CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

They left Renita Gallant in the situation room at the National Security Agency and drove back to Kelly’s condo in D.C. It was suppertime on Monday and three hours since they had learned how Alan had survived the crash into the ocean. Kelly moved about the kitchen with an amazing degree of alacrity and in less than an hour whipped up an authentic paella, complete with chicken and seafood and flavored with saffron. Taylor picked the wine, uncorked it and poured for both of them. She tried the paella and gave him a slight nod.

“This is excellent,” she said. “I didn’t know we had a gourmet cook working at G-cubed. You never volunteered to cook lunch for the staff.”

He speared a piece of chicken and grinned. “Once people know you can cook, they expect it. Keep them in the dark. It’s a good rule of thumb.”

“Now that I know, you’re in trouble.”

They finished their meal, talking about everything from politics to hot lunches for underprivileged school kids. When they were both done, Taylor cleared the dishes and Kelly poured more wine. They sat on comfortable leather couches in the living room, Michael Jones playing on the sound system, every note crystal clear. Kelly flipped a switch and the gas fireplace threw a dim flickering light through the room.

“So what now?” Taylor asked. “We know the son of a bitch is alive, but what can we do with it?”

Kelly gently swished the wine about in the glass. He took a small sip and rested the glass in his lap. “We’ve got a couple of things to follow up on. First off is the boat. That’s our best course of action right now. The Mary Dyer has to be registered—all boats have to be registered somewhere. We find out where and what name it’s under. Brand probably has no idea that we know about the yacht. It could be a rental, but it could also be his.”

Taylor managed a small smile. “That’s good thinking. What else? You said there were a couple of things.”

“Maybe. When you were telling me what happened before Alan went over the cliff, you said Brand stopped and had lunch at a bar a few miles before the cliff.”

“Yes. So?”

“You said he used the house phone to make a call. You were specific on that—the house phone, not a cell phone.”

Taylor nodded vigorously. “Yes. He used the restaurant’s phone. Why?”

“Phone logs,” Kelly said. “The Mexican phone company will have a record of the number he dialed.”

“Jesus, you’re smart. I would never have thought of that.”

“Guess what that gives us?”

She shook her head. “I have absolutely no idea.”

“You’re sure,” he said. “Think about it. Who was he calling?”

She stared at her wineglass, trying to figure out who Brand would have needed to speak with. It had to be logical or Kelly wouldn’t have figured it out. There had been no one but Brand on the road when they had arrived at the point where Alan had gone over, so there was no reason to call ahead to have someone block the road or pretend to be injured so they would stop. Meeting Brand on the curve had been more than enough to guarantee that. So what else was there? Then it hit her. She gave Kelly a smile.

“Got it. Scuba divers can only stay underwater for a certain length of time. He called ahead to let them know he was coming so they could get in position.”

“Very, very good,” Kelly said, giving her a small clap. “Whoever was on the other end of that line is a possible connection back to Edward Brand.”

“Two avenues to figuring out who he is and maybe even where he is.”

“That’s the idea.” Kelly drained the last of his wine and headed to the kitchen to put on some water for tea. He returned a few minutes later with a teapot and cups on a tray. He left it on the coffee table, giving the tea time to steep.

“You know,” he said, “checking out the yacht registry and the phone call isn’t going to take a lot of time. Guess what else we could look into?”

“What Alan’s real name is? I’m damn sure it’s not Bestwick.”

“That’s one. There’s one more.”

“What?”

“I still think one of the cops is dirty,” Kelly said, pouring the tea and handing her a cup. “That stuff on the computer didn’t get there by accident. We could dig around a little bit and see what we come up with.”

“Then it would have to be one of the FBI agents—either Brent Hawkins or John Abrams. It couldn’t be Sam Morel. He didn’t have time to rig the computers.”

Kelly shook his head. “Sure he did. The computers were sitting in the room when I got there. They were plugged in and ready to go. Detective Morel easily could have generated that invoice from the antique shop in Mexico City, then powered the systems down and locked the door. And remember, you said Morel went out of his way to keep you and Alan in the know. He was your ears and eyes to what was happening with the FBI’s investigation.”

Taylor didn’t answer. Sam Morel was a nice man who had tried to help her and Alan when their lives had come crashing down around them. He had been assigned by the San Francisco Police Department as their liaison between the victims and the District Attorney’s office. What possible upside was there for Sam Morel to be feeding information back to Edward Brand? Except money, of course. Brand had just ripped them off for almost fourteen million—two million less than originally thought once she subtracted Alan’s million and a half that had never been part of the equation. That amount of money could sway people to do things that they may not otherwise do. Kelly was right, Sam Morel was as much a suspect as a conspirator as were the two FBI agents.

