CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

The thirteenth floor of 450 Golden Gate Avenue was quiet on Sunday morning, one day before Christmas. Only one man was in the San Francisco offices of the FBI, and he was hunched over a computer watching the results of his request to the Bureau’s mainframe. A series of characters scrolled across the screen, and he smiled. Taylor Simons was still in Houston. In the last twenty-four hours she had used her credit card twice. Once at a women’s boutique, the total damage just over three hundred dollars. There was a charge for eighty-seven dollars at Charley’s 517, a popular Houston steak and seafood restaurant on Louisiana Street.

Brent Hawkins killed the screen and initiated another program. The logo for a Cayman Islands bank appeared. He clicked on Internet banking and input his account number and password, then held his breath as the system pulled up his balances. A slow smile spread across his face as he read the numbers. Edward Brand had finally deposited the eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars they had agreed on. Those funds brought his balance to just over one-point-five million. Not bad for a government employee. Then the image of Alicia Walker, dead in her bathtub, flashed through his mind. It wiped the smile from his face. He closed the link to the bank and signed off.

Outside the FBI offices, the December air coming off the bay was cold. He buttoned his coat against the chill and walked briskly to his car. Once he was out of the wind, he placed a call to Edward Brand’s cell phone. It rang a few times, and then Brand’s distinctive voice came over the line.

“Simons is still in Houston,” he said after they had exchanged hellos.

“Good. I don’t trust that woman. Keep watching her.”

“That’s not a problem.” There was a brief silence. “Thanks for sending the money.”

“You earned it,” Brand said.

Again, the image of Alicia Walker’s bloated face, floating in her bathtub flashed through his mind. “Sure. I earned it.”

“Kelly Kramer, Taylor’s friend in Washington. What’s he up to?”

“No idea. I’m only watching her credit cards.”

“Maybe we should keep an eye on him as well.”

“I told you, Edward. That’s dangerous. You mess with anyone tied in with the NSA or the CIA and you’ve got problems. These guys have resources you can only dream about. You start putting tracers on them or their lives, and they find out. And once they know you’re watching them, they want to know why. Watching Kelly Kramer is a very bad idea.”

“Okay,” Brand said. “But I don’t like that Taylor Simons is tied in with him.”

“He worked for her. That’s it. They were friends. You met Kramer when you were setting Taylor up. You know what he’s like. He’s a geek. A numbers guy. Harmless.”

“Don’t ever label people as harmless, Brent. Because that’s how you get bit in the ass. No one who works for the NSA is harmless.”

“All right. I get what you’re saying, but you’ve got to believe me when I tell you that spying on this guy in any manner is really bad business. We leave him alone unless we see him and Taylor linking up again.”

There was a total silence, and Brent Hawkins swallowed heavily as he realized he had just told Edward Brand what to do. That wasn’t something that rested well with Brand. He was a man who made decisions, not took orders. He was wealthy and ruthless. Rich enough and crazy enough to give some faceless person a lump of money and a picture of an FBI agent in San Francisco who had stepped over the line. Hawkins thought seriously about retracting the last statement, but didn’t. Brand hated weak people almost as much as he hated being told what to do. Dealing with Edward Brand was like walking down the center line on a busy highway.

“If you think leaving Kelly Kramer alone is the best thing to do, then that’s what we’ll do,” Brand finally said. His voice was curt.

“I do, Edward,” Hawkins said, perhaps just a bit too quickly.

“Don’t lose track of Taylor Simons.”

“I won’t.”

“Good-bye.”

The line died, and Brent Hawkins closed his cell phone. Jesus, how could he be so stupid? Pissing off Edward Brand was beyond dumb. It was suicidal. He started his car and pulled away from the curb. Home to no one. No wife, no kids, no life. Maybe he should retire, buy a little place down south, somewhere in the Caribbean. Live the quiet life. Walk to the local bar each day and sip Coronas in the shade, watching the waves come in and talking with the locals about nothing. Maybe. He’d give it some thought.

Right now he had a commitment that couldn’t be set aside. Edward Brand was wary of Taylor Simons. He considered her to be a threat. Although he didn’t agree with Brand, he didn’t want to piss the man off any more than he already had. So until Brand decided that everything was copasetic, his job was to keep tabs on the woman.

Not a problem.