, her interest in how he spent his days, and more than anything else, her elusive nature when he tried to find out who she was and what made her tick. Stevens rubbed the back of his neck and frowned. Edward Brand was staring at the fireplace, but Tony knew the man's mind was focused on the problem. Brand was not a man you wanted to piss off. He had personally seen the results of Edward Brand's anger once, and didn't care to go there again. The man had barely resembled a human being when Brand was finished with him. Alive, but for what? Broken beyond repair. Tony briefly wondered if the guy who had crossed Brand was still alive. He doubted it.