CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The Mexican sun was intense against a backdrop of pale blue sky. Its rays reflected off the tips of the small waves, making the water shimmer and dance as the boat sliced through the cool blue of the gulf. Ahead, gracing the Mexican shoreline was Puerto Vallarta, the once sleepy village that grew to a major tourist destination. Aboard the deck of the seventy-two-foot Viking Sport Cruiser was a solitary man. He cupped a mug of coffee in his hands and watched the approaching shoreline with a touch of trepidation.

Edward Brand didn’t like Puerto Vallarta. On at least two occasions, the local police had extradited high-level con artists who used Mexico as their base of operations. The highest profile arrest was Alyn Waage, the Internet scam artist who had run a ninety million-dollar con out of Puerto Vallarta and Costa Rica until he ended up in a Guadalajara prison. His abrupt crash from luxury hillside living to a squalid jail cell came about when Mexican customs agents found four-point-five million dollars in money orders on board a chartered Learjet at the Puerto Vallarta airport. Brand could envision the scene in his mind—Waage trying desperately to buy off the customs agents, knowing that he was facing a pivotal moment in his life. But for some reason he had failed to convince the agents to let him go. And that lack of cooperation by the Mexican authorities worried Brand.

But trying to conceal a seventy-two-foot yacht in a smaller center was impossible. And keeping a low profile was one of the keys to staying out of jail. The Mary Dyer was a beautiful ship, and it blended in well in an upscale marina. But the Cabo region was too hot now that they had faked Alan Bestwick’s death on the cliffs at La Laguna. Taylor Simons was a resourceful woman, and although Brand doubted she would stay on in Cabo San Lucas, he wasn’t about to take foolish risks. She had a million dollars from Alan’s death—a detail they had built into the scam to keep the grieving widow from digging too deeply into her husband’s death. But he was more than just a little aware that it could also backfire. The million dollars gave Taylor the resources to stay on in Mexico and search for him. If she decided to go that route and he stayed in Cabo, she would eventually find him. Other than Puerto Vallarta, that left ports in Manzinillo, Mazatlan and Acapulco on the Pacific coast. None of which truly thrilled him.

He figured the risk to be the least in Puerto Vallarta. His yacht just another one in the pack, moored in a slip and surrounded by like boats. The captain slowed as they approached the final leg into the marina. One of the crew members appeared from the salon, a phone in his hand. He passed it across to Brand and disappeared back into the boat. The wind was almost nonexistent and the line clear of static. The voice on the other end came through as though the man was in the next room.

“I’m still waiting for the final installment,” he said once they had traded greetings.

“It’s coming,” Brand said. “Give it another week or two, just to make sure your end of things is under control.”

“Everything is fine here,” the man snapped back. “Just get me my money.”

Edward Brand watched the harbor lights slip past as the boat neared the marina entrance. Brand knew the man on the other end of the line had the potential to be very dangerous to his freedom. But only in the United States. Right now he was in Mexico, where he planned to stay for quite some time. Which put him in a favorable position for negotiating and also for how much crap he had to take. He decided today wasn’t a good day to take any.

“You’ll get your money when I decide to send it,” he said coolly. “That will be when I know for certain all loose ends on NewPro are tied down. Including Taylor Simons.”

“The woman is not a threat. She’s wandering around like a lost puppy right now.”

“What do you mean?” Brand asked.

“She flew to Paris and stayed for a few days. Now she’s in Washington, D.C., visiting a friend. Following her movements is simple—she’s using credit cards everywhere she goes. She’s dragging an electronic trail behind her like a comet’s tail.”

Brand stiffened at the mention of France. “When did she go to Paris?”

“Monday, December fourth. Why?”

“How long did she stay?” Brand asked, ignoring the man’s question.

“Three days. She flew back to Washington on the seventh.”

“What else do you know?” Brand asked, sitting forward in the chair as the boat passed the final marker and entered the marina.

“Not much. We weren’t very interested, so we didn’t watch her too closely. We know from her credit card purchases that she stayed at Edouard VII. It’s an upscale hotel on Avenue de l’Opéra.”

“Shit,” Brand said. He knew Paris and he knew where Alan’s flat was located. Too close for coincidence? He didn’t know. “Get me everything you can on what she did, where she went,” he said.

“Let’s back up a bit,” the voice said. “This conversation started with me wondering where my money was. I don’t recall asking for more work.”

“Your money is coming. It’s safe. But it won’t be if I’m in jail. I need to know what Taylor Simons was up to in Paris. I’ll pay you an additional fifty large to find out.”

“Okay, but I want this wrapped up quickly. I feel like my ass is hanging out of my shorts, and I don’t like it.”

