CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Taylor and Alan received the call from Special Agent Brent Hawkins at eight o’clock Tuesday morning. Their presence was required at the San Francisco district office. Immediately. They traveled together in Taylor’s Audi, arriving at just after nine. The receptionist took their names, had them sign in and placed a call. Hawkins’s partner, John Abrams, came out to meet them. He didn’t offer his hand, just gave them a curt “good morning” and pointed to the door he had entered from. They followed him down a carpeted hallway that was like the spine of a fish carcass with a myriad of other halls, branching off it. They reached one of the halls, and Abrams turned, opening the first door on the left. He waved them in.

Brent Hawkins and two other men dressed in dark suits sat at a long table ringed with leather chairs. Hawkins didn’t rise when they entered, just said, “Please have a seat.” When they were sitting he said, “This is Special Agent Smith and Special Agent Hobson.” The two men nodded but didn’t say a word.

“What’s going on?” Alan asked Hawkins, who seemed to be the most senior agent in the room.

“Something has happened in New York,” Hawkins replied. “One of our agents who was involved with the NewPro scam has been killed.”

Taylor sucked in a breath. “That’s terrible.”

“We need to go back over your entire involvement with Edward Brand,” the agent named Hobson said. He purposely neglected to mention that Alicia Walker had killed the man who shot her. Simply a need-to-know issue. Taylor Simons didn’t need to know.

“We’ve already told the FBI and the San Francisco police everything we know,” Alan said. “I don’t see how we can help any further.”

“We’re looking for idiosyncrasies that might give us an idea who Brand really is and where he’s from. Inflections in his speech, certain words he may have used that might give a clue to his background.”

Both Alan and Taylor shrugged. Taylor said, “He talked about falling when he was skiing once and hurting his back. Said it bothered him when the weather changed.”

Smith made a note on his pad. “Lots of cold-weather climates around,” he said.

“It doesn’t narrow things down much,” Hawkins agreed. “Did he ever mention which sports teams he followed, a street name, a neighborhood, a time zone, anything like that?”

“He said he liked football, but never talked about one specific team,” Alan said.

Taylor said, “The football thing. I remember that conversation. He said Joe Montana was the best quarterback to ever play. Maybe he was a Forty-niners fan.”

“That’s right,” Alan concurred. “He knew a lot of Montana’s stats. Loved the guy.”

“Maybe,” Hawkins said. “But he was handling the con in San Francisco. He may have wanted to come off like he was a local guy.”

“Hey,” Alan said, leaning into the table. “That thing about speech you mentioned. Inflections. He did have a habit of saying ‘eh’ after some of his sentences.”

“Give us an example,” Abrams said.

“Looks like it’s going to rain, eh,” Alan said. “Simple sentences. He added it mostly when he was talking casually. When he was pitching us on the investment end of NewPro, his words were always very carefully chosen. He never did it then.”

“That’s right,” Taylor said.

Hobson glanced around the table. “Only in casual speech. When his guard’s down. A little bit of the real person coming out?”

“Canadian,” Hawkins said. “Cold weather. Mountains. Skiing.” He turned to Abrams. “John, get a list of ski resorts in Canada. The middle section of the country is pretty flat, but the Rocky Mountains are to the west side, and there are a few smaller ranges in the East.” He turned back to Taylor and Alan. “Did you ever detect a hint of a French accent?”

Both were thoughtful. “No, I don’t think so,” Taylor said.

“Let’s look at everything, but concentrate more on the west coast. Alberta and British Columbia both have ski resorts. Vancouver has a huge resort just north of the city where the 2010 Olympics are slated for.”

“Whistler,” Abrams said, jotting the name in his notebook.

They talked for another hour but nothing of any substance came to light. Brent Hawkins thanked Taylor and Alan for coming in and Hawkins himself walked them to the door and shook their hands. He assured them the Bureau was working overtime on the case. But Edward Brand was a careful man, covering every step he took with lies and deception. He was like an onion—peel the skin back and you were faced with multiple layers, the man himself hidden beneath the multitude of lies. Faceless, nameless, a ghost who appeared from nowhere and returned there when the con had run its course.

But something had happened, and Brand had pushed things too far. An FBI agent was dead and the Bureau was in a rage, like an anthill after an errant footstep. The scale of the investigation had just moved up a number of notches.

Edward Brand had made his first mistake.