Shell Game

by Jeff Buick

  Morel found the number he was looking for and dialed. A man answered, but the voice sounded young. That’s because the person talking was only twenty-two. Two years over twenty and already a master at recovering information from hard drives that had been wiped clean by their owners. So good at it, in fact, that he had spent six months in juvie for hacking into the Department of Defense’s mainframe and changing all the employees’ pay scales. Nobody complained when their pay was deposited, but the accounting department went ballistic. The judge found the stunt mildly amusing, but still serious enough for a short stint in one of the minimum-security juvenile detention centers. He ordered the young man to perform two hundred hours of community service. Sam Morel wormed his way to the front of the line and got the two hundred hours for his department.

  “Jamie,” Sam said. “How ya doing?”

  “Hey, Sam,” the kid said, his voice upbeat. He liked working with Sam. It sure beat spending time with other kids who thought mainlining heroin was fun. “What’s up? You got something for me?”

  “Might have. I’ve got one of my guys watching for some computers that were used in a corporate fraud. If we get our hands on them, I’ll need you right away.”

  “Not a problem. I’m in college Monday through Thursday, but I’ve got evenings and Fridays, and the weekends of course.”

  “Good. Just make sure you don’t check out for any length of time. No more than twelve hours between checking your voice mail and your e-mail, okay?”

  “Sure, Sam. This one sounds cool.”

  “It looks big, Jamie. Real big.”

  “Man, I hope you find one of those babies.”

  “Me too. Talk to you later.” Sam hung up and leaned back in his chair.

  Edward Brand. Who was he? The FBI would be running him through their computers, just as he was running records checks on every police computer he could access. Brand was, without a doubt, not the man’s real name, but sometimes aliases emitted clues. Sometimes. But one thing was for certain: Edward Brand had pulled off one hell of a scam. If the initial figures were correct, the man had scooped up more than one hundred and eighty million dollars from unsuspecting investors. And he had done it wisely. At no time had he completed the Securities and Exchange Commission requirements and taken the company public. If he had, the microscope NewPro would have been operating under would have made pulling the scam off almost impossible. No, Edward Brand was no dummy. By all appearances he had succeeded in doing exactly what he had set out to do: relieving a lot of rich people of their money.

  Sam Morel knew one thing. Once criminals had the cash, they didn’t like to give it back. If Brand was organized enough to pull this off, then he had enough insight to look ahead and plan what to do once he had the money. Morel closed his eyes and replayed the looks on the victims’ faces. Alan Bestwick, ashen white with heavy bags under his eyes. Taylor Simons, a strong woman driven close to her breaking point, desperately trying to keep her emotions in check. For a moment he wondered what would happen to them if no one could find Brand and they lost all their money. It wasn’t pretty. What made it so reprehensible was that the odds were overwhelmingly in Brand’s favor at this point. Sam had one more thought before he got up and went in search of some stale coffee. If he were a betting man—and he was—his money would be on the bad guy.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Edward Brand stood on the balcony overlooking English Bay. The sun had been out since he had arrived in Vancouver three days before, but the weather forecasters were calling for a massive cloud bank to sweep in off the Pacific Ocean in the next twelve hours. Brand knew Vancouver well enough to know the meteorologists were seldom wrong when it came to soggy weather. He sipped his coffee and stared at the bay.

  Brand was a charismatic man, the kind of guy people noticed in a crowded room. He was six feet with thick blond hair to the top of his ears and penetrating gray eyes. He had a quick smile and an easygoing nature. There was little body fat on his frame, the results of a good diet and a strict workout regimen. His handshake was as firm as the hand he was shaking, and he was either an intellectual person and a highly interesting conversationalist, or quiet as a hawk circling on the updrafts. He was whatever he had to be. Edward Brand was the ultimate con man.

  Every part of him could mutate to fit the moment. If his marks were looking for a man they thought could run a multi-billion–dollar company, he was the articulate and informed CEO, dressed in Armani business casual. When the scam needed him in the pits at a Formula One race, he was there in coveralls and a Ferrari hat. On the beach in Monaco, in a five-star Paris restaurant or braced against the howling Arctic winds at a northern Canadian oil rig—Edward Brand could pull it off. He had grown rich from his talent, but rich wasn’t enough. He was driven, much like the CEOs he pretended to be, to rise above average and reach the pinnacle. Rich was good, but Brand aspired to super-rich. So he continued to take people’s money. Lots of it. The NewPro scam had been his best to date. Now that job was history. He had wrapped it up and flown to Vancouver, a much richer man than a year prior.

  In his mind, Vancouver was the most beautiful city in the world. The layout was very similar to San Francisco, but the similarities ended there. The city was built into the heavily wooded foothills surrounding the Fraser River, and right from the start the urban planners had refused to cede to developers by allowing them to overbuild. The amount of green space in the city was staggering, Stanley Park alone covering 1,000 acres of prime real estate. The mixture of mountains, old-growth forests with intimate walking paths and water was almost magic. He loved Vancouver, but not just for its beauty. He loved it because it was in Canada, and if you ever want to leave the United States and not be hassled at a border, head for Canada.

