Shell Game

by Jeff Buick

  “And this architecture is exactly right for that part of Paris. No guarantees, but I would say that this picture was taken at the corner of Rue Mazarine and Rue Dauphine.” She used her pen tip to identify an intersection on the map. “See the way Dauphine cuts off at a forty-five degree angle. That would explain the difference in light levels coming off the buildings.”

  “Paris,” Taylor said, staring at the back-lit map in the darkened room.

  “I would say.”

  Taylor sat back in her chair and exhaled deeply. “Thank you so much.” She ran her fingers over the smooth surface of the photo. Then she said, “Are you curious why I wanted to know where this photo was taken?”

  Renita shook her head. “We learn not to ask.”

  “Alan, the man in the picture, was my husband. He died recently. This is my favorite picture of him. But it was taken before we were married, and I never knew where. Now I do.”

  Renita just nodded.

  They packed up and left the room, then the building and the complex. The snow had started again, and the roads were slick. The all-wheel drive component on the Subaru kept the car from skidding or spinning out on the ice. Still, the drive back into the city took more than twice as long as the drive out. When they got back to the condo, Kelly brewed some coffee, and they sat on the floor by the fire, drinking it slowly and warming up. The wind outside was brisk, and both of them were chilled through. Taylor finished hers, and Kelly poured her another.

  “I can’t believe the technology,” Taylor said. “She had an answer just like that.”

  “Renita’s the best I know,” Kelly said, adjusting his throw pillow against the side of the couch and leaning into it. “There aren’t a lot of people who could have done that.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “I know you do.” Kelly ran his finger around the top of his mug. “So what now?”

  Taylor was quiet. She stared into the fire, her eyes somewhere else. Finally, she said, “I want to stand on that corner. I want to be at that precise spot on the planet. I want to be exactly where he was when he was that happy.”

  “You’re going to Paris?” he asked.

  It took a minute for her to respond, but when she did it was with an almost imperceptible nod of her head. “Yes,” she said so quietly her voice was barely audible over the crackle of the fire. “Yes, I’m going to Paris.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Taylor had been to Paris three times in her life. Every trip she made to the city, she fell a little more in love with it. To her, Paris was an eclectic mixture of class and avant garde, of love and youth, of the world’s finest architecture and simple cobblestone streets. And there was an energy to the city—it pulsed, like a vein carrying blood from the heart. She felt it even as she deplaned at Charles de Gaulle.

  The airport was crowded with business travelers and an occasional family. It was Monday, early December, and most children were in school. The pace throughout the airport was fast, and she purposefully moved slowly, watching the men and women rush to their flight or to grab a taxi, oblivious of their surroundings. No one smiled, no time for that—the business world moved at the speed of life, and that was quick. Taylor wheeled her suitcase to the curb and waited in the queue for a taxi. She slipped into the backseat and gave the driver the name of her hotel, Edouard VII, which she had booked Sunday morning from Kelly’s condo in Washington. It was on the Avenue de 1’Opéra, a short distance to the Louvre and also the Left Bank, where the Latin Quarter was located. And tucked away inconspicuously in the Latin Quarter was the intersection of Rue Mazarin and Rue Dauphine.

  The hotel was classic Parisian, with a massive arch and a coat of arms above the main doors. Inside the lobby was a hand-carved wooden centerpiece, modern in its sweeping design but at home under the elegant crystal chandelier. The front desk clerk had her key in seconds, and she was shown to her room, a junior suite with a partial view of the Opera. The décor was tasteful gold with original oils on the walls and plush rugs underfoot. The clock in her room showed just after two in the afternoon as she tipped the bellman and dropped onto the edge of the bed. She lay on her back and stared at the ceiling. What was she doing here? What moment of insanity had resulted in her flying halfway across the world to stand on a street corner? She had no idea.

