Shell Game

by Jeff Buick

Alan leaned back in his chair, taking in the view. “And that’s a bad thing?”

  Villa Anterra was a four-room, very private resort set between the eighteenth hole of the desert course and the first tee box of the ocean links. Four separate rooms, each complete with its own balcony and luxury bath, tied into a wide hall that led to the central meeting rooms, comprised of a kitchen, games area and media room. Imported Italian tile graced the bath and shower walls in addition to the floors inside the rooms. The numerous outdoor decks were constructed of perfectly interlocked rough-hewn sandstone. The exterior finish was smooth cream stucco and red tile on the roof. Pillars delineated the different spaces, their soft lines melding well with the background desert scene.

  Edward Brand sat in one of the chaise lounges overlooking the infinity pool and felt the warm Mexican sun on his skin. Beyond the pool was a sea of cactus poking out of the sandy soil, and on the horizon the azure blue of the Pacific Ocean. White-naped brush finches flittered about the prickly pear cacti, landing and alighting, the same scene played out countless times a day. A few hundred yards between the villa and the ocean was the clubhouse for the two golf courses, a majestic building ringed by mature royal palms. An occasional golf cart wheeled by, but mostly it was peaceful. Brand finished his beer and set the empty bottle on the table next to his chair.

  Everything had gone according to plan. With one small glitch. Tony Stevens should never have involved Alicia Walker in his life, something that had proved fatal for both him and the FBI agent. Stupid. That was the only word Edward Brand had to describe the entire fiasco. But even with the unexpected problem, they had still managed to stay invisible to the police. Neither he nor any of his key players had criminal records, and without something for the police to work with, their job was like finding a needle in a haystack. And the world was one very big haystack. Especially Mexico.

  Even with all the trade agreements and bilateral cooperation between the United States, Canada and Mexico that had developed over the past few years, it was still extremely easy for a gringo to meld into Mexican society. Having money helped. It was surprising how quickly people accepted you into their community when you paid cash. The police were polite and understanding that the new foreigner required his privacy. In return, numerous high-ranking officials in the Cabo detachment were driving newer cars. Things were so simple with money. And money was one thing Edward Brand had a lot of.

  The final figures were in. Two hundred and twelve million dollars. Less expenses, they had netted one hundred and eighty-nine million. After he had paid everyone else, his take was one-fifty-six. A hundred and fifty-six million dollars. Not bad for forty months of work. He had always known that NewPro would work, but he had needed to wait until he had the resources, both money and key personnel, to run the con. It was elaborate, but with precise execution it was also very simple.

  He felt the wind start to pick up, and he glanced at his watch. Almost five o’clock. Omar, the Mexican man who ran the villa for him, would be calling him for dinner soon. He rose from the lounger and stretched, scanning the horizon. A couple of golf carts whizzed past, and he glanced over at the clubhouse. Maybe a round of golf would be nice. Something to break up the day. Maybe tomorrow. Then again, he thought, maybe not.

  God it was nice to have options. That was one thing having an excess of money gave him. It was something he would never have to give up.

  Being rich was fun. Especially with other people’s money.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  It was almost three o’clock on Friday, November 3. Taylor and Alan had found a timeshare unit with a view of the golf clubhouse from the small patio off the kitchen, and spent the daylight hours watching the golfers on the first tee and coming off the course at eighteen. Every day they walked over to the dining room in the clubhouse at Cabo del Sol for lunch and watched the tee on the ocean course and the eighteenth green of the desert course from the restaurant balcony. After lunch they spent the afternoon relaxing on their patio, then headed back to the clubhouse for dinner. By Friday evening, they had tried most of the entrees on the menu.

  “This is crazy,” Taylor said. “We came up with this idea a week ago, and we’ve got nothing to show for it.”

  “He’s here somewhere,” Alan said. “He’ll show up.”

  “Do you have any idea how many times you’ve said that? I think we’ve got to reconsider what we’re doing.”

  Alan sipped his drink, a local beer. He allowed himself one a day, the rest of the time sticking to soda or Perrier water. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Quit after today?” Taylor asked.

