by Jeff Buick
Quiet descended on the room, and Taylor and Sam looked at Alan. The decision rested with him. He rose and walked to the window, staring out. The streetlamps were on, bright yellow against the darkening sky. Taylor watched his face in the reflected glow, knowing the man and getting inside his head. Alan was a person who believed acting on opportunity was the only way. Anything less was a cop-out. But his decision would be made by weighing the risk against the possible outcome. The upside was that they may get some of their money back. The downside was that he could be putting them in harm’s way. She knew it would be a difficult decision for him and readied herself to accept his decision—whichever way it went.
Alan turned away from the window and shook his head. “My head’s telling me to stay here and play it safe.” He sat on the couch beside Taylor. No one spoke for a minute. A clock ticked and the sound of a motorcycle driving past the house drifted in, then dissipated. Finally he said, “But I don’t think this is a time to listen to logic. I think there are times in life when you’ve got to walk out on the branch and listen for the cracking sound.”
“If there’s anything I can do from this end . . .” Morel said.
“We’ll call,” Taylor said. She leaned over and kissed Alan on the cheek. Everything had just changed. They were no longer sitting back and waiting for the police or the FBI to solve the case. They were going on the offensive.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Taylor and Alan landed at Aeropuerto Internacional Benito Juárez at three in the afternoon on Wednesday, October 25. They found the airport that served Mexico City to be utterly confusing. The floor plan was an endless maze of departure and arrival gates jutting into the central corridors, making any sort of movement somewhere between difficult and impossible. It was beyond their comprehension how the Mexican airport authorities managed to keep people moving and flights on schedule.
Conversely, the taxi queue was short, and it only took a couple of minutes to get through the line. They gave the driver the name of the hotel and settled in the backseat, watching the city flash past. Barrios and ugly concrete commercial buildings lined the roads near the airport, but as they drove deeper into the congestion, the houses and businesses gradually changed from ill-to well-kept. When they crossed Avenida Ninos Héroes the architecture changed again, to renovated 1920 and 30s houses and buildings, colorful with trendy cafés and shops lining the main street. Taquerías, small stands on some of the corners of the tree-lined roads, were busy as the street vendors wrapped up the last of comida, the filling midday meal. Their driver pulled onto Paseo de la Reforma, slowed and stopped in front of the Marquis Reforma Hotel. The hotel’s facade was stunning pink with graceful sections of curved glass, an art nouveau masterpiece in a tropical setting.
Alan paid the driver and a bellman jumped to take their luggage, delivering it to the front desk, where a pleasant man welcomed them in English. They had booked a suite on the seventh floor with a view of Castillo de Chapultepec, and the reception clerk had their electronic keys in seconds. Two front-end staff helped with the bags, and within a couple of minutes they were checking out the series of rooms that comprised their suite. The bellmen left with a few extra pesos, and Taylor and Alan were alone. Alone in a city of twenty-six million people. Taylor stood at the window staring over the huge expanse of green that was the Bosque de Chapultepec, the park where the castle rested on Grasshopper Hill. Dating back to Aztec times, the castle was the scene of the native Mexicans’ last battle with the Spaniards. In 1940 the castle was modified into one of Mexico City’s finest museums, the Museo Nacional de Historia. Taylor stared at the historical building and its tranquil surroundings, her mind alive with the possibilities of what they might find in Mexico City.
Had Edward Brand visited the city and picked out the antique in person, arranging payment later through the corporation he knew was destined to fail? Would the owner of the shop recognize the FBI sketch of Brand they had brought with them? If he did, what then? Would Brand have been sloppy enough to leave an address or phone number other than that of NewPro? Probably not. Even if he did make a mistake and leave a trail of some sort, what would they do with the information? The questions were inexhaustible, and there were no answers. She felt Alan’s hands on her waist, smiled and turned toward him.
“When do you want to visit the antique shop?” he asked.
The sun was still above the hills and trees of the park, and the city was in the doldrums between comida and the advent of night, when the discos and nightclubs came alive. To Taylor there was a vibrancy in the air, a sort of adrenaline rush that had yet to happen. She shuddered slightly, perhaps as the air-conditioning touched her, perhaps from the anticipation.