  The Canadian authorities were almost British in their politeness. They questioned why he wanted to visit the country, but never asked more than the most perfunctory questions. Then, invariably, they let him enter. When he wanted to leave, they smiled and helped load his bag on the nearest conveyor. God he loved the Canadians.

  Although he was American, it was the United States Customs and Immigration officials who worried him most. They were extremely efficient, and since he always traveled with a forged passport, exiting and entering the country of his birth was a harrowing experience. He had been sweating as he departed San Francisco, and he didn’t sweat unless it was a hundred degrees and a hundred percent humidity. This con had been different. Bigger. Much bigger. And wildly successful. He turned slightly at the sound of another person exiting the house onto the balcony.

  “Tony,” he said when he saw who it was. The man leaned on the railing next to him. They didn’t shake hands. “Any problems getting across the border?”

  “None,” Tony replied. The newcomer was a tall man, almost six-three, with close-cropped blond hair and penetrating blue eyes. His build matched his height, sturdy and toned. He rarely smiled and when he did it was with his lips, never showing his teeth. He was clean-shaven and the paleness of his skin spoke to his Scandinavian heritage. “Came across in Montreal, then flew Air Canada across the country.”

  Brand nodded. “Everything wrap up okay in New York?”

  “Without a hitch. We had the offices emptied out by nine and the factory in New Jersey wiped down and locked up before midnight. Joey’s still in New York, and Frank’s already moved on to Mexico.”

  “Good. Joey leaves tomorrow?”

  “Yup. He’ll be in Rio by this time tomorrow. That’s the last of our New York crew.”

  “Excellent job, Tony. Do you know what your final numbers were?”

  “Somewhere close to nine million, I think.”

  “Over nine. Closer to ten. We got Stilling’s money just before cut-off time. That was almost a million.”

  Tony Stevens grinned. A hint of white showed. “Got the fucker. He was so damned tough. I didn’t think we’d see anything out of him or that shrew of a wife of his. Christ, what a pair. He reminded me of a pig farmer every time
I saw him. I think it’s because he looked like a pig. Ugly bastard. And his wife, what a total bitch. I don’t think she ever said one nice word to him.”

  It was Brand’s turn to smile. “It sounds like you’re happy we got their money.”

  “Fucking ecstatic. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer pair of total shitheads.”

  “You did well. Ten million.”

  “What was the final count in San Fran?”

  “Eighteen-five. Most of it from the couple who owned G-cubed.”

  Tony whistled. “Eighteen-five. Wow. What was the total?”

  “With your extra million coming in just under the wire, about two hundred and twelve.”

  Now the man smiled, his teeth visible. They were crooked and the front ones pushed back, like someone had punched him in the face the day his adult teeth came in. “Christ, Robert, we really fucked them, didn’t we?”

  “What did you say?” Brand said, his head snapping around, the tone of his voice absolute ice. “What did you call me?”

  “Christ, sorry. Edward. Edward Brand. Never our real names. I know the drill. Damn it, that was stupid. Like Mr. Pink and Mr. White and all that shit on Reservoir Dogs. Sorry, Edward.”

  Brand cooled. “Okay, Tony. But for Christ’s sake be careful. We use the names until the job is over. It’s the little things that fuck you up. Remember that.”

  “Yeah, the little things.”

  A silence settled over the balcony, just the slight whisper of wind coming in off the ocean. “Who was your favorite?” Brand asked after a minute.

  “What?”

  “Reservoir Dogs. Who was your favorite guy?”

  “Shit, no doubt about it, Mr. Pink. Loved Steve Buscemi in that movie. Thing about Buscemi I can’t figure out, is why he doesn’t get his teeth fixed. The guy must have enough money by now.”

  Edward Brand leaned over the railing and focused on the water. “I liked Mr. Blonde.”

  “Yeah, he was cool.”

  “They sure fucked up the robbery, though. What a mess. Too much testosterone.”

  “And a police informant. That’s where the wheels came off. The snitch.”

  Brand shifted slightly and glanced at Stevens. “Yeah, the snitch.” He was silent for a minute, then said, “You know, Tony, we’ve got a lot of people in the know on this one. Crews in New York, San Fran and six other cities. That’s a lot of people.”

  “What are you saying?” Tony asked, concerned.

  “Nothing. Just wondering how long we can keep expanding before one of our key people is on the wrong side.”

  “Shit, that would be bad. Really bad.”

  “Yeah. Worse than bad. We’d have to take care of them.”

  Tony Stevens wasn’t smiling now. “Kill them?”

  Brand finished his coffee and looked north to the mountains. The view from the upscale neighborhood of Kitsilano was stunning. The skyline of Greater Vancouver was framed against Mount Seymour and directly across English Bay was Stanley Park, lush green resting on the tranquil waters of the Pacific Ocean. He took a deep breath and tasted the salt air. When he answered the other man’s question, it was in a soft voice, but one that was unmistakably serious.