  He nodded. “Okay. Today is the last day watching the golf course.”

  He excused himself to use the bathroom, and Taylor looked over the room. She was so tired of sitting here doing nothing. Edward Brand had stolen everything they had, and although they suspected they were within a square mile of where he was living, they still couldn’t find him. It was crazy. Alan returned and they talked for a few minutes, finished their drinks and paid the tab. They walked out toward the parking lot, and Taylor froze.

  “Alan,” she said quietly. “Look over there, where they take the clubs off the carts. It’s him. It’s Edward Brand.”

  Alan looked where she indicated. Taylor was right. It was definitely Brand. He was just picking up his clubs from one of the young men who cleaned and stored the members’ golf bags. They watched as Brand slung them over his shoulder and headed for the parking lot. He reached a dark blue Ford Explorer and threw the clubs in the back, then jumped in the driver’s seat and backed out of his parking spot. Taylor and Alan raced across the lot to their car and pulled in behind the Explorer. Brand drove slowly through the winding streets of Cabo del Sol, then pulled out onto the highway.

  Brand opened the Explorer up when he hit the main road between Cabo San Lucas and San José del Cabo, the speedometer quickly topping ninety miles an hour. The traffic was as varied as it was insane—beaters trying to make it up the steep hills and delivery trucks with drivers who thought they were in the Baja 1000 mixed in with tourists who had absolutely no idea where they were going. Driving on the southern tip of the Baja peninsula was crazy at the speed limit, and insanely dangerous at almost double it. Alan tried to keep close to Brand, but not so close that he would see them in his rearview mirror. They reached the outskirts of San José del Cabo, and Alan tightened up the distance between them.

  “He’s going to see you,” Taylor said as he slid in just two cars back.

  “I’ve got to keep him close. This place is a goddamn maze. If he gets out of sight and turns a corner, we’ve lost him.”

  Taylor hung on as they took a fast corner, staying about eighty feet behind the tail of the Explorer. “Where do you think he’s going?” The side window was open halfway, and her long red hair whipped about. She grabbed it and held it in a makeshift ponytail with her free hand.

  “I’ve got no idea, but I sure hope he gets there soon. He drives like an asshole. This is not fun.”

  The target vehicle kept on the main road that serviced the major resorts, then turned toward town at the first traffic circle. Brand slowed as he approached the central part of town. At the point where the street narrowed to a single lane in both directions and tiny shops appeared on each side, he turned right and took the road to Laguna Hills. It bypassed the main commercial section of San José del Cabo and swung toward the coastline. Tiny cinder-block houses lined the left side of the road, their yards filled with stripped cars and broken appliances. The road was deteriorating quickly, the pavement pockmarked with potholes and ruts. Homemade speed bumps, embedded in the roadway by locals to slow speeding cars, rattled their teeth as they flew over them, trying to keep the Explorer in sight. At the second traffic circle, Brand turned away from the marina and headed northwest, inland but paralleling the coast.

  The small decrepit homes lining the street thinned out and eventually disappeared. The road became a twisting thread of asphalt, cutting thr
ough the rugged Baja scrubland. The pavement was newer but without any shoulders, the road was dangerous at high speeds. There was no room for error. Cacti and large boulders flew past as they navigated the serpentine stretch of highway at close to breakneck speeds. Still, the Explorer stayed well ahead of them. Only on occasion did the landscape open enough for them to see the vehicle they were following, and Alan edged his speed up even more, trying to close the gap between the two vehicles.

  They crested yet another ridge and rounded a corner. Alan hit the brakes and the car slid to a stop. In front of them was a T-intersection. To the right was an incline down to a waterless valley, or arroyo, and across the far side was a small village. A sign indicated it was La Laguna. To the left was a dirt road, heading north along the coast of the East Cape. A small dust plume was just settling at the base of the hill leading to La Laguna. Alan inched forward until he could see into the arroyo. The Explorer was parked in front of a building rimmed by an old wood fence. A sign hung over the entrance. The picture was a cartoon drawing of a vulture carrying a surfboard. The printing was barely visible from where they were parked. Buzzards Bar & Grill.

