Shell Game

by Jeff Buick

  Revenge.

  How to get it was another story. She wasn’t sure. But she felt that the first step toward that goal was to involve Kelly Kramer. Whether he could empower the resources of the NSA was doubtful, but Kelly was an intelligent man who thought outside the box. The kind of person she needed on her side right now. On her side. What a way to think. Almost as if it were a battle. Or a war for that matter. But in some ways, it was. Alan had infiltrated her life, wooed her, married her and lived with her as her husband for almost three years. All of it, every minute, a lie. She felt the anger rising again, as it had so often over the past forty-eight hours.

  Her driver pulled into the airport and stopped in front of the Delta entrance. She paid him, wheeled her bag to the counter, checked in and immediately went through the gate to the waiting area. It was cold in the airport, and she kept her jacket on, shivering as she sat alone in the crowded terminal. They announced the boarding for her flight, and she waited until most of the passengers had checked through before getting on. The plane departed about six minutes off schedule, and once it reached cruising altitude, she pulled a blanket over her, tucked her head into the pillow and slept. When she woke they were about an hour from landing at D.C. It was the best sleep she’d since bedding down in Kelly’s guest room.

  He was waiting for her when the plane arrived, just after six on Thursday afternoon. She had departed Paris at four in the afternoon, and the time change had almost wiped out the flying time. Since she hadn’t eaten on the plane, she was hungry.

  “Perfect,” Kelly said when she told him she needed to eat. “I thought you’d be hungry so I made reservations at the Dupont Grille. You’ll like it. Great atmosphere, very good food.”

  “Need both right now,” she said, staring out the window at the snow as Kelly drove. A low-pressure front had passed through, dumping about six inches of snow on the city. Plows were out, and the main streets were clear, but the side streets were a mess, with cars sitting under huge mounds of ice and snow, useless until the plows made it through. “My God, look at this. It’s like the North Pole.”

  He laughed. “This is nothing. Boston is at a complete standstill.”

  They made it to Dupont Circle and through some stroke of incredibly good luck found a parking spot less than a block down Nineteenth Street. The snow had been cleared from the sidewalk and walking was easy. They reached Jurys Washington Hotel and cut in the Nineteenth Street entrance to the restaurant, which was part of the main floor of the hotel. Inside, the décor was colorful and invigorating. Pumpkin-hued booths were framed by large blocks of white, black and yellow painted on the walls. The sidewalk café was long closed, but the bar occupying the rear wall of the restaurant was jammed with the after-work crowd. Their table was ready and the hostess escorted them in.

  “So what’s going on? You said you might need my help with something,” Kelly said as the drinks arrived.

  Taylor tried the merlot she had ordered and nodded in approval. It seemed almost trite that it was French. “I’ve been scammed like you would not believe.”

  “I know.” His tone was understanding.

  “No, you don’t know,” Taylor said. “There’s a lot more to what happened with NewPro than first appeared on the radar. A lot.”

  “What do you mean?” Kelly said, leaning into the table.

  “Alan is alive.”

  There was a full fifteen seconds of silence. Then Kelly said, “What do you mean, Alan’s alive? That’s impossible.”

  She wanted to laugh at the conviction with which he said those words. The same conviction she would have used only days before. When she answered, her voice was rife with sarcasm. “Oh, he’s alive all right. Alive and living in Paris. I saw him on the street, walking hand in hand with another woman. He had both his hands by the way.”

  “Oh, my God,” Kelly said as what she was telling him sunk in. “Don’t tell me . . .”

  She just nodded. Then after a minute and another drink of wine she said, “It was him, Kelly. I know it was him. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that my husband is alive. And I’m equally as sure that he was involved in the NewPro scam from minute one.”

  She went on to tell him about the cash Alan had never invested in the company and his antics in Mexico City. It just kept coming—the fake job working for Angus Strang, the severed hand with the chewed fingernails, the million-dollar insurance policy to keep her from digging into his death in desperation, and the sperm Alan had insisted on depositing in case they wanted to have children.

