The Scam

by Janet Evanovich

“He’s always hungry when he comes back from the golf course,” Megan said, sweeping the crusts off the countertop and into the trash masher. “You should have seen Dad when he got back from Hawaii. He was sunburned and covered in bug bites. I’ve never seen anyone so happy to be uncomfortable.”

  “That’s what happens when you fall asleep on the beach.”

  “That’s what happens when you sleep in the jungle,” Megan said, setting the plate of sandwiches on the center island in front of Kate.

  “Why would Dad do that?” Kate asked, playing innocent.

  “Nostalgia. Sometimes I worry that he’s going a little crazy here.”

  “He’s the same man he always was. He hasn’t changed at all.”

  “I hope you’re wrong. Because if that’s true, and his pee stops scaring off the coyotes, he will start putting land mines on our hill,” Megan said. “Where did all of your bruises come from?”

  Kate helped herself to a salami and cheese sandwich. “What bruises?”

  “The ones all over your body. Your bikini doesn’t hide much.”

  “Kickboxing.”

  Megan raised an eyebrow, dubious. “Since when do you kickbox?”

  “It’s a great way to relieve tension.”

  “So is sex.”

  “Kickboxing is a lot less complicated.”

  “But you don’t get the Big O.”

  “I can have all the Oreos I want. Kickboxing burns a lot of calories.”

  “That’s not the ‘O’ I was talking about.”

  “You are oversexed.”

  “And proud of it. Look, Kate, I know a beating when I see one. Dad used to come back from his military missions with the same kind of bruises that I saw all over you. I know it’s got to hurt, and I’m not just talking about the injuries that I can see. If you ever want to talk about it, I’m here.”

  “I know that.” Kate gave her sister a hug. “But I can’t.”

  “At least tell me the other guy looks worse.”

  “Other guys,” she said. “And yes, they do.”

  Megan smiled. “That’ll teach them to mess with my sister.”

  They heard the front door open and Jake came in, wearing a bright yellow Greg Norman golf polo shirt and white slacks.

  “I thought you were a man who likes to blend in,” Kate said. “I need sunglasses to look at you.”

  “It’s a matter of survival. There are a lot of seniors with bad eyesight on the course on weekdays,” Jake said. “You have to stand out or you could get hit by a golf ball.”

  Megan grabbed her car keys off the counter. Her huge key chain had six keys on it, a dozen charms that her kids had made, a tiny flashlight, and countless membership cards from various stores.

  “I have to pick up the kids,” Megan said.

  “They don’t get out of school for another hour,” Jake said.

  “If I don’t park in front of Bay Laurel now, I’ll get stuck for an hour in the pickup line and the kids will have to wait.” Megan gave Kate a kiss. “It was great to see you. Let me know how it goes with Bob.”

  “You bet,” Kate said.

  Megan left the house and Jake selected a sandwich from the plate.

  “Who is Bob?”

  “Nobody you know. How are you?”

  “Eager to hear how the con is going.” He took a bite out of his sandwich.

  “Things didn’t quite go according to plan, but we think we’ve hooked Trace.”

  Kate told him all about what happened in Macau. By the time she was done with her story, Jake had eaten all of the sandwiches and finished a can of beer.

  “Those men are lucky they’re still alive,” Jake said. “But what amazes me is that you got through all of that without sacrificing the con.”

  “It might even be stronger now.”

  “You and Nick are good together,” Jake said. “Probably in more ways than you know.”

  “Let’s not go there.”

  “You keep saying that to yourself, but maybe it’s time for a rethink.”

  “Since when are you interested in my love life?”

  “You don’t have one. You’re all about the job. With Bob, you can have both.”

  “You don’t know anything about Bob.”

  “I know it’s got to be Nick, because there isn’t anybody else,” Jake said. “Who could possibly compete?”

  “Someone who isn’t a criminal on the FBI’s Most Wanted list for starters.”

  “How boring would that guy be? He couldn’t match the excitement Nick brings to your life. For instance, what’s up next in the scam?”

  “A few weeks off,” Kate said.

  “Since when do you take a vacation in the middle of a scam?”

