Shell Game
Page 1
HIGH PRAISE FOR JEFF BUICK!
AFRICAN ICE
“From one breathtaking, life-threatening scene to the next, you’ll feel like you’re watching an adventure movie with a less than sure outcome. . . . What a terrific read!”
—Fresh Fiction
“Wall-to-wall action and intrigue, with just enough tech-speak to keep it fascinating. . . . Buick is a tremendous find.”
—RT BOOKreviews (Top Pick!)
LETHAL DOSE
“Full of action and danger . . . The author keeps the reader turning the pages long into the night.”
—Detective Mystery Stories
“Lethal Dose is a fast-paced, energetic, and relevant read.”
—Fresh Fiction
“. . . A thought-provoking, suspense-filled novel.”
—The Midwest Book Review
BLOODLINE
“Buick has created an intense, gut-twisting thriller with his brilliant debut. With characters modeled from real-life headlines, he gives the book depth and a life of its own.”
—The Best Reviews
A DEADLY DEAL
Tony swallowed and said, “Where do we go from here, Edward?”
“Tony, this is a major problem. Not just with this Walker person. I’m not at all happy with you. The rules are very clear. Nobody gets in once the con is on. Nobody sees inside our operation or inside our heads once we’re up and moving. Nobody.” Brand slowly turned his head and faced his visitor, his gray eyes cold and penetrating. “Where do we go? Good question.”
“Jesus, Edward, it was a one-time thing. It’ll never happen again. I swear.” He was shaking now and concentrated on keeping his beer steady. He swallowed heavily, his throat dry.
“You’re a good guy, Tony, but business is business,” Brand said. He remained motionless, and the room was absolutely quiet. A log shifted slightly in the fireplace and a few sparks shot up the flue. “I tell you what,” he finally said, “I’ll make you a deal.”
“What sort of deal?”
“We need to take care of the problem we’ve got in New York. She’s a very real threat to our safety. You take care of her, and everything’s fine.”
“Kill her?” Tony asked.
“Seems almost barbaric when you just come right out and say it,” Brand said, finishing his beer. . . .
Other Leisure books by Jeff Buick:
AFRICAN ICE
LETHAL DOSE
BLOODLINE
SHELL
GAME
JEFF BUICK
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
Chapter Sixty-four
DORCHESTER PUBLISHING
Published by Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
200 Madison Avenue New York, NY 10016
Copyright © 2007 by Jeff Buick All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Trade ISBN: 978-1-4285-1808-7
E-book ISBN: 978-1-4285-0418-9
First Dorchester Publishing, Co., Inc. edition: April 2007
The “DP” logo is the property of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
Printed in the United States of America.
Visit us online at www.dorchesterpub.com.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Huge thanks to C. J. Woods for the invite to his private villa in Cabo.
Thanks to John Norrish for the name, Shell Game.
This is my fourth book—time to say thanks to some key people who kick-started my writing career and kept it moving forward.
Chrystal Boscoe—a dear friend who started the ball rolling when she met Paul Pearce and told him she knew a writer. Despite his protests, she finally pinned him to the ground and extracted a business card.
Paul Pearce—my Canadian distributor and my friend, who, when faced with that crucial decision —root canal or read Jeff’s manuscript—chose wisely. And for hand-delivering it to Don D’Auria in New York. Paul, you’re the best.
Don D’Auria—my editor at Dorchester Publishing. Every author should be so lucky to work with an editor who is as professional, honest, fair and insightful as Don. I love writing, and Don gave me the chance to share my work with the world. Thanks is a mighty small word for all you’ve done.
SHELL
GAME
PROLOGUE
They moved through the night with stealth and speed.
Eight figures, dressed in dark clothes, jockeyed the desks, boxes and filing cabinets through the loading area into waiting trucks. No one spoke; there was no need. They were orchestrating a plan just as a pro football team runs a play—every player knowing exactly what to do the moment the ball is snapped. And this was one play the team knew very well.
The boxes and filing cabinets they were removing from the offices were light. They should be. They were mostly empty. Paper of any sort was heavy, and it left incriminating evidence, even after it was shredded. Most of the letters and memos that had been in the offices, and that was a very small amount, had been removed over the past few days. When they were finished,
not one sheet of paper would remain. In fact, there would not be one desk or telephone or garbage can left. The work area, five hours earlier a fully functional office, would be stripped clean. It was Friday night and the building was deserted. No one would notice the barren space until Monday morning.