“Like I said, you’ll get your money.” Brand clicked the end button on the phone and set it on the table next to his coffee mug. The Mary Dyer was barely moving now, the captain keeping the wake in check as he navigated the narrow channel between the docked boats. Brand leaned on the railing and watched the people watch him—wondering who this man was. If only they knew.

Taylor Simons’s trip to Paris was probably just a strange coincidence. She was probably still in some sort of shock over Alan’s death. Grieving at least. But there would be no benefit to Taylor having a chance run-in with her husband, who lived in a second-floor apartment in the Latin Quarter. Brand checked the time, calculated the difference to Paris, then realized he didn’t care. He dialed Alan’s number.

“Bonjour.” The voice that answered was tired but coherent. It was Alan Bestwick.

“Alan, it’s Edward,” Brand said.

“Yes,” Alan said hesitantly, switching to English. “I thought you weren’t going to call here.”

“Unless the situation warrants it. Right now this is one of those situations.”

“Is everything all right?” Alan asked, wide awake, concern creeping into his tone.

“Yes, fine. Taylor was in Paris recently. Did you see her?”

“No.” Now there was anxiety in his voice. “What was she doing in Paris?”

“I thought you might know.”

“Taylor thinks I’m dead. There’s no reason for her to be in Paris looking for me.”

“I hope not,” Brand said. “You’re positive that you didn’t leave something that would tie you to France?”

There was a long pause as Alan Bestwick went back over things in his mind. Finally he said, “No. Taylor had nothing that could lead her to Paris. Nothing. I’m sure of it.”

“Okay. Just keep a low profile. I’m going to have someone watch her. I’ll let you know if she comes anywhere near you.”

“Maybe I should take off for a while,” Alan said. “Head south. Lie on a beach somewhere.”

Brand mulled over the idea. “No, I don’t think so. All that does is introduce another variable. With you in Paris, I know where you are and whether she’s close to you. If you’re on a beach somewhere, my guy may know where Taylor is, but we won’t know where you are. It’s definitely better if you just stay put. And if she returns to Paris, we’ll know something’s up.”

“Okay.”

“Just keep on your toes.”

“I’ll do that.” The international line clicked over to a dial tone.

The Mary Dyer scraped the edge of the dock slightly as the captain backed her into her assigned spot in the marina. The yachts on each side were comparable in size and finishing, giving Brand the anonymity he was hoping for. He had purchased the boat through one of his dummy corporations three years earlier with the take from another scam, and had registered it out of the Seychelles Islands. Boats were a wonderful way to stay incognito, especially if you were smart enough to leave little or no paper trail back to your real identity. They were highly mobile, traveled in international waters and could disappear from the radar in hours if necessary. He was quite pleased with his decision to live on the boat, all the while giving the police clues that led nowhere.

The FBI had spun their wheels on the Canadian connection. Brand had learned early in the game that the police always wanted to find something to put in their files. If they had a blank file folder, they got embarrassed and angry. They had a basic need that had to be filled, and they kept looking until they had enough reports to make it appear they had given the bad guy a real run for his money. For that reason, he had given them enough to find the condo in Vancouver if they were on their game, but even that hadn’t happened. Now, close to ninety days had passed since he had emptied out the NewPro offices and disappeared. After ninety days the trail was growing cold, the file gathering dust. That suited him just fine.

Two hundred and twelve million dollars. God, what a scam. Every individual piece of the puzzle had fallen into place without a hitch. The only possible problem right now was Taylor Simons, and her impromptu trip to Paris. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that it was simply a coincidence. Alan Bestwick was fastidious in his attention to detail, and if Alan was sure he had left no clues for Taylor to follow, then that was the way it was. Still, he would keep tabs on Taylor Simons for a while. It was simply a matter of due diligence.

The engines slowed to an idle, then stopped. A young Mexican boy in white pants and shirt, one of the many wharf rats who worked the marina, secured the lines and clamped the gangplank in place. Two uniformed Mexicans from the port authority marched down the long wooden wharf. Edward Brand leaned back in his chair and motioned for one of his crew to refill his coffee mug. The Mexicans could come to him. Unlike Alyn Waage, who was dumb enough to carry millions of dollars with him, Brand never traveled with more than nine thousand five hundred US dollars. Never. There were banks in Grand Cayman with managers who didn’t ask too many questions as long as they were sure the money wasn’t coming from the sale of drugs, and there were bank machines in every port. There was no reason to invite a trip to a Mexican jail. He heard the heavy clumping of boots on the deck and smiled. They would check him out and clear him for unlimited entry to Mexico. And Mexico was where he would stay.

Things were so simple, if you didn’t complicate them.