“Does it say what time the shop is open until?”
Alan checked the page they had printed from the Internet. “Nine o’clock,” he said. “We could try tonight if you want.”
“Why not,” Taylor said. “Give me fifteen minutes to freshen up.”
“Sure.” He wandered about the main room of the suite, picking through the magazines and tourist brochures he found laying about. They were in Spanish and English. He leafed through them, mostly disinterested in the content. Merchants trying to entice travelers to their shops to spend money. Money. It was always about money. Sometimes he hated the stuff. But mostly when he had none.
Taylor reappeared dressed in faded jeans and a tight shirt. Her hair was down and fell past her shoulders, the red hue almost luminescent in the growing shadows. She had a touch of makeup on her eyes and cheeks, and a pale sand-colored lipstick on her full lips. Alan caught his breath at the sight of her standing in the bathroom doorway. Christ, she was beautiful. And she was his wife. He crossed the room and slipped his hand around her waist and pulled her close. Her body was warm. She draped her arms over his shoulders.
“We have an antique shop to visit,” she said softly. “I think if we don’t get going soon, we may not make it tonight.”
“Yeah, I think you’re right,” he said, kissing her on her forehead and loosening his grip. She slipped out of his arms.
“You think I’m dressed all right?” she asked.
“I think you’re going to turn a lot of heads. If that’s okay, then you’re dressed fine.”
She grinned. “Who knows, maybe the shop owner will be a middle-age guy with a thing for redheads.”
“We should be so lucky.”
They took the elevator to the lobby, a mixture of art deco meets terra cotta, and stood near one wall discussing their options. Taylor was worried that if they caught a cab to the antique shop and the driver left, they would be on their own to find one for the return trip. Taking just any cab off the street in Mexico City could be dangerous. The other option was to find a driver for the evening, but they were unsure of how to do so. After a couple of minutes, they opted to ask the concierge.
The concierge, whose name was Miguel, immediately advised them against one of the waiting taxis. He insisted upon arranging for a driver for the evening rather than having them take the next cab in the queue. Cab drivers who were allowed to work the hotel were government registered, with an orange or green stripe on the bottom of their license plate. But once they were away from the hotel, there was no guarantee whatever cab they got into would be safe. Having a private driver was the best—the safest. It took almost half an hour for the man to arrive, but when he did they were glad they had waited. His name was Ricardo and in addition to being very friendly and speaking fluent English, he drove a newer-model private Mercedes.
“Where to?” he asked after they had introduced themselves and settled into the backseat.
“Antigüedades Coloniart,” Alan said. “It’s on Estocolmo, in Zona Rosa.”
Ricardo turned and glanced at Alan. “I know it. You’re shopping for antiques tonight? You look like you should be going out for dinner and dancing. This is Mexico City—alive with the world’s best restaurants and many wonderful nightclubs.”
“Maybe after the antiq
ue shop,” Taylor said. “We’ll see.”
“Well, you’ve got me all night. So whatever you want is where I take you.”
“Thanks,” Alan said.
The streets were crowded now, the sidewalks filled with smartly dressed Chilangos, as natives to Mexico City were known. It was almost eight o’clock, and the restaurants were just beginning to fill. Ricardo kept his window rolled down and the evening air, thick with smog and cigarette smoke, filtered in along with the pounding music from passing cars and brightly lit discos. At least once every block someone would honk and wave at Ricardo, and he would grin back, sometimes yelling across the road at a pretty woman. They were obviously in Ricardo’s section of town. After a few instances, he stopped at a red light and leaned back over the seat.
“I live a block over to the right. And I own a restaurant-supply business that keeps most of these places stocked up on fresh seafood and steaks. That’s why I know so many people. Get me a few blocks from here and I’m another face in the crowd.”
“So you don’t drive for a living?” Taylor asked, looking at him a little closer now that he had given them a snippet of his life. He was about her age and very wellkept. His nails were manicured and his hair freshly cut. His teeth were white and straight, and he was impeccably dressed.