The solitary wall-mounted security camera aimed at the loading dock was disconnected, the wire dangling beneath the lens. When they had picked the office space for their San Francisco operation eight months ago, part of their decision to sign this lease was the lax security in this section of the building. Everything thought out. Nothing to chance.
It’s the details that will trip you up.
When they were finished loading the unmarked vehicles, they closed and bolted the rear doors, and the four trucks pulled out onto the dark side street, single file and moving at exactly the speed limit. Four of the eight drove the trucks; the other four remained in the building. They returned to the empty offices and wiped down every surface that might have contained a fingerprint. It took them less than ten minutes.
Three of the remaining four headed directly to a black Lincoln Navigator parked in the shadows a block north of the building. The fourth returned to the loading dock, reconnected the security camera and dialed a number on his cell phone. He let it ring twice, then hit End. The vibrating phone on the other end of the line was the signal that they were finished on the loading dock. Their accomplice, whose job it was to distract the security guard, could wrap things up and leave. The man who dialed the number joined the other three in the SUV. When they were a mile from the building, one of the two in the backseat finally broke the silence.
“That went well,” he said.
“Was there ever any doubt?” the man in the front passenger seat asked. His name was Edward Brand, and this was his operation.
All three laughed. The kind of laugh that comes easily once a dangerous job is finished and the adrenaline surge begins to subside.
“Not for a moment,” the first man said.
They reached an unmarked intersection where two narrow back streets met, and the driver pulled over to the curb. He switched off the ignition. Parked at the curb were three identical, nondescript cars. Brand turned in his seat so the men could see his face, dimly lit by a streetlight half a block up the road.
“Everyone knows exactly what to do,” he said, and all three nodded silently. “There is no deviation from the plan. None whatsoever. Understood?” Again, all three nodded. “Then that’s it. We meet again when and where it’s arranged. Until then, be cool.”
He extended his hand, and they all shook. The driver stayed in the Navigator and Edward Brand and the others walked up the deserted street to their vehicles. One at a time, they started the motors and pulled away from the curb, each heading in a different direction. Brand’s car was the last to leave. As he pulled onto the deserted street, he allowed himself a smile. Christ, were they going to be shocked.
They always were. They never saw it coming.
Never.
CHAPTER ONE
Taylor Simons kept her mouth shut. The next person to speak would lose.
She let her gaze drift about the boardroom. Six other people sat on the stainless-steel and leather chairs. Three of them were her staff, the key personnel and designers who had spent eight weeks putting together the ad campaign. The other three were the executive team with Hammer-Fire Inc., an international corporation out of New York that developed and marketed fitness equipment. Their newest line of cardio machines was sleek and very expensive. Their target market were the rich and pampered who thought they were devoted enough to work out at home, and every high-end fitness facility in America and Europe that catered to the same people when they found buying the equipment was the easy part. Actually using it was completely different.
Her staff was quiet, unmoving and focused on nothing in particular. They were masters at this segment of the game. Deliver the presentation, answer any questions, then shut up. Let the clients make their decision based on the work. It seldom failed.
“So the bottom line is six-point-two million,” said the most senior of the Hammer-Fire executives.
She had them.
“That’s correct, Don,” Taylor said.
“And there’ll be no cost overruns.”
“None. We have the quotes for television and print guaranteed for the time frames you need. Our figures are accurate to the dollar.”
“Okay, Taylor,” he said, standing and extending his hand. “You’ve got the contract.”
“Thanks,” she said, shaking his hand. She turned to one of her staff members. “Do you have the paperwork, Reg?”
The man nodded and flipped open a file. “Right here.” He slid it across the table to the executive. “I’ll need a couple of signatures.”
Twenty minutes later, Taylor Simons retreated to her corner office and dropped into her padded chair. She hated the uncomfortable and harsh chairs in the boardroom, but her clients expected a cutting-edge advertising agency to project a certain appearance. And since they were paying the bills, they got the image. She touched her wireless mouse and the computer screen came to life. Seven new e-mails since she had left for the boardroom two hours ago. She was responding to the sixth one when a man walked into her office. He was one of the three from the boardroom, the head of her Web design department.