  Taylor drew a hot bath and dipped under the water, trying to warm her bones. Paris was cold in December, and her thin California blood didn’t do well in colder climates. She had nearly frozen in Washington, and this wasn’t much better. After a half hour she wrestled herself from the tub and dressed. She slipped into a sweater and pulled her coat over top, feeling about the size of an NFL linebacker with all the heavy clothes. She tucked a thick tam in her pocket and headed for the lobby. The bellman whistled for a cab, and she sat in the front seat with the driver so she would have a better view of the city. He spoke passable English, and she asked him to just drive about for a while. He nodded and smiled. A nice American lady, pretty and in no rush. Just his kind of passenger.

  Notre Dame, the gothic giant that took 212 years to build, towered above the bare trees and medieval houses as they crossed Pont D’Arcole. He slowed as they passed the church. No matter how many times Taylor had seen the building, it still took her breath away. The three portals dominating the west facade reared up, with the Last Judgment—Christ and the celestial court—prominent in the central one. She craned her neck, watching the building slowly slide from view. They crossed the southern bridge and entered the Latin Quarter.

  “Could you drive to where Rue Mazarin and Rue Dauphine meet?” she asked.

  “Of course, mademoiselle.”

  The cobblestone and asphalt streets were narrow and congested, and the three-and four-story buildings on each side blocked any view of the city. Small cafés and bistros lined the roads, but the outdoor terraces were gone for the winter, and they looked lonely. A few brave souls, dressed against the weather, walked the streets, but most people were relying on their cars to get about. The snow began as they steered onto Boulevard St-Germain. The driver switched on his wipers, and the rhythmic tapping seemed to suit the mood of the day. He made one turn off St-Germain, drove a full block and pulled over to the east curb. Ahead of them, the road they were on split in two, each going off at about forty-five-degree angles.

  “This is it,” he said. “Rue Mazarin is on the left, Rue Dauphine on the right.

  Taylor sat in the front seat, unable to move. Her legs were like leaden weights, immobilizing her. She stared ahead at the intersection. The angle they were on was different from the photo, and it was impossible to tell if she was at the right spot. She glanced to the left side of the road. If Rue Mazarin was on that side, then whoever had taken the photo would have had to be over there or the street sign on the building wouldn’t be in the picture. She sucked in a deep breath.

  “Could you wait for me please?” she asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Taylor pulled on her tam and tucked her hair under the hat, then opened the door and stood on shaky legs. She walked across to the west side of the street and looked back at the intersection. From this angle, the corner was exactly as the photo had shown. The street sign was firmly anchored to the corner of the building, Rue Mazarin clearly printed on the rectangular plaque. She walked a little farther and stopped. Just to the left of the building corner, with the batons and the road sign, was another bit of signage.

  COCKTAILS. Across Rue Dauphine the first three letters of the business sign were also very visible. FRE. Everything fit. She leaned against the rough stone building and cried. This was it. Alan had stood on this exact street corner. He had laughed at some unknown joke, and that moment had been preserved forever on one tiny piece of film. She pulled the photo from her pocket and stared at it, shielding its glossy surface from the snow as a mother would cover a newborn baby.

  For ten minutes she stood on the corner, envisioning Alan at that moment. Why was he so happy? Who had snapped the photo?
When was it taken? Questions she would never know the answers to. Why did he have to die? Why did they go after Edward Brand? Questions she did have the answers to. Answers that now made no sense.

  She was shivering almost uncontrollably when she returned to the cab. The driver asked if she was okay, and she told him she was fine. He turned up the heat, and she could feel the warm air on her face as it blew from the windshield vents. They sat for a minute, then she asked him to take her back to the hotel. They drove through the ancient streets in silence, he concentrating on the thick traffic, she on the memories of her husband. She watched a couple walking arm in arm toward them on the sidewalk. Together. Lucky people. The traffic in front of the cab slowed to a stop, and they sat unmoving on the cobblestones. She stared at the man and woman, her mind still a haze.

  Then, in a split second she realized she knew the man. It was Alan. She stared through the windshield as they came within twenty feet, walking quickly into the wind. The windshield wiper cleared the drops of melted snow from the glass just as they passed, and she saw the face, the eyes, the mouth.