“Here’s a question for you: how do we manage to dredge up all the information we need on three cops—two of them federal agents?”

“I have some connections,” Kelly said.

“Ones you can use?”

He shrugged. “It all goes back to asking and seeing what they say. The worst is no.”

Taylor set her empty tea cup on the table and grabbed the sides of her head. “This is hard on the brain. We’ve got too many things on the go.”

“Never too many,” Kelly said. “It gets bleak when your options are limited. Right now we’ve got lots of options. That’s a good thing.”

She smiled and dropped her hands back on her lap. “Okay, you’re the expert. I’ve never done anything like this before. Checking out federal agents who might be working with the bad guy, looking at phone records, tracking down who owns a luxury yacht—this is all out of a suspense novel.”

“The bad news is I’ve never done it before either. But I think it’s just a matter of logic. We have a few problems, and we need solutions. We deal with each angle individually and then take the results and throw them in the collective pot. If we can find the right information, everything is going to lead back to Edward Brand. And eventually to Alan.”

“Okay, back to my original question—what now?”

“I’ve got to work this week. I haven’t been back long enough to have accrued any holidays. Maybe it’s better if you head back to San Francisco.”

“Is that important?”

Kelly shrugged. “We’re trying to find out who Brand is, but keep in mind that he knows who you are, where you live and just about every detail in your life. It’s easy for him to keep tabs on you. If I were him, that’s exactly what I’d be doing. If he does have someone on the inside, every time you use your debit card or one of your credit cards he’ll know exactly when and where. Brand can track where you are at any given time and what you’re doing. He probably already knows you were in Paris.”

“Then it’s already too late. He’ll know I was in Paris looking for Alan.”

“But you weren’t. You originally went to Paris just to stand on a street corner. You could have been there for any number of reasons. I wouldn’t panic about it.”

“I suppose you’re right. That’s assuming he’s watching me.”

“If I were him, I’d watch all my marks for signs that they’re getting on with their lives. The best thing you can do is give the appearance that you’re resigned to the fact you lost your money. Get back to what he will think is your normal life. That way if he has someone watching you, the red flags don’t go up.”

Taylor slowly nodded. She hardly liked being referred to as a mark, but that was exactly how Edward Brand viewed her. She had been chosen because she was a woman with money. No other reason was necessary. Then they had methodically removed the money from her life and discarded her. Kelly’s choice of words was accurate. She had been a mark. It wasn’t a nice thought. Now she had to go back to San Francisco and try to live a normal life. It wasn’t going to be easy, sitting on her butt knowing that Alan was wandering around somewhere with a smug grin and millions of her money. Still, Kelly was right.

“What about the check from the insurance company?” she asked.

“Cash it,” he said without hesitation.

“But I know Alan’s alive. That’s fraud.”

“Not cashing the check is an absolute giveaway that you suspect something. You have to do it. You can always give the money back later.”

“Okay, but make a note that I’m doing this under duress. I don’t like it. The first chance I have, that money goes back to the insurance company.”

He laughed. “You and your morals. They’re incorruptible. Most people couldn’t cash the check fast enough.” He finished the last of his tea. “I’ll do what I can from this end, Taylor. I’ve got some pretty good resources to draw on. You try to keep it together in San Francisco.”

“Why are you doing this, Kelly?” she asked. “I know you’re climbing out on a limb a bit at work. You could lose your job.”

He laughed again and shook his head. “Maybe, but I doubt it. I’m not pushing the limits. Getting the satellite data was tough. Running some personnel checks on a couple of FBI agents isn’t going to raise any eyebrows. Checking the registry on the Mary Dyer is nothing. I can submit the search at nine and have an answer back by noon. Same thing with the phone logs for that restaurant near San José del Cabo. Buzzards. That’s it. Nothing to it, Taylor. Don’t worry.”

“Thanks,” she said.

Michael Jones played on, his piano soft and relaxing. Taylor settled back into the cushions, relaxed and warm. The flame in the fireplace was mesmerizing. She watched it for a few minutes, alternating between wondering what had happened to her life and marveling at her own tenacity. It was amazing what the human spirit could endure. Now, instead of just rolling up in a ball and fading away, she and Kelly were going on the offensive. They were looking for Edward Brand, the mastermind of the scam and the key to finding Alan. And through some grace of God, with Kelly working for the NSA, they had connections she would never have thought possible. In that moment, tucked between the cushions watching the fire, she felt for the first time that they might find him.