Shell Game

by Jeff Buick

  From that moment on, it had been her game, not theirs. She let Edward Brand and Alan guide her through the various stages of the con, from the antique dealer in Mexico City to Alan’s apparent death on the cliff near Cabo San Lucas. She traveled to Paris, knowing his strong ties to the French capital. The trip was necessary, otherwise how could she have convinced Kelly that she knew Alan was alive? From that point on, Kelly and his co-workers at NSA were very accommodating.

  Most importantly, she had always stayed in character. She convinced herself that she had been taken, that her life was in ruins. She became the woman everyone thought she should be—the widow, the victim. She vilified herself—actually stretched the game to the point where she believed her own falsehoods. She walked a dangerous line between reality and the fiction she was creating. That believability was the key. Brand, Alan and Hawkins all saw her as the grieving widow who had lost her money and her husband. They never suspected. Not even once. In retrospect, her performance was nothing short of brilliant.

  Cashing the million-dollar insurance check was the most difficult thing for her. It was fraud, and she knew it. But not to cash it was folly. By that time, Kelly had uncovered Brent Hawkins, and he would be watching. So the money went in her account.

  Then, in mid-December, when the right amount of time had slipped by, she suggested to Kelly that they go after Alan and Brand. Beat them at their own game. When Kelly agreed, she knew she had the resources of NSA at her command. The rest had simply been a series of logical steps to the inevitable conclusion. Get Edward Brand on top of that mountain, on a satellite phone, and have Kelly intercept the call. She knew that all the information Kelly needed to empty Brand’s accounts would be transmitted digitally during the call. It was up to Kelly from that point on. He had to produce. And he did.

  The two hundred and sixty-three million dollars had gone directly into the account she set up right after discovering what Alan and Brand were up to. But that account was simply a front. It was coded to immediately forward any deposits to another Caribbean account, through a complicated and untraceable series of satellite transactions.

  Taylor finished her lemonade and set the glass on the counter. It had been a long, tough grind. Living with Alan as his wife had been incredibly difficult. She knew now that it was because she lived the lie, that she had been successful in becoming the woman Brand and Alan expected her to be. She felt an overpowering sense of guilt over Alan’s death. It was something she lived with every day—the one thing she truly regretted. She justified it by telling herself that he never loved her—that he had just used her to get what he wanted. It felt strange to finally admit to herself that she had done the exact same thing. They had both known the risks going in.

  Risk. It was the key word to the one clue she had given Alan. She vividly remembered her exact words when sitting in their living room with Sam Morel, the DA and the two FBI agents. When I see something I consider to be risky, I check it out. If it falls within my boundaries of acceptable risk, I go for it. I, not we. She had given all of them the opportunity to catch on. Not one of them had noticed. Not the slightest blip on the radar.

  What had transpired atop Monte Alban was not what she had wanted or planned. If Alan had stayed out of the picture, things would have ended that night with a respectful parting of the ways, and Brand wouldn’t have known he’d been scammed until the next day. Too late to find Adolfo or Ricardo. And no mention of her and Kelly. Despite the heat, she shuddered when she thought back to Alan arriving at the ruins. Adolfo’s walkie-talkie was still open, and she had followed the entire conversation as she made her way back along the west side of the mountain. When Alan arrived and recognized Ricardo, she thought her cover was blown. But Alan said that Ricardo had driven him around Mexico City, not him and Taylor. She had dodged a very real bullet. If Brand ever tied Ricardo back to her, he’d be searching. And he’d eventually find her. When Alan died on the mountain, that connection back to her had died as well.

  She had stolen two hundred and sixty-three million dollars from a thief. Then she paid back the buyer of G-cubed the seven-point-five million-dollars they had overvalued the company, plus a two million-dollar bonus. She deposited fifteen and a half million dollars into three accounts to cover her debts to Kelly and Ricardo and Adolfo. The final ends were tied up; the deal was done. Now she could live her life as she pleased.

  One of her live-in staff approached the palapa, a cordless phone in her hand. “It is a call for you,” she said. “He asked for Taylor.”

  She smiled. He’d found her. She knew he would. She took the phone and punched the talk button. “Hello, Kelly.”

  “Hello, Taylor. How are things?”

  “Very well. And with you?”

  “Couldn’t be better.”

  “So you found me,” she said, a tinge of feigned surprise in her voice. It was solely for Kelly’s benefit. He had probably worked very hard to locate her.

  “It wasn’t easy. Took a couple of months. With the resources of the NSA behind me. I see you put your life in San Francisco on hold. New name, new life. I guess that’s the way it has to be. If Edward Brand ever caught on to your little shell game, he wouldn’t be happy.”

  “My shell game. I think it’s a good description, Kelly. Sums things up nicely.” She took a couple of deep breaths of the fresh sea air. “What are you up to these days?”

  “Well, I’m recently retired from my job with the government. Don’t need the money anymore. I seem to have more time on my hands than I know what to do with. It’s a problem.”

  She laughed. “Do you want to visit?”

  He didn’t answer for a few seconds. A light breeze blew in from the sheltered cove. Finally, he said, “I’d like that, Taylor. I’d like that very much.”

  She smiled, but simply said, “Do you know where I am?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll see you in a day or two?”

  “Give me a week.”

  “A week, then. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  Taylor pushed the talk button and set the phone on the table. Three and a half years ago she had seen an opportunity. She had gone for it, and she had won. And to the victor came the spoils. She glanced about the beachfront house, a marvel of white stucco and glass touching onto the soft sand that ran down to the warm waters of the Caribbean. A Lamborghini and a Porsche sat in the driveway. Amazing what cash could buy.

  And the money in the bank. More money than she would ever need. She could donate to charities, travel, try her hand at writing a novel—whatever she wanted.

  Ahh, the spoils were nice. Very nice indeed.