  “We can’t rush right back into business with Trace. Because if we do, it will seem suspicious after what he did to us. He’s got to believe that it was a hard decision for us to go back to Côte d’Argent. Or he needs to come to us in the meantime. So now it’s a waiting game.”

  “You’re terrible at that game.”

  “I’m working on it,” Kate said. “They say that patience is a virtue.”

  “That might be true,” Jake said. “But in my experience, the virtuous are usually the first to die.”

  Kate spent the next few days in her cubicle at the Federal Building, catching up on paperwork. Not her favorite thing to do but part of her job. It was especially gruesome now that she was partnered with Nick, because the paperwork involved a secret expense account. She had to itemize and justify Nick’s outrageous purchases, and she had to do it in code.

  Purchased $1,200 size 5 designer bandage dress to disguise informant in sting operation, she typed as Special Agent Seth Ryerson came up behind her on his way to the coffee machine. He wasn’t much older than her and was spending a lot of time cross-training and lifting weights to make up for his rapid hair loss. He was bulking up in direct proportion to how much his hair was thinning out. To cover his bald spots, he’d started using spray-on particles that resembled wet chocolate cake mix dumped on his head.

  “I haven’t seen you around much,” Ryerson said.

  “I’m not going to find Nicolas Fox or close my other cases by sitting at a desk,” Kate said. “I do my best work in the field.”

  “The scuttlebutt is that one of those other cases involves high-stakes gambling.”

  “I can’t talk about it,” she said. “It’s very hush-hush.”

  “I understand, but if you need help, I’d be glad to jump in. I know my way around a deck of cards.”

  “You don’t strike me as a gambler. You break out in a flop sweat scratching a lottery ticket.”

  “You haven’t seen me play bridge,” he said. “Or canasta. I’m a warrior who doesn’t take prisoners.”

  “You know those aren’t big casino games, right?”

  “Because they’re too brutal,” Ryerson said. “Anybody can play poker or blackjack. Those are for the timid. Tournament bridge is a blood sport. It’s the cage fighting of card games, believe me. I’ve got the scars to prove it.”

  He showed her his hands, palms up.

  Kate squinted at his hands. “What am I looking at?”

  “This.” He used his left hand to point at a barely perceptible line on the tip of his right index finger.

  “It looks like a paper cut.”

  “It’s a scar,” Ryerson said. “It came from bridge. I’ve felt the sting. The point is, I’ve got the experience if you need someone to play any card games for you as part of your investigation.”

  Jessup walked past them toward his office. “Kate, could I see you for a moment?”

  “Sure.” She got up from her seat and edged past Ryerson. “Thanks for the offer. I’ll keep you in mind.”

  Kate walked into Jessup’s corner office and closed the door. He had an unobstructed view of the Sepulveda Pass to the north and could see clear to the Pacific to the west, but she was sure that he rarely ever noticed any of it. His desk was intentionally arr
anged so his back was to the window and he faced two walls.

  “Ryerson just asked me about the gambling investigation I’m doing,” Kate said. “You’re the only one who could have put that news on the grapevine.”

  “I’m watching your back in case anyone sees you in Vegas, particularly at a buffet. There’s so much illegal activity surrounding the gambling industry that the town is swarming with FBI, DEA, ATF, and IRS agents all investigating something.”

  “Why the special concern about buffets?”

  “Because I’ve never met a federal agent or an ex-soldier who can resist all-you-can-eat, especially on an expense account.”

  “Good point,” she said.

  “How are things going with Evan Trace?”

  “We’ve succeeded in firmly establishing ourselves in his money laundering operation and even got him to reimburse us for almost every dollar we’ve spent doing it,” Kate said, hoping that reminding Jessup that she’d saved money would score her some points. “Now we’re in position to set the trap that will take him down.”

  “That’s good, because you’re going to have to spring it right away,” Jessup said. “The CIA has picked up some intel. A month from now an al-Qaeda representative is going to Côte d’Argent Macau on a junket to pass money to a terrorist cell planning an attack in Europe. We can’t let that happen.”

