Shell Game (15 page)

Students don't care when, so long as the tequila is flowing and the sun is baking the beaches.

And somewhere in the winding, insanely crowded streets of Cabo San Lucas was one man. Edward Brand.

Taylor and Alan flew into Los Cabos International Airport, just outside San José del Cabo, the sleepy sister of the more boisterous Cabo San Lucas. They caught a cab into Cabo and went directly to Playa Grande, a massive resort set into the rocks west of the marina. The lobby was circular, a hundred feet or more in diameter, with marble floors and twenty-foot pillars framing the long, half-round reception desk. The reservations Taylor had made from Mexico City were in the computer, and after they had checked out their room, Alan arranged for a rental car. They asked the concierge if he knew where the development of Cabo del Sol was located. He nodded and pulled out a well-worn map.

“Cabo del Sol is a new residential and golf community just east of Cabo,” he said, his English almost unaccented. “Take the main road toward San José del Cabo. About three miles out you'll see a sign that says
returno
, and a rock cairn with Cabo del Sol on it. Take the off ramp, and at the top of the hill, turn right. Just follow the road past the security checkpoint, and you're in. They're building a lot of houses right now, so expect some construction.”

“How do we get through the security?” Taylor asked.

“You're
gringos,”
the concierge said with a wry smile. “Just look white.”

“Thanks,” Alan said, the irony of Caucasians breezing through checkpoints while Mexicans were stopped and questioned not lost on him.

Alan took the wheel of the rental, getting twisted around twice in the maze of one-way streets before finding the main boulevard and skirting the marina. Avenida Lazaro Cardenas led to the eastern edge of Cabo, then out of the city and into the arid scrublands that once claimed the entire southern edge of the cape. Mega-hotels, most of them timeshares, were built along the coast, rising amidst the cactus and arroyos, colorful but foreign against the rugged beauty of the coastline. After a ten-minute drive they reached the turnoff for Cabo del Sol, and Alan steered the car up the hill and took the right turn. The paved road curved alongside one of the golfing fairways as it dipped toward the ocean. At the end of the sweeping curve, a security station came into view. It was tucked under a massive set of brick arches. Alan glanced at Taylor.

“Here goes,” he said, pulling up to the roadblock.

A uniformed guard glanced into the vehicle as they rolled to a stop, then smiled, wished them a good afternoon and raised the arm. They drove through into the upscale community of Cabo del Sol. The roads were smooth and winding and bordered by long sandy beds filled with organ pipe cactus and desert succulents. A few palm trees lined the streets, mostly planted around the perimeters of the stucco and stone estate houses set into the rocky hills. A number of new homes were under construction, the cinder-block skeletons in stark contrast to the impeccable finishing on the existing villas. They drove through the maze of streets for about fifteen minutes before coming to a realization. Finding Edward Brand was not going to be easy.

“This place is huge,” Taylor said as they pulled up to the golf clubhouse. “He could be anywhere. And if he's in one of these houses and doesn't come out, we'll never find him.”

Alan switched off the car and shook his head. “If he's even here. Damn it. This isn't going to be easy.”

“You said the computer at the antique shop gave the developer's address, in case he wasn't at his villa. We could check there.”

“Good idea,” he said, starting the car and backing it out of the stall. “There was a place on the left side of the road on the way in.”

“I saw it. The house with all the flags, like they put out at show-homes in new neighborhoods.”

“Yeah, let's try it.”

It took less than ten minutes to find the show suite, park and ask the saleswoman working the desk if she had an address for Edward Brand. They were down from the States and wanted to visit. The woman checked her files, but there was no record of a sale to anyone by that name. There were hundreds of names on the list. The chances of figuring out what name he had registered under were zero. They returned to the golf clubhouse and parked in the shade.

