CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Cabo San Lucas evolved since the Guaycura tribes first settled the cape and subsisted on fruit and whatever small game they could bring down with their blowguns. The Spaniards, under Conquistador Hernán Cortés and fresh from their European victory over the Moors, trampled across the Aztec empire and by 1565 were firmly in control of the archipelago. But the Spanish failed to realize the potential of the region, their maps even showing California and Baja California as Islands. They neglected the area, and when Mexico finally achieved independence from Spain in 1821 after eleven years of intense fighting, the Baja was part of the deal.

The temperate climate and world-class deep-sea fishing transformed the cape from sleepy Mexican villages to tourist hotspot. Restaurants and night clubs flung open their doors. Even rock singer Sammy Hagar, the front-man for Van Halen, discovered Cabo San Lucas and opened Cabo Wabo, a restaurant that catered to the young rock crowd. The notoriety that followed designated Cabo San Lucas as a party town for college students on spring break. Or any other time of the year.

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.