“Nice work today,” he said, leaning on the door jamb. His name was Kelly Kramer, a young-looking thirty-six-year-old and one of Taylor’s most trusted and valuable employees. He had thick dark hair, parted in the middle and creeping down over his ears, a goatee that suited his rugged face and a quick smile. For almost five years, he had been a fixture in Taylor’s inner circle and had grown close enough to be called a friend.
“Thanks,” she said, leaning back in the soft leather. She loved her chair. “Twelve percent of six-point-two million. Not bad for two months’ work.”
“Our ideas were original,” Kelly said. “We deserved the contract over New York and Chicago. They were serving up rehashed concepts.”
“Whatever it was, it worked.”
“I’m out of here,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Been in since four this morning prepping for the meeting. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
Taylor Simons returned to answering her e-mail. At thirty-seven, she was successful beyond even her own high expectations. She owned G-cubed, one of the most sought-after advertising agencies in San Francisco, with 122 staff and annual revenues topping 150 million dollars a year. Her offices occupied seven thousand square feet of prime space in William Polk’s brilliantly designed Hobart Building on Market Street. She was an attractive woman, with high cheekbones, vibrant red hair, green eyes and a facial shape close enough to Nicole Kidman’s to warrant second looks from passers-by. People in restaurants often spent more time stealing glimpses of her and whispering among themselves trying to figure out if she was the famous actress than they did eating. All the downside of fame without the upside. But genetics were genetics. There was no changing how she looked.
Her private line rang, and she glanced at the call display. Earl Hinks, her personal banker at Bay City Trust. She picked up the receiver. “Hello, Earl. Calling to tell me I won’t be paying any bank fees this month?”
“Taylor, something’s happened,” Hinks said. His tone was ominous.
“What?” she asked, leaning forward on her desk.
“Call Alan and have him meet you in my office in half an hour. Can you do that?”
“Yes, of course. What’s wrong?”
“Not over the phone. I’ll see you in half an hour.” The line went dead.
Taylor punched a button for an outside line and dialed her husband’s work number. He answered on the third ring.
“Hi, honey. What’s up? Thought you had a meeting with the Hammer-Fire boys.”
“The meeting’s finished. I just got a call from Earl Hinks at the bank. He said something happened, but he wouldn
’t tell me what it was. He wants us to meet him at his office in a half hour.”
“What? Why? What’s going on?”
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t say. He wants to meet.”
“Christ, Taylor, I’m busy. We’ve got deadlines on this unit we’re designing.”
“I know. But he told me to call you and for both of us to be there in half an hour.”
“Okay. I’ll get there as quick as I can. Half an hour’s tight, though.”
“See you there,” she said, hanging up. She shut down her computer, stopped at the reception desk on the way out to let them know she would be out of the office for an hour or two, then took the elevator to P6, where her Audi A4 waited. The drive to the bank, on Sacramento Street, near Lafayette Park, was quick for a Monday afternoon. The September sun was high in its daily arc, and the temperature hovered in the mid-eighties. There was little breeze from the bay and no chill in the air. It was a perfect day.
Taylor pulled into the small parking lot behind the bank and squeezed the Audi between two SUVs. She slid out, her long legs cramped between her car and the truck. She entered the bank through the side door and headed for Earl Hinks’s office, down the hall on the left. The receptionist looked up as she approached.
“Hello, Lois,” Taylor said as she walked past the woman’s desk. Earl Hinks was the manager of the branch, but his door was always open to her, and she never waited.
“Ms. Simons, Mr. Hinks has asked that you and Mr. Bestwick go in together today. He’d like you to wait in the reception area until your husband arrives.”
Taylor stopped and cocked her head. “What is this all about?” she asked.
The woman shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Taylor teetered between steps, then moved back to the small grouping of chairs where clients waited for Hinks or one of the high-end personal bankers who worked in the branch, serving financial advice to the wealthy. She had been waiting about ten minutes when her husband came in the side door looking confused.
“What’s going on?” he asked, taking the seat beside her.
Taylor still liked what she saw when she looked at her husband. Alan Bestwick was thirty-eight, one year older than she was, and in peak physical condition. He had a ruggedly handsome face, with strong lines accenting his cheeks and jaw, and steely blue eyes beneath a mop of curly off-blond hair. He was dressed in jeans and a loose-fitting shirt rolled up to expose his sinewy forearms. Taylor didn’t have time to answer before Earl Hinks appeared in the hallway entrance.