They checked out the clubhouse, a hub of activity as many of the day's golfers were just finishing their rounds and coming in for something to drink. Alan asked one of the pros for a scorecard and perused it, taking in the lay of the land. The course was actually two full tracts of eighteen holes. The ocean course led west from the clubhouse toward the water, while the desert course ran through the undulating hills along the northern edge of the development. They walked through the pro shop into the restaurant and onto the outdoor patio. The view from the south-facing balcony was the last few thousand yards of land sloping to the water, then the deep blue of the Pacific Ocean. A little to the west, a rocky hill with a solitary, white lighthouse jutted above the coastline. Taylor and Alan sat at one of the tables and ordered a drink.

“Maybe he likes to golf,” Alan said.

“So?”

“Rather than running all over the place looking for him, why don't we let Brand come to us?” The drinks arrived, and Alan sipped his Corona. “We could set up shop in the development, see if we can find a rental villa that overlooks the clubhouse. One that gives us a good view of the restaurant and the finishing hole on the desert course. That way, if he's a golfer, we'll see him as he's putting on eighteen. Or if he comes in for lunch. Works both ways. And we'll see him teeing off on the first hole if he's playing the ocean course.”

Taylor thought about the idea. “That would mean staying in Cabo for a while. Days, maybe weeks.”

Alan leaned back in his chair, taking in the view. “And that's a bad thing?”

Villa Anterra was a four-room, very private resort set between the eighteenth hole of the desert course and the first tee box of the ocean links. Four separate rooms, each complete with its own balcony and luxury bath, tied into a wide hall that led to the central meeting rooms, comprised of a kitchen, games area and media room. Imported Italian tile graced the bath and shower walls in addition to the floors inside the rooms. The numerous outdoor decks were constructed of perfectly interlocked rough-hewn sandstone. The exterior finish was smooth cream stucco and red tile on the roof. Pillars delineated the different spaces, their soft lines melding well with the background desert scene.

Edward Brand sat in one of the chaise lounges overlooking the infinity pool and felt the warm Mexican sun on his skin. Beyond the pool was a sea of cactus poking out of the sandy soil, and on the horizon the azure blue of the Pacific Ocean. White-naped brush finches flittered about the prickly pear cacti, landing and alighting, the same scene played out countless times a day. A few hundred yards between the villa and the ocean was the clubhouse for the two golf courses, a majestic building ringed by mature royal palms. An occasional golf cart wheeled by, but mostly it was peaceful. Brand finished his beer and set the empty bottle on the table next to his chair.

Everything had gone according to plan. With one small glitch. Tony Stevens should never have involved Alicia Walker in his life, something that had proved fatal for both him and the FBI agent. Stupid. That was the only word Edward Brand had to describe the entire fiasco. But even with the unexpected problem, they had still managed to stay invisible to the police. Neither he nor any of his key players had criminal records, and without something for the police to work with, their job was like finding a needle in a haystack. And the world was one very big haystack. Especially Mexico.

Even with all the trade agreements and bilateral cooperation between the United States, Canada and Mexico that had developed over the past few years, it was still extremely easy for a
gringo
to meld into Mexican society. Having money helped. It was surprising how quickly people accepted you into their community when you paid cash. The police were polite and understanding that the new foreigner required his privacy. In return, numerous high-ranking officials in the Cabo detachment were driving newer cars. Things were so simple with money. And money was one thing Edward Brand had a lot of.

The final figures were in. Two hundred and twelve million dollars. Less expenses, they had netted one hundred and eighty-nine million. After he had paid everyone else, his take was one-fifty-six. A hundred and fifty-six million dollars. Not bad for forty months of work. He had always known that NewPro would work, but he had needed to wait until he had the resources, both money and key personnel, to run the con. It was elaborate, but with precise execution it was also very simple.

He felt the wind start to pick up, and he glanced at his watch. Almost five o'clock. Omar, the Mexican man who ran the villa for him, would be calling him for dinner soon. He rose from the lounger and stretched, scanning the horizon. A couple of golf carts whizzed past, and he glanced over at the clubhouse. Maybe a round of golf would be nice. Something to break up the day. Maybe tomorrow. Then again, he thought, maybe not.