  “The CIA could kidnap or kill the guy,” Kate said.

  “Of course the CIA will try, if they can ID him, but that would be a delaying tactic at best. Al-Qaeda will just find someone else to be their front man,” Jessup said. “The best way to stop the money from changing hands is to destroy Côte d’Argent’s money laundering operation.”

  “If we appear too eager to get back into business with Trace, it could rekindle his suspicions about us.”

  “That’s a chance you’ll have to take.”

  “Would you ever work with someone who’d dangled you over a pool of piranha?”

  “Maybe I would if he gave me two million six hundred twenty-five thousand dollars and said he was very, very sorry,” Jessup said. “Most criminals I know put money ahead of everything else. Rushing back into business with Trace might just prove to him how crooked you really are and bolster your covers.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Kate said.

  “Me, too,” Jessup said. “I’ve never had one of my agents devoured by fish before and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  —

  Shortly after noon on the following day, Nick and Kate pulled into the red-dirt parking lot of Da Grinds & Da Shave Ice in Kahuku, Hawaii. Nick parked their blazing red Ferrari California convertible beside Lono Alika’s brand-new Ford F-150 Raptor, which had a modified grill that resembled shark teeth. A big Hawaiian with his right leg in a cast sat in a folding beach chair in the truck bed, guarding Alika’s ride from getting dinged by a tourist or blown up by any retired soldiers.

  Nick and Kate got out and walked up to the restaurant’s patio, where Alika held court. Kate wore a Versace black-and-violet leopard-print racer-back minidress with a pair of palazzo leather sandals. Nick was Gucci casual from head to toe in white-rimmed aviator sunglasses, a red cotton polo, white skinny jeans, and white canvas sneakers. They’d picked their ride and their designer clothes so that Alika would know they were young, rich, and lived the high life.

  The monstrous Hawaiian was eating a multicolored shave ice with a plastic spoon that seemed ridiculously tiny in his massive paw. He was in his usual tank top and board shorts, showing off the Polynesian tattoos that covered his arms and legs. His eyes were hidden behind wraparound shades so dark, they might as well have been blindfolds.

  A Hawaiian with a bandaged nose sat at the next table, and Neon Nikes stood nearby, with his right arm strapped to his midsection in a sling, stabilizing his wounded shoulder. Kate couldn’t help smiling. Her father had left his mark on Alika’s crew.

  Neon Nikes glowered at her. “Watchu smilin’ at?”

  “You look like you were run over by a monster wave,” Kate said.

  “Why boddah you?” Neon Nikes said.

  “Easy, brah, wassamattayou?” Alika said to Neon Nikes, and then he smiled at Kate. “Watchu want, sweet wahini? You likkah da shave ice, yeah?”

  “Maybe later, Mr. Alika,” Kate said, sitting down across from him. “I’m Kate Porter and this is Nick Sweet. We’ve come to Hawaii to offer you a deal.”

  “Wat kine deal you talkin’?”

  Nick sat down beside Kate. “A VIP gambling junket to Côte d’Argent Casino in Macau.”

  “You travel agents, yeah?”

  “Of sorts,” Kate said.

  “This would be more than a vacation,” Nick said. “We know you’ve made a lot of money that you can’t spend without attracting the attention of the authorities. Our junket offers you, and your associates in Japan, a way to move large amounts of cash to and from the islands.”

  “Dat sounds illegal,” Alika said.

  “For sure,” Kate said.

  “So, if I were you, I’d assume that we’re both undercover feds,” Nick said. “Don’t say anything now that you wouldn’t want to hear played back in a courtroom. All we’re asking is that you let us make our pitch. If you like it, then you can check us out and we’ll go from there.”

  Alika scratched one of his sleeveless intricately tattooed shoulders while he thought about Nick’s proposition. “ ’Kay den, you have a shave ice an’ talk story wit’ me.”

  Alika told Bandage Nose to bring Nick and Kate each a shaved ice with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and another one for himself. While they ate, Nick explained how money laundering was done through junket gambling at Côte d’Argent Macau and how Alika, and his Yakuza partners, could benefit from it. When Nick was finished, Alika smiled at Kate.