  “Children,” she said. “The bastard. He had no intention of staying with me one minute longer than he had to. Get the money and run. And that’s exactly what he did.” The tears wanted to come, but she wouldn’t acquiesce. Not now. Not over him. “I lived with him as his wife for almost three years, Kelly. Do you know how that makes me feel?”

  He was silent. He shook his head.

  “Like some sort of trailer trash.”

  “You’re too good for that,” Kelly said softly.

  Taylor stared at him for a second, then smiled. She took another drink of wine. “This food is wonderful.”

  “Told you.” They ate in silence for a minute, then Kelly asked, “What now? What are you going to do?”

  She shrugged, her mouth full. When she finished chewing, she said, “I’m not sure. I thought you might have some ideas. You’re the spy.”

  “I told you, I’m not a spy. I’m a cubicle rat who works on computers.”

  “Well, cubicle rats always have ideas in the movies. Remember Three Days of the Condor with Robert Redford. He was totally out of his element, but he used his CIA connections to figure out what was going on.”

  “Good movie,” Kelly said. “Wasn’t Faye Dunaway the woman he grabbed out of the store?”

  She nodded, spearing a piece of grilled waluu on her fork. “I love this fish.” She finished chewing and leaned forward, her elbows on the table. “I want to get him, Kelly. He used me in the most horrific way a person can be used. I want . . .” She was reluctant to use the word. He waited, and finally she said, “I want revenge.”

  Kelly looked down at the half-eaten food on his plate. Taylor Simons was a real person. She had given him a job, trained him, allowed him to grow and mature in one of the most fascinating businesses he had ever seen, and all the while she had been his friend. Taylor was real because she put people first, everything else second. When she was committed to someone, it was for the duration. She didn’t discard people. Ever. That wasn’t her way. But now she had been discarded. By the one person she felt she could trust no matter what happened. She had taken Alan into her life and had dropped every veil of secrecy. She had let him, and only him, see the real her. In return he had stolen her money and disappeared. He had abused the trust she had bestowed on him. Kelly could only begin to imagine how deeply she was hurt.

  He made a decision. “Let’s go back over everything. Right from the start. There’s got to be some way to find Alan and Edward Brand.”

  She reached out and grabbed his hand. “Thanks.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Three days of digging. All for naught.

  One thing became very clear very quickly: Edward Brand and his cronies had left no visible trail for their pursuers to follow. Every possible lead ended up in a dead end. Sam Morel and the SFPD had nothing new, and a call to the FBI district office in San Francisco gave them no more satisfaction. Brent Hawkins and John Abrams, still heading up the Western investigation into the NewPro scam were dead in the water. Even with the considerable resources of the Bureau at their fingertips, neither they nor their New York counterparts had managed to garner one clue from Alicia Walker’s murder that led back to who Tony Stevens or Edward Brand really were.

  Taylor hung up from speaking with Brent Hawkins and set the cordless phone on the kitchen table beside her tea. It was lukewarm and she took a small sip, then dumped the last of it down the sink drain. She and Kelly Kramer were in his condo
, where they had spent the last four hours going over everything she could remember of her life with Alan that could be tied back to the scam.

  There was precious little, save for the photograph that had connected Alan to his life in Paris. Alan and Edward Brand had been meticulous in their planning and execution, and that caution was now paying off.

  Taylor plunked down on the kitchen chair and said, “Why didn’t you want me to tell Sam Morel or the FBI guys about Alan? That might help them in their search.”

  “I don’t know, just a feeling. Sometimes it’s better to keep a little information just to yourself.” He leaned back in his chair and ran his hands through his hair. “And the whole thing with the computers is still bugging me a bit.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The hard drive I found the information on was tough to find but not impossible. If Sam Morel’s computer guy was even reasonably good, he should have found it.”

