CHAPTER NINETEEN

The Federal Bureau of Investigation in Washington, D.C., made the decision. It was up to Special Agent Brent Hawkins, as the senior agent in charge of the NewPro case in San Francisco, to convey the results of that decision to Taylor Simons and Alan Bestwick. He phoned Sam Morel and asked him to be present as well. They met at Taylor and Alan’s new house on Pierce Street at seven on Friday, October 20. The sun had dropped into the choppy ocean and a stiff breeze blew in off the water. It was cold when the three police officials walked from their cars to the front door.

Alan answered and welcomed them into a maze of piled boxes. The house smelled of stale smoke, from the previous tenants, and a couple of windows were open in an attempt to air out the rooms. Taylor was dressed in sweats while unpacking one of the larger crates in the living room, her long red hair pulled back in a ponytail. She glanced up as they entered and pointed to where the couch and loveseat sat facing each other in the center of the room.

“I’m not even going to start apologizing for this mess,” she said, sitting on the loveseat. Alan joined her, and the two FBI agents sat on the couch. Sam Morel found a solid box beside the couch and leaned on it. “What’s so important that you had to see us on a Friday night?” she asked, her voice tinged with optimism.

Hawkins cleared his throat. “The D.C. office has reviewed the evidence Kelly Kramer found on the NewPro computers,” he started.

Taylor leaned back into the couch, her body language speaking clearly. The moment the FBI agent passed off the blame on Washington, she knew they had nixed following up on what Kelly had found. Nobody started off positive news by pointing the finger at someone else.

“We just don’t think there’s enough concrete evidence to follow up on.”

“What?” Alan said, outraged. “This is the first real lead you’ve had. Edward Brand purchased that antique himself. You’ve got the address of the antique shop in Mexico City.”

“It’s sketchy at best.”

“Christ Almighty,” Alan said, slamming his fist down on the armrest. “This is bullshit. We have to bring in our own guy, and when he finds something your people should have dug out of those hard drives, you back off.” He stopped, then wagged his finger at both the FBI men. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re pissed off that we found something you didn’t.”

“It doesn’t work that way, Mr. Bestwick,” Hawkins countered. “We simply can’t allocate resources to follow up on every clue we get. This one involves the purchase of an antique in Mexico City, which is out of our jurisdiction.”

“Someone involved with this whole thing killed one of your agents,” Alan said sharply. “I’d think you’d want to find these guys.”

“We do,” Hawkins shot back in a heated voice. “I knew Alicia Walker personally. This isn’t any fun for us either. We want these guys as badly as you do.”

“I doubt it,” Alan said. “They didn’t destroy your life.”

“They destroyed Alicia’s,” Hawkins snapped. Then he took a couple of deep breaths and continued calmly. “None of us are happy that these guys are still out there.”

“Right,” Alan said, rising from the couch. “Is that it? That’s all the news you have for us today?”

“That’s it,” Abrams said, also rising. Hawkins followed suit. They walked to the front door and let themselves out. The sound of the door clicking shut reached the living room.

Taylor slouched back into the throw pillows on the couch. “I don’t believe this. We finally get a break, and nothing comes of it.”

Sam Morel had stayed in the living room. “I never thought they’d disregard what Kelly found,” he said. “It wasn’t the reaction I expected. I thought they’d be all over this, especially with Alicia Walker in the ground.”

“They’re going to get away with it,” Alan said, his voice shaking with fury. “Bastards.”

Taylor was quiet for a minute. Then she said, “Alan, we’ve got the address to the antique shop. We could check it out.”

“What?” Alan said. “What do you mean?”

Taylor sat forward. “Brand bought an antique from a shop in Mexico City. There’s a chance that the owner of the shop may know where he is. Or who he is.”

“You’re talking about flying to Mexico and seeing this guy face to face?”

“Why not? He owns an antique store. How dangerous can he be?” There was a light in her eyes, one that Alan hadn’t seen in weeks. A vibrancy to her body as she leaned toward him.

“Mexico can be dangerous,” Morel said. “Even antique shops.”

“This is the one clue we’ve got to work with right now,” Taylor insisted. “If we leave this and let it die, we might as well just roll up in a ball and admit that they’ve beaten us.”

“I don’t know . . .” Alan said. “You’ve just started a new job, and we don’t have a lot of money.”

“Money we do have,” Taylor said. “We’re sitting on a few hundred thousand dollars from the sale of the house. I can get time off if I want. Nick’s happy to have me. He’ll give me as much time as I want.”

“I wouldn’t advise it,” Sam said. “You could be getting in over your heads. I’ve known some pretty street-savvy guys who got into trouble in Mexico when they poked their noses in the wrong places. One of them came back in a body bag.”

Quiet descended on the room, and Taylor and Sam looked at Alan. The decision rested with him. He rose and walked to the window, staring out. The streetlamps were on, bright yellow against the darkening sky. Taylor watched his face in the reflected glow, knowing the man and getting inside his head. Alan was a person who believed acting on opportunity was the only way. Anything less was a cop-out. But his decision would be made by weighing the risk against the possible outcome. The upside was that they may get some of their money back. The downside was that he could be putting them in harm’s way. She knew it would be a difficult decision for him and readied herself to accept his decision—whichever way it went.

Alan turned away from the window and shook his head. “My head’s telling me to stay here and play it safe.” He sat on the couch beside Taylor. No one spoke for a minute. A clock ticked and the sound of a motorcycle driving past the house drifted in, then dissipated. Finally he said, “But I don’t think this is a time to listen to logic. I think there are times in life when you’ve got to walk out on the branch and listen for the cracking sound.”

“If there’s anything I can do from this end . . .” Morel said.

“We’ll call,” Taylor said. She leaned over and kissed Alan on the cheek. Everything had just changed. They were no longer sitting back and waiting for the police or the FBI to solve the case. They were going on the offensive.