  Alan looked over at Taylor. “What now?”

  She thought for a minute, then said, “Pull down the hill. Just try to keep out of sight as best you can. Maybe we can spot him and watch what he’s up to.”

  “Okay.” Alan eased the rental down the stretch of road leading to the bottom of the dry riverbed. The road mutated from pavement to sand and dry clay as he reached the low point in the small valley. To the left of the car, toward the ocean, they could see an outdoor restaurant, the plastic tables covered by bright orange and pink tablecloths. It was protected from the late afternoon sun by a thatched roof, and was surprisingly busy. Sitting in one of the chairs with his back to them was Edward Brand.

  Alan was livid, staring at the man who had stolen their money. “Why don’t we sneak up behind him and smack him over the head. Knock him out and tie him up. When he comes to we’ll beat the shit out of him until he tells us where our money is.”

  Taylor shook her head. “Look at the place. It’s too crowded. Nobody is going to let you just whack him over the head and carry him out. We have to wait until he’s alone somewhere.”

  “What if he’s got a gun? Then what?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. I just know that now is not the time.”

  “I’m losing my patience with this game,” Alan said testily.

  They waited while Brand ate dinner. He had two beers with his meal, then made a phone call on the house phone, paid the tab and headed back to the Explorer. Taylor and Alan ducked below the dash until he had pulled out and retreated back up the access road. Alan gunned the engine and followed.

  Brand didn’t turn back onto the paved road, but continued up the dirt road that ran parallel to the coastline. It was a rough track, gutted with ruts, and white dust churned up behind the vehicles, coating everything with a fine grit. The Explorer kicked up a dust trail as it bumped along the road, which allowed Alan to back off to a few hundred yards with no risk of losing Brand. Inland, the earth was arid, punctuated with cacti and prickly shrubs, and useless for anything productive. To the right was the beach, light brown sand commingled with white rocks that thrust from the sand like outstretched fingers. Waves slammed against the craggy formations. To the west, the sun approached the distant horizon.

  “A couple of hours until it gets dark,” Taylor said as they bounced over the uneven roadway.

  “I know,” Alan said.

  The approaching darkness was not a good thing. Right now they could keep Brand in sight, but once the sun dipped below the mountains, it would be impossible to track him. After about two miles, the road turned inland. The going was slow, Brand averaging about fifteen to twenty miles an hour, and Alan matching that pace. The ocean was out of sight for a mile. Then the road twisted about and angled back to the east. A massive tangle of rocks rose a couple of hundred feet and jutted out to the coast. In the dwindling sunlight they could see the road snaking around the formation, about halfway up. Brand’s vehicle climbed up the narrow road and disappeared around the corner. Alan hit the bottom of the hill and gave the car some gas. As they drove, the ocean quickly dropped away. The road was barely wide enough for two cars, and there was no guard rail. Beneath them was a sheer drop to the ocean, where the waves were at high tide and crashing into the base of the rocks. They rounded the corner and before they could stop they were face to face with Edward Brand. He had parked the Explorer at the edge of the cliff and was standing next to the driver’s door looking out over the ocean.

  “What the fuck?” Brand yelled as they almost hit him. All three stared at each other for a second, then Brand grabbed the door handle and pulled. He jumped into the vehicle, which was parked in a small section of the road where it was wide enough for two cars to pass and one to park. It was sitting precariously close to the edge.

  “Hold on,” Alan screamed and floored the car. It shot forward and smashed into the side of the Explorer, pushing it toward the cliff. The rear passenger’s tire hung on the edge. Brand started the truck and hit the gas. The differential rear axle sent power to the wheel with the least resistance and the one hanging over the edge began to spin. Brand slammed on the brakes, stopping the tire from spinning and reached for the button to kick in the four wheel drive.

  Alan slammed the rental into reverse and backed up a few feet. He saw what Brand was doing and knew he had a few seconds before the Explorer would be back on the road. He grabbed the clasp on Taylor’s seat belt and unhooked it, reached across and pulled on her door handle.