  She was hesitant. “But that’s not what you said earlier. You led everyone to believe it was quite probable he would have missed it.”

  Kelly grinned. “Like I said, always keep a little something under wraps.”

  Taylor was puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

  “How well do you know Sam Morel? Or either of the FBI agents working the case?”

  “I’d never met any of them until this happened.”

  “So what if they’re not who they seem?”

  “Sam’s a cop. Hawkins and Abrams are FBI. Who else would they be?” Taylor was shocked at the direction of Kelly’s thoughts.

  Kelly pulled himself out of his chair, picked up the kettle, filled it with water and set it on the stove. He turned on the element and leaned against the granite edge of the counter. “I find something on a computer that another expert missed. Alicia Walker gets shot in her bathtub. One coincidence I can live with—two, I start to get suspicious.”

  “Are you insinuating that one of those three is working with Brand?”

  Kelly shrugged. “I’m not insinuating anything. I’m just being careful. What were they like to you? Overly friendly? Helpful? Businesslike? Curt?”

  “Well, Hawkins and Abrams were very standoffish. Typical FBI, I think. I’m guessing really. I’ve never had to deal with the FBI before so I don’t have a benchmark. But Sam Morel was very accommodating. He kept us in the loop throughout the investigation.” She caught herself and said, “Us,” her voice dripping with sarcasm. She and Alan—what a joke.

  Kelly nodded. “So what have we got? Right now you and I are the only ones who know Alan Bestwick is alive. Except, of course, for Edward Brand and Alan himself and whoever helped him survive that car crash. If, and that’s a big if, there’s a leak somewhere and one of these guys is on Brand’s payroll, we’re only going to expose ourselves by letting them know what we know.” The kettle whistled, and he turned off the stove. He poured two fresh teas and delivered them to the table. He sat opposite her, poking his tea bag with a spoon until the water had turned a light brown, then removed the bag. “They think you’ve taken the bait, Taylor. You’ve got a million-dollar life insurance policy that paid out on Alan’s death. You have no financial worries. You’re grieving, but getting on with your life. As long as you’re doing exactly what they expect, they won’t bother watching you too closely. But if you walk into FBI headquarters and tell them you suspect Alan is still alive, and one of them is in bed with Edward Brand, you’re a dead woman.” He took a sip of tea, made a face and set it back on the table. “Wow, that’s hot.”

  Taylor just stared at him, mouth open. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  He didn’t smile. “No, I’m not.”

  Taylor touched the side of the teacup and felt the warmth transfer to her finger. What had happened to her normal life? Four months ago, she had been a successful businesswoman with a great husband and a life that ninety-nine percent of the world’s population would want. But everything had changed. Her marriage was a sham, her business gone, and if what Kelly was saying were true, her very life could be in danger.

  “What do I do?” she asked. She briefly thought about the million-dollar check still sitting in her house, tucked under the book on her fireplace.

  “We,” he corrected her.

  “What?”

  “We, not just you. We’re in this together, Taylor. I’m not the kind of guy who deserts his friends when they need him. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to help.”

  She nodded, her mouth suddenly dry. The tea was still steaming, but she took a sip. “That would be great.”

  “What do we do?” Kelly said rhetorically. “That’s the question. I think I’ve got an answer. Edward Brand and his crew were highly visible during the scam, and they had to know that once they pulled the plug, everything they did to rip off their marks would come under the microscope. They left no clues. What about the one thing they never thought we’d figure out? Maybe they weren’t quite as careful there.”

  “What’s the one thing?” Taylor asked, intrigued.

  “The crash.”

  “When Alan went over the cliff?”

  “Exactly.” Kelly stroked his goatee as he spoke. “Brand counted on everyone accepting the fact that Alan had died in the crash. They bought off a Mexican official and planted the DNA so it would match the sperm sample Alan had on file in San Francisco. Finding that official is impossible, I’ll tell you that right now. What Brand didn’t consider, was that someone would find out Alan was alive and know the crash was a setup. That the same someone would take a really close look at the accident.”