  “Yes, Tony. We’d have to kill them.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Alan Bestwick was worried about his wife. She was lethargic, a ghost of the person he had known only eight days ago. He had to constantly remind her to eat, and she had stopped exercising on the treadmill. Her color was washed out, pale except for the dark shadows under her eyes. Even her normally vibrant red hair looked muted. He finished filing his nails and set the file on the night table beside their bed. He walked over to where she sat looking out the second-story bay window and placed his hands gently on her shoulders. She glanced up and smiled. It was forced.

  “It’ll be okay,” he said. “Your staff will understand. They knew the company had to be sold.”

  “Of course they will,” she said, turning again to the street. “But what about the campaign to raise money for the children’s hospital? We’re donating all our time on that, Alan. Will the new owners live up to our commitment? That’s important. There are a lot of sick kids out there who need a good facility. We were making a difference. And all the other charity work we did at G-cubed. What’s going to happen to that?”

  “Maybe they’ll be community minded.”

  “I shouldn’t have to sell my company. I mean that for a lot more reasons than just the money we took out of G-cubed.”

  He rubbed her shoulders and neck, feeling the knots in her muscles. “No, you shouldn’t.” What else could he say? G-cubed had gone on the block four days ago and a smaller, almost unknown firm out of Los Angeles had snapped it up in less than forty-eight hours. A few details remained to be ironed out, but the deal was done. Thirteen-five for the company, and after selling expenses, they would net about twelve-eight. That left them two hundred thousand dollars short on the loan to the bank. The house would have to go.

  “I talked to the Realtor this morning,” Alan said. “He’ll be over tonight to list the house. That okay with you?”

  She nodded, almost imperceptibly. “What price does he want to put it on at?”

  “One-point-four-five. He feels we will get one-point-four million. That nets us about what we expected. After covering a two hundred thousand shortfall with the bank, we should have about seven hundred thousand left over.”

  “Well, that’s not enough to buy a place in the city. We’ll have to look at San Mateo or one of the other suburbs.”

  He continued to rub her neck, the knots diminishing under his touch. “That’s not so bad.”

  Silence crept through the room, and they both watched a woman walking her dog on the far sidewalk. She chastised him for peeing on a bag of garbage left by the curb and Alan could feel his wife’s body shake slightly as she chuckled at the absurdity of it. At that moment, the woman’s greatest challenge in life was to get her dog not to pee on someone’s garbage. The dog only cared about emptying his bladder on something that smelled good.

  “Life should be so simple,” Taylor said quietly, as though reading his mind.

  “It will be someday. Just not right now.”

  She glanced at her watch and stood up. It was nine-thirty. “I need to go. I asked the staff to be in the boardroom for ten o’clock.”

  He kissed her and held her tight for a minute, then let go. She left quietly, locking the door behind her. Her car was parked at the curb, and she turned the alarm off and slipped in behind the steering wheel. The Audi didn’t feel as sporty today, but she knew it was just her. The car was simply metal and glass, plastic and wires. It didn’t care who drove it. For that matter, she thought, money didn’t care who owned it. Right now, Edward Brand owned a whole bunch of her money. She floored the car and felt some of her tension melt away as the high-performance vehicle shot ahead. The tachometer red-lined before she reached for the gear shift. When she finally up-shifted, the car responded and the speedometer crossed over seventy. She eased off the gas and brought her speed down to the legal limit. Somehow, that simple exercise made her feel better.

  Taylor reached her office and parked in her assigned spot. Her entire staff was waiting in the boardroom when she arrived. It was five after ten. She took her place at the head of the table and had a quick look about. All eyes were focused on her, waiting. Waiting to know whether they still had jobs.

  “The company has been sold,” she said. “But no one in this room will be let go. That was the first condition of the sale. Everyone is still employed.” There was a silent, collective sigh in the room. She could feel it more than hear it. “I’ve got all the details of the sale, including when it will be effective. I’ll get into those in a few minutes, but first, I want you to know that I will not be staying on. In any capacity. This is it for me.”

  There were groans of dissention, but she raised her hand and her staff quieted. She was closer to tears than anyone in the room could have ima
gined. “It was my choice,” she said. “I can’t continue to work inside the organization that we, as a team, built from scratch. Not with someone watching over my shoulder.”

  The meeting continued for another hour as Taylor detailed what the new owners would like wrapped up before they took over. They were heavily tied to the West Coast but had no presence in San Francisco. With the client base G-cubed had built and the office space and staff already in place, the deal worked perfectly for them. Thirteen-point-five million worked well for Taylor.

  She finished her speech and spent another half hour hugging everyone and wishing them the best. She left her personal items in her office. Removing everything was going to be painful, and she would rather do it when there was no staff present. She pulled up in front of the house and parked behind a dark car that she’d seen before. She just couldn’t place it. The moment she entered her house, she remembered. Sam Morel’s voice carried down the hall to where she was removing her shoes. When she entered the kitchen, she saw Morel and her husband sitting at the table. Alan rose when he saw her.