  “Wat you tink da shave ice?” Alika asked.

  “Onolicious,” she said.

  Alika grinned and turned his bald, bullet-shaped head to Nick. “If you check out as fo’ real, where you be?”

  Nick passed a card to him with an address written on it and then stood up. “We’ll be there for two days.”

  “I find out you no fo’ real,” Alika said. “I da kine come break your face fo’ waste my time.”

  Nick took the threat in stride. He flipped Alika the shaka, the sign for “hang loose,” his thumb and pinkie extended and his other fingers tucked against his palm, as he walked away with Kate.

  Nick and Kate got into the Ferrari and headed south on Kamehameha Highway, the surf on their left, the mountains on their right, and the wind whipping their hair.

  “That went well,” Nick said.

  “We won’t know until he comes to us, either to make a deal or to smash our faces,” Kate said. “But at least we got to try the best snow cones ever made.”

  “Where did you learn to understand pidgin?”

  “The Navy. It’s full of surfers. Where did you pick up what you know?”

  “Hawaii Five-O,” he said.

  Evan Trace walked his Cotai Strip property. Right now it was just a ten-acre patch of dry earth and sand, dredged up from the bottom of the Pearl River Delta and moved around by a battalion of bulldozers, but Evan pictured a thirty-nine-story Côte d’Argent tower rising from a lake of fire. Flames would swirl atop the water and reflect off the black glass of the building.

  The flaming water would be the signature image of his new resort and a radical departure from his No freakin’ gondolas philosophy. But that was never based on a deeply held belief anyway. It was based on having no freakin’ money. Now, in order to remain competitive and lure the international high rollers, he needed to think big, like everyone else around him.

  Across the street was the massive Venetian Macao, the seventh largest building ever constructed by man and nearly twice the size of the Pentagon. To either side of the Venetian, Trace could see dozens of construction cranes, hurriedly building mega-casinos, a re-creation of New York’s Broadway theater district, and a monorail syst
em that would carry hundreds of thousands of tourists each year to the Cotai Strip. Trace would either become part of that explosive growth or he would be buried by it.

  Natasha crossed over to him from one of the half dozen construction trailers on the edge of his property. She wore a white hard hat, which was a ridiculous safety requirement. Grading was the only thing being done now, and there was nothing that could possibly fall on her head. He wore a hard hat, too, but that was because his was gold-plated and identified him to everyone as the boss.

  “Are you familiar with the Tiki Palace in Las Vegas?” she asked him.

  “It’s a cheap downtown casino that caters almost exclusively to Hawaiians, offering them cheap plane tickets, budget rooms, lots of nickel slots, and spam for breakfast,” Trace said. “It’s strictly small-time.”

  “Mr. Goodwell called me. He was asked by Sammy Mokuahi, who runs the Tiki, if Nick Sweet and Kate Porter are bona fide junket operators with us here.”

  There was no reason that Trace could think of for Nick and Kate to be interested in a dump like the Tiki. There wasn’t any real money to be made there for junket operators in their league.

  “Did Mokuahi say why he wanted to know about them?”

  “He was asking as a favor for one of his good customers, a Hawaiian named Lono Alika,” Natasha said. “So I checked out Alika. He’s a big shot in the Hawaiian mob and runs the Yakuza’s heroin, cocaine, and ecstasy sales on Oahu. He also exports Hawaiian-made meth back to Japan for distribution there. What should we tell Mr. Mokuahi?”

  Now it all made sense to Trace. He could think of only one reason why Alika would ask somebody he trusts in the casino business about those two. Nick and Kate had invited Alika to Macau on a junket. “Tell him that Nick and Kate do big business with us and that Evan Trace personally and enthusiastically vouches for them.”

  She cocked an eyebrow. “May I ask why you’d do that?”

  “Those two obviously have an amazing range of contacts. Canadian mobsters, Somali warlords, and now the Yakuza as well,” Trace said. “Those are some major high rollers they’re bringing us. So hell yes, I want their business, and I am going to get it.”

  Natasha did a slight bow. “Very well, sir.”