God it was nice to have options. That was one thing having an excess of money gave him. It was something he would never have to give up.

Being rich was fun. Especially with other people's money.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FOUR

It was almost three o'clock on Friday, November 3. Taylor and Alan had found a timeshare unit with a view of the golf clubhouse from the small patio off the kitchen, and spent the daylight hours watching the golfers on the first tee and coming off the course at eighteen. Every day they walked over to the dining room in the clubhouse at Cabo del Sol for lunch and watched the tee on the ocean course and the eighteenth green of the desert course from the restaurant balcony. After lunch they spent the afternoon relaxing on their patio, then headed back to the clubhouse for dinner. By Friday evening, they had tried most of the entrees on the menu.

“This is crazy,” Taylor said. “We came up with this idea a week ago, and we've got nothing to show for it.”

“He's here somewhere,” Alan said. “He'll show up.”

“Do you have any idea how many times you've said that? I think we've got to reconsider what we're doing.”

Alan sipped his drink, a local beer. He allowed himself one a day, the rest of the time sticking to soda or Perrier water. “Maybe you're right.”

“Quit after today?” Taylor asked.

He nodded. “Okay. Today is the last day watching the golf course.”

He excused himself to use the bathroom, and Taylor looked over the room. She was so tired of sitting here doing nothing. Edward Brand had stolen everything they had, and although they suspected they were within a square mile of where he was living, they still couldn't find him. It was crazy. Alan returned and they talked for a few minutes, finished their drinks and paid the tab. They walked out toward the parking lot, and Taylor froze.

“Alan,” she said quietly. “Look over there, where they take the clubs off the carts. It's him. It's Edward Brand.”

Alan looked where she indicated. Taylor was right. It was definitely Brand. He was just picking up his clubs from one of the young men who cleaned and stored the members' golf bags. They watched as Brand slung them over his shoulder and headed for the parking lot. He reached a dark blue Ford Explorer and threw the clubs in the back, then jumped in the driver's seat and backed out of his parking spot. Taylor and Alan raced across the lot to their car and pulled in behind the Explorer. Brand drove slowly through the winding streets of Cabo del Sol, then pulled out onto the highway.

Brand opened the Explorer up when he hit the main road between Cabo San Lucas and San José del Cabo, the speedometer quickly topping ninety miles an hour. The traffic was as varied as it was insane—beaters trying to make it up the steep hills and delivery trucks with drivers who thought they were in the Baja 1000 mixed in with tourists who had absolutely no idea where they were going. Driving on the southern tip of the Baja peninsula was crazy at the speed limit, and insanely dangerous at almost double it. Alan tried to keep close to Brand, but not so close that he would see them in his rearview mirror. They reached the outskirts of San José del Cabo, and Alan tightened up the distance between them.

“He's going to see you,” Taylor said as he slid in just two cars back.

“I've got to keep him close. This place is a goddamn maze. If he gets out of sight and turns a corner, we've lost him.”

Taylor hung on as they took a fast corner, staying about eighty feet behind the tail of the Explorer. “Where do you think he's going?” The side window was open halfway, and her long red hair whipped about. She grabbed it and held it in a makeshift ponytail with her free hand.

“I've got no idea, but I sure hope he gets there soon. He drives like an asshole. This is not fun.”

The target vehicle kept on the main road that serviced the major resorts, then turned toward town at the first traffic circle. Brand slowed as he approached the central part of town. At the point where the street narrowed to a single lane in both directions and tiny shops appeared on each side, he turned right and took the road to Laguna Hills. It bypassed the main commercial section of San José del Cabo and swung toward the coastline. Tiny cinder-block houses lined the left side of the road, their yards filled with stripped cars and broken appliances. The road was deteriorating quickly, the pavement pockmarked with potholes and ruts. Homemade speed bumps, embedded in the roadway by locals to slow speeding cars, rattled their teeth as they flew over them, trying to keep the Explorer in sight. At the second traffic circle, Brand turned away from the marina and headed northwest, inland but paralleling the coast.