Ricardo laughed. “A couple of times a year. But tonight, Miguel, the concierge at your hotel, asked me for a favor. He doesn’t ask often, so I said yes.”
“A favor?”
The light turned green, but he didn’t move. “Miguel is a very savvy kind of guy. He’s street smart. He grew up in one of the barrios on the edge of town and worked very hard to get his position with the hotel. He said he saw something in your eyes that worried him. He wanted me to drive you and to make sure you’re okay.” The honking behind the car was increasing in intensity and he turned back to the road. “Like I said, he’s a smart guy.”
Taylor sucked in a deep breath. They weren’t even out of their five-star hotel and people were clueing in that they weren’t just Jane and John Tourist. Was it that obvious? She ran her hands through her hair as Ricardo pulled up in front of the antique store. It was almost baroque in its architecture, with light gray stone batons bordering the portico and windows completely encased by ornate metal bars. Lights shone out from inside the store and Taylor could see a handful of people milling about. Ricardo slipped the car into park and switched off the ignition.
“Want me to come in with you?” he asked.
“No, I think we’ll be okay,” Alan said. “If we need someone to translate I’ll come out and get you.”
Ricardo laughed. “You won’t need a translator. You have money, they speak English.”
They opened the door and entered the shop, immediately leaving the cacophony of street noise behind them. The store was a couple of thousand square feet, with numerous antiques and works of art tastefully displayed. It was not crowded or junky, but leaning more toward quality than quantity. The lighting was muted, almost seductive, and much of the wall space was taken by old paintings and tapestries. A closer look showed the room to be divided up by sections of false walls, giving the vendor more display space. Each section contained a certain type of collectible. Old bicycles were near the back, and next to them was sports memorabilia, then handbags, corkscrews, and two full sections of plates and ewers. The science and technology area was about midway to the back and stocked with numerous telescopes and microscopes, weigh scales and ancient typewriters and cash registers. Interspersed throughout the well-organized showroom was a strong presence of Aztec and early Mexican history. Prices were not shown on any of the display pieces. A well-dressed man in his early thirties approached them and said good evening in both Spanish and English.
“Hello,” Alan said.
“Visiting Mexico City?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
“And looking for something special to take home?”
“Perhaps,” Alan said. “Are you the manager?”
“No, that would be the gentleman at the desk. He is the owner actually. Would you like to speak with him?”
“Please.”
The man bowed ever so slightly and moved away. A moment later the man at the desk joined them and introduced himself. He was in his late fifties with deep brown skin and jet-black hair, parted on one side and swept back from his serious face. “I am Fernando Domínguez. How can I help you this evening?” He was impeccably dressed in what appeared to be Armani with a subtle blue silk tie. His black shoes gleamed from polish, even in the low light.
“A friend of ours found a telescope in your shop and had it shipped back to the United States. When we saw it we asked where he had found it. He gave us your address.”
“And you would like a telescope?” Domínguez asked.
“Yes,” Taylor answered. “The same kind, if possible. It was lacquered brass—by Negretti, I think.”
Domínguez smiled. “Yes, of course. A nineteenth-century piece by Negretti and Zambra.” His correction of her error was very tasteful. “We had six telescopes, but three pieces have been sold, so our selection is somewhat limited. Do you remember exactly what the telescope looked like? The three we have are all a bit different.” He led Alan and Taylor to where three brass telescopes sat on old-looking wooden legs.
Alan surveyed the scopes, then said, “I’m not sure. Perhaps you could pull the invoice from the sale and look at the model number.”
“An excellent idea,” Domínguez said. “What was the man’s name?”
“Brand. Edward Brand,” Alan said, his voice even and clear. “If it’s not under his personal name, it might be under his company. NewPro.” Alan spelled it.
“I’ll have a look through our files. They’re computerized, so it should only take a moment.” He walked back to the desk, leaving Taylor and Alan alone with the menagerie of ancient scientific instruments.