  It was definitely Alan. He was alive.

  She reached for the door handle and pushed down, the door opening and a second later her foot hit the pavement. Then she stopped, frozen in her tracks. She watched them walk down the road and around the corner, out of view. She sat on the seat with her right foot on the road, staring at the empty sidewalk, her heart beating like a strobe light.

  What had just happened? Was it really him? Yes, she was sure of that. It was Alan. He was alive. Why didn’t she run after him? Her initial instinct was to hesitate. What had held her back?

  Shock? That certainly could be part of it. She had watched Alan plunge over a cliff in Mexico—had seen the car swallowed by waves crashing violently on the rocks far below the cliff. Alan had died on that desolate stretch of road. There was no chance he could have survived the crash. Or was there? What she had seen seconds before was a testament to the fact that he had not died. Taylor remained motionless, her mind a kaleidoscope of whirling thoughts. Slowly, a band of clarity pushed through the jumble, and she began to see with some degree of order. The picture wasn’t pretty. If Alan were alive and he wasn’t with her in San Francisco, then it was because he wanted it that way. This was no accident. He had staged his death. There was no other answer. The anger began to swell, replacing the initial shock and disbelief.

  Slowly, in response to the blaring of horns behind them and the driver’s insistence, she pulled her foot back into the cab and shut the door. “Could you drive around the block please?” she asked. “Turn right at the corner.”

  “You know those people?” the driver asked. “You want to see if we can find them?”

  “Yes, please,” she answered.

  They spent the next twenty minutes trolling up and down the streets bordering Rue Mazarin, but to no avail. Alan, and whomever he was with, had disappeared, probably into one of the many shops or restaurants, or perhaps into an apartment. A city like Paris can swallow someone up very quickly. And it had. It was just after six when the cabbie dropped Taylor at her hotel. She paid the fare, then doubled it for the tip. The man smiled, but it was forced. He looked concerned.

  “You are okay?” he asked her.

  She nodded. “I’ll be fine. But thank you for asking.”

  She walked through the lobby and took the elevator to her room, every footstep an out-of-body experience. The door closed behind her, and she walked through the darkness to a chair near the window. She sat in the silence, her mind now focused and sharp. He had betrayed her. He had set her up. Nothing else made sense. She had never seen the one-point-six million dollars of Alan’s money physically change hands. If Alan didn’t have a cent invested in NewPro, then it had been all her money—the cash, the loan levered against her company. No risk to him. And then there was his degree. There had never been any alumni mail to their house from Stanford. The degree must be a fake as well. His job with Angus Strang at the corporate security company. All fake?

  She rolled over on her back and grabbed her head. It was pounding from the stress. She closed her eyes and the pressure diminished slightly. Things kept flooding in, her memory uncovering the magnitude of how he had deceived her. That night in Mexico City. When Alan had broken into Fernando Dominguez’s antique shop and rifled through the computers. When he had learned that Edward Brand had a villa in Cabo San Lucas. The superficial scrapes on his arm and hand. All part of the setup.

  But Cabo San Lucas. He had gone over the cliff in the car, crashing into the violent sea at the base of the rocks. How had he survived? And the hand that the police had found in the car, ripped from his arm. When she had seen him on the street earlier he still had both hands. How? She racked her brain. Why had they left the hand in the car? If it wasn’t Alan’s, it didn’t make sense. The DNA had matched perfectly. It proved to the police and the insurance company that Alan was dead. And then it hit her. That was exactly what they had wanted.

  A million-dollar policy, payable to her, would ensure she was financially okay. It would keep her from delving into his death any further, trying to prove to the insurance company that he had actually died. She would take the money, shut up and go away. It had been Alan’s idea to visit the sperm bank. Her insurance rep had said Alan’s sperm count was fine, not as low as he had professed. So the real reason Alan had insisted on depositing the sperm was so his DNA would be accessible. That meant someone in Mexico had altered the DNA sample taken from the hand in the car. Not surprising. Police could be bribed. And the hand. The one caught in the dash of the destroyed car. The police had shown her a photo of it, and now she was positive that it wasn’t Alan’s. The nails were chewed almost to the quick. Alan filed his nails and never bit them.