  “Out,” he yelled. “Get out.”

  “No, Alan.”

  She tried to shut the door but he pushed her and she tumbled from the passenger’s seat onto the dusty road. She stumbled to her feet just in time to see him ram the car into drive. He gave her a quick look as he hit the gas.

  “He’s dead, Taylor,” he said loud enough for her to hear over the two motors. A split second later the car shot ahead.

  Edward Brand floored the SUV at precisely the same time. The all-wheel drive sent power to the front tires as well as the rear and the vehicle leapt ahead. Alan couldn’t react fast enough. He pulled his foot off the gas and hit the brake but it was too late. The car missed the Explorer and careened off the cliff, floating, suspended in midair for a few seconds, then smashing into the sea. A huge spray shot up and a large wave hit the car, sending it tumbling on its side before it dropped below the surface and disappeared.

  Brand spun the Explorer about and shot past Taylor, heading north on the dirt road. He was laughing. She rushed over to the edge of the cliff and looked down. The ocean was over a hundred feet below, waves relentlessly crashing into the rocks. There was no sign of the car—or of Alan. She fell to the ground, her lungs heaving but her breath barely coming. She stared at the sheer rock wall rising above the road, at her hands covered with the fine white dust, then at the darkening sky. But her mind could only process one image.

  The look of horror in Alan’s eyes as he plunged over the cliff.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Taylor sat in the hard wooden chair, oblivious to the chaos about her. She was in the San José del Cabo policia station, a drab and depressing building near the center of town. The police had driven her to their precinct from the accident scene after determining she was involved in the crash. The interior of the precinct was rather decrepit, the painted stucco walls peeling and most desks and chairs in disrepair. She had decided very quickly that telling the Mexican police that Alan was trying to kill someone when he drove over the cliff was a bad idea to the nth degree, and had instead woven a story that included both truth and conjecture. So far they seemed to be buying it. One of the more senior officers, who spoke passable English, returned to where she sat and positioned himself beside her. His name was Manuel Ortega.

  “Ms. Simons, you are sure your husband drove farther up the road after he dropp
ed you at the viewpoint?” Ortega asked.

  “Yes, I’m sure,” she replied in a soft voice. She was a mess, her eyes black from the mascara running and red from crying. She sat with her shoulders hunched over, staring at the floor.

  Ortega’s eyes were steady on her. “There are houses just up the road, and no one living in those houses saw your husband drive by. One of the women was outside in her yard hanging her laundry to dry. I think she would remember seeing a tourist in a rental car. There is not much traffic on this road.” His tone was interesting, almost inviting her to tell the truth.

  “My husband wanted to see what was ahead on the road. I wished to stay at the lookout and enjoy the view. When he returned he was traveling too fast and went over the cliff.” She looked up and stared straight into his eyes, unblinking. “My husband is dead, Senor Ortega. Please try to respect that fact.”

  He nodded, barely and very slowly. “I just find it a little strange that no one saw him drive up the road, and that the tracks from his car appear to go straight off the cliff, not on an angle, like they would if the car was coming around the corner at a high speed.”

  Taylor was quiet. It was very obvious this man was not a Mexican police officer who didn’t care what happened to the gringos except to take their bribes. He knew something was askew, now it was a question of whether he wanted to pursue it.

  “When will you be returning to the United States?” he asked.

  “Soon. I have no reason to stay in Mexico.”

  He nodded again. This time with a little more conviction. He looked down at the file on his lap and opened it. “I see,” he said, flipping through a few pages. He was quiet, scanning the contents of each page. Finally he closed the file. “The divers are searching for your husband’s body, but it will be difficult. The tides and the waves in that area of the coastline are very dangerous.”

  “I can imagine,” Taylor said.

  “Yes, I’m sure you can.” He tapped the file against his knee a few times, then said, “Is there anything else you want to tell me, Ms. Simons? Anything at all?” Ortega’s eyes told her that he knew there was more to this than what she was telling.