“Good so far,” Alan said quietly. “Let’s hope he finds Brand’s name in his computer.”
“And an address,” Taylor added.
They milled about for a couple of minutes until the store owner returned. He shook his head as he approached. “Nothing under either of those names. Sorry. Perhaps we could look closely at the telescopes, and maybe you will remember which one it is. Or maybe you’ll just see one you like.”
Taylor nodded, and they spent the next few minutes feigning interest over the three ancient telescopes and the fitted wooden cases that accompanied them. After a few minutes Alan shook his head.
“I don’t know. I’m just not sure.” Then he snapped his fingers. “Taylor, you’ve got a picture of Edward with you. Why don’t you show it to Senor Domínguez. Perhaps he’ll recognize him and will be able to place which piece Edward bought.”
“Good idea,” she said, digging through the small handbag she’d brought with her. She withdrew the sketch and unfolded it. “We all had these done by an artist at a country fair near our houses. Edward didn’t like his so I kept it.” She held it out so Domínguez could see the face.
For the briefest moment Domínguez’s eyes opened slightly and his lips parted, sucking in a tiny breath. Then his features immediately returned to the stoic but accommodating man who was trying to sell them a telescope. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t recognize the man.”
“Perhaps one of your staff,” Alan said.
“Perhaps,” Domínguez said, his lips tighter now, any hint of a smile gone. “I will take the sketch and make a photocopy, then ask my staff tomorrow if anyone sold this man a telescope. If you leave me your name and your hotel, I will forward the results on to you.”
“We’ll call you tomorrow afternoon,” Alan said before Taylor could answer.
“That would be fine,” Domínguez said. “I’ll make the photocopy.” He went through a door behind the desk, was gone for the better part of a minute, then reappeared with the original in one hand and a copy in the other. “That worked well. I’ll make sure and ask around tomorrow morning.” He handed T
aylor the sketch. “About the telescope . . .”
“Let’s wait and see if we can figure out which one it is first,” Taylor said. “Maybe one of your staff will remember selling Edward the piece. Then we can pull the invoice.”
“As you wish,” he said. “Good evening and thank you for coming in.”
They returned to the sidewalk and to the early evening warmth. The shop had been mildly air conditioned and the air outside was warm and close. Ricardo saw them exit the shop and waved. They walked slowly to the car.
“Did you catch his reaction when he saw the picture?” Taylor asked.
“Oh, yeah. He knows who Brand is. No doubt about it.”
“Why would he snap shut like that? He sold Brand an antique. Why not just tell us about the sale?”
Alan lightly grasped her arm, and they stopped on the sidewalk, out of earshot of the car. “Think about it, Taylor. If this guy really knows who Edward Brand is, then he knows that Brand is a criminal. And keep in mind Alicia Walker. She stuck her nose in the works, and she’s dead. And she’s an FBI agent. If Brand had that Tony Stevens guy kill Alicia Walker, he wouldn’t think twice about getting someone to knock off some antique shop owner. No wonder he’s scared.”
Taylor was thoughtful. “So what now?”
Alan took a few seconds to answer, then said, “Now we get creative.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Fernando Domínguez switched off the lights and set the alarm. A low glow emanated from the night-lights positioned at sporadic intervals throughout the antique store. He exited and locked the door before the sixty-second delay on the alarm kicked in. The sidewalks were filled with young Chilangos, dressed for the night. He kept close to the front of his building, then cut down a narrow passageway between the building and the one to the west. There was no lighting and the old cobblestones provided little grip for his dress shoes. He almost slipped once, but caught the rough edge of the brick building and steadied himself. Domínguez disliked cutting through the narrow gap, but it beat a three-block walk to get from the front of his business to the rear, where his car was parked. And thanks to Mexico City’s lax building codes in the 1980s and early 1990s, another building owner had erected a wall between the rear exit of his business and where he parked his car. So every night he slipped through the hole in the wall, wondering if this was the time a young street punk would be waiting for him. He touched the leather holster under his arm and felt the cold steel of his pistol. It was reassuring.