  It was all adding up. The “chance” meeting, when they saw Brand at the golf course. What a fool she had been. Right after they had agreed it was their last day at the course, Alan had excused himself to use the bathroom. He must have used the opportunity to call Brand and let him know it was time for him to make an appearance.

  Nothing left to chance. Nothing but her poking through his golf bag one day and taking out a picture. A picture he didn’t know she had. A picture that had led her to Paris, where Alan was quite obviously at home. He must have an apartment close to the intersection she had sought out. That was the only answer. Seeing him there was too much of a coincidence for any other explanation.

  He had inadvertently left her one clue. The photo. And now she knew.

  He had deceived her. He had courted her, married her and made love to her all to get her money. His very being was a lie. Nothing about the man was real. Nothing. She raised her hand to her eyes to wipe away the tears, but her eyes were dry. She stood and walked into the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror. The tiny bit of makeup she wore was smudged, but that wasn’t what she noticed. It was her eyes. She stared into her pupils, amazed at the intensity of her own gaze. These were not the eyes of a woman ready to lie down and die. They were the eyes of a woman who had been used. Used in the most unthinkable way.

  Used by her husband.

  She returned to the main room and picked up the telephone, dialing a number from memory. A man answered.

  “Kelly, it’s Taylor. I’m coming back to Washington in a day or two. And I’m going to need a bit more help if that’s okay.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Paris had lost its luster. What had always been the most beautiful city in the world to Taylor was now just a jumble of crowded streets and muddy sidewalks, bordered by imposing stone buildings. Perspective was everything. People were rude, prices were ridiculous, and the cold cut through to her bones. The only time she felt any semblance of warmth was when she was sequestered in the bathtub at her hotel. By Wednesday evening, she gave up on the idea of finding Alan and booked a Thursday afternoon flight back to Dulles.

  Taylor wheeled her bag to the lobby three hours before her flight was to depart, and the bellman called
a cab. She tipped him and slid in the backseat, wanting to be alone with her thoughts from the past two days.

  First thing Tuesday morning she had rented a car and spent the daylight hours driving the streets of the East Bank, concentrating mostly on the vicinity of Rue Mazarin and Rue Dauphine, where she had seen Alan on the sidewalk the day before. Her flaming red hair was tucked up inside the tam, as it had been when she had seen him. Lucky thing, she thought, as Alan probably would have caught the color flash and recognized her. Women with striking red hair were not that common.

  He was there somewhere, amidst the tangle of ancient cobblestone roads and historic buildings. He lived there, of that she was now certain. Anything else was just too coincidental. That meant he was either French by birth or had relocated to Paris later in life. She leaned toward the latter, as he had absolutely no trace of a French accent, nor did he drop his h’s when he spoke. At dinner, he switched the fork to his left hand to slice through the meat, then back to his right hand to eat. A North American trait not practiced in Europe. There were other details as well, all leading to the same conclusion—Alan was an American living in Paris. But where?

  She wasn’t ready to spend any more time on what was a long shot. She had been very lucky to see him on the street Monday, but the chances of a repeat performance were slim to nil, and the longer she trolled the streets, the more she was convinced counting on sheer luck twice was not the answer. There were other ways to attack this problem. And to Taylor, that was exactly what this had now become. A problem. Something to be solved. She had always excelled at circumstances that involved logistics and creativity. And what could be more apt than trying to piece together exactly how Alan Bestwick and Edward Brand had worked together to pull off the scam. They had taken her for a lot of money, but Alan had taken something far more valuable. He had reached inside her soul and stolen her trust. The money she could live without, but the deception was too much. There was one word that summed up what she wanted. It wasn’t a pretty word, but it was the one.