  “What do you think we’ll find?” Taylor asked.

  He shook his head. “Maybe nothing, but to me that looks to be the weak point in their plan. And weak spots should always be exploited.”

  “How?”

  Kelly pursed his lips, looking serious. “I don’t know if I can get my hands on them, but NSA has satellite surveillance tapes that cover almost every inch of the earth. They’re downloaded to the mainframe at Crypto-City every twelve hours and filed by time and GPS location. If I could get the okay to retrieve the data the satellite picked up at that precise time, we may have something.”

  “Can you do that?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I can try. The worst that will happen is someone will say no.”

  “You’re willing to try?”

  “Yeah, Taylor, I am. Brand’s theft was bad enough, but what Alan did to you is unbelievable.”

  Taylor sat at the table, her hands cupped around the tepid teacup. Where one person had deceived her, another was now standing up and saying ‘enough.’ She had a true friend in Kelly Kramer and to deny him an opportunity to help would be a slap in the face. That was something she would not do. Not to a friend. Couple that loyalty with the fact that the man worked for the country’s premier intelligence-gathering agency, telling him she didn’t want his help would be more than a slap in the face. It would be stupid.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Richard Tolman headed the arm of the National Security Agency where both Renita Gallant and Kelly Kramer worked. He was a career bureaucrat, a family man and a fair man. Still, he didn’t like the idea of Kelly and Renita using government data for what was, in effect, a private investigation into Alan Bestwick’s disappearance. His arms were crossed and his jaw set as Kelly made his pitch. If body language were any indicator, they were out of luck.

  Taylor sat in Tolman’s office, listening and watching as Kelly presented his case for why they should have access to the satellite imagery. Kelly was convincing, playing to Tolman’s sense of right versus wrong. While Kramer portrayed Taylor Simons as a woman who had been more than just slightly wronged, he barely touched on what Alan had done to her emotionally—NSA didn’t base its decisions on emotion. Rather, he gave Tolman every detail on the crime. How Brand and Alan had stolen millions of dollars from her. When Kelly finished speaking, the room was silent.

  Tolman uncrossed his arms and set his hands on his desk
in front of him. He was a gangly man with thinning hair and wire-rimmed spectacles and would have looked right at home at a CPA convention. There was a wedding ring on his left hand. He glanced at all three of them, then locked eyes with Taylor.

  “Was there ever any indication that Alan Bestwick wasn’t who he seemed to be?” Tolman asked.

  The question surprised her. “Never. Alan and I were married and lived a very normal life as husband and wife. He worked, I owned a business, we came home every day and had dinner together and took vacations a couple of times a year. That’s why Alan’s involvement in this is so devastating. I trusted him—as my husband.”

  Tolman’s eyes didn’t flicker. His gaze bored into her, stripping off the layers and searching for the truth. Under that stare, Taylor realized that while this man may appear to be an accountant, he most certainly wasn’t.

  “It is within my authority to grant access to the satellite imagery you want, Ms. Simons,” he said, his voice even but not monotone. “I’m reluctant. This almost appears to be vigilante action. I do not want to be party to anything even remotely resembling that.”

  Taylor returned the gaze, not threatening or pleading, just eye to eye. “I need to put this to rest.”

  “And if you find he is alive? Then what? Do you go after him? Do you use Mr. Kramer’s connections inside the intelligence community to find someone to kill Alan Bestwick?”

  Taylor was shocked at the words. “Of course not.”

  Tolman nodded slightly and held up one hand in a stopping motion. “Don’t get upset, Ms. Simons. You have to understand where this could go. You can imagine my position if it were traced back to this office that I had assisted you in finding a man who subsequently died. I’m not sure I want to do that much paperwork. Or retire early.”

  “I want to know,” Taylor said.

  Tolman broke off his eye contact with Taylor and turned to face Kelly. “Give me your word you won’t involve your contacts at Langley in this.”