The Shell Game: A Fox and O'Hare Short Story (Kindle Single) (2 page)

Nicolas Fox was heading north on the 405 in a rented Mustang convertible at precisely fifty-five miles per hour. The soft top was down, Randy Newman’s “I Love L.A.” played on the speakers, and the wind whipped Fox’s hair. He wore Ray-Bans and a charcoal gray Tom Ford suit with a bright white shirt open at the collar. There was a Bluetooth mike in his ear, allowing him to make hands-free calls. He looked like a young Hollywood agent on his way to close a big deal, and that wasn’t too far off the mark.

“I’m approaching the Marina Freeway overpass,” Fox said to the three people he was conferenced into via his cellphone.

He clicked his stopwatch. The Jefferson Boulevard ramp onto the 405 freeway was a quarter mile away, which was about sixteen seconds. The timing was very important. It was the first of three consecutive on-ramps feeding into the northbound 405 from the Marina Freeway interchange.

Nick drove underneath the overpass and, as he emerged into the sunlight again, he glanced to his right where a blue Toyota Camry raced down the Jefferson on-ramp. The car was driven by an Asian woman in her thirties, wearing a straw porkpie hat and big sunglasses. She yawned at Nick and merged into the traffic behind him. He glanced at the stopwatch. Sixteen seconds. Perfect. He clicked the stopwatch again.

“Right on time,” Nick said.

“This is so boring,” the Asian woman said.

Her name was Wendy Rhee, and she was the best getaway driver in Seoul, maybe in all of Asia. Now she was ready to conquer America.

“It’s no fun driving if someone isn’t chasing you,” Wendy said. “Cars need gasoline, and I need adrenaline. I’m tempted to rear-end someone and speed away just to stay awake.”

“You have eight seconds, Artie,” Nick said as he approached the on-ramp where
traffic from the westbound Marina Freeway funneled cars onto the northbound 405.

“Out of my way!” Artie Sondel yelled in his thick Bronx accent, not at Nick but at the car in front of him. “You’re driving a car, not sitting on the can.”

Artie leaned on his horn. Nick looked to his right and saw the silver Ford Explorer Artie was driving. It was stuck on the on-ramp behind two slow-moving cars.

Artie swore, veered onto the weedy embankment, and sped past the two cars with his Explorer tipped at a precarious angle. It was typical Artie. He’d spent twenty years driving a taxi in Manhattan, so he was an expert at urban guerilla driving.

Nick looked ahead. The on-ramp channeling the eastbound Marina Freeway traffic to the northbound 405 was coming up almost immediately. Evaristo Suarez’s black Lincoln Town Car was in sight, and Nick didn’t have to use the stopwatch to know Evaristo was going to hit his mark to the split second. Evaristo had learned to drive in the U.S. Army, transporting arms and supplies through Iraq on roads mined with improvised explosive devices. Precision timing and hair-trigger reflexes had kept him alive. The problem was, when he came back stateside, nothing else gave him the same thrill as driving those land-mined roads … except crime.

As Nick passed the on-ramp, the Lincoln merged into place behind him and in front of Wendy’s Camry. Artie’s SUV was two cars behind her. Nick led them off the 405 at the Wilshire Boulevard exit, turned right onto Wilshire, and then into the parking lot of the Federal Building. They parked side by side, got out of their cars, and gathered around Nick’s Mustang to talk.

Evaristo had a buzz cut and wore GI-issue desert cammies. Muscular and fit, he was a sharp contrast to the pudgy Artie, who wore an untucked aloha shirt for comfort and because he thought it hid his bulging belly. Wendy was small and dressed in a pink miniskirt, reminding Nick of a Hello Kitty doll come to life.

“Not bad for the first go-round,” Nick said, “but I want you all to keep practicing. We don’t have much time to get it right.”

“Two of us got it perfect,” Wendy said and hooked a thumb at Artie. “He’s the one who didn’t.”

“It could just as easily have been you who got stuck behind those two
altacockers
,” Artie said.

“Don’t nobody get a big head, because that’s what’ll get you killed,” Evaristo said. “
Boom
. You’re meat and applesauce.”

Wendy grimaced. “That’s gross.”

“That’s life,” Evaristo said. “People die.”

“Nobody is going to die on this job,” Nick said. “I have a strict no-bloodshed policy. We aren’t going to be carrying any loaded weapons.”

“The other guys will be,” Artie said.

“We aren’t going to give them any reason to use their guns. That’s why it’s important you keep practicing.” Nick nodded toward the Federal Building, which looked like an enormous tombstone with windows. “I’ve got to go. I have an important meeting.”

“You’re walking into the lion’s den,” Wendy said.

Nick shrugged into his suit jacket. “It’s the best way to know what all the lions are thinking. Klepper panicked the Getty, and the Getty asked for the FBI’s assistance. I need to know their plans, so I’m going to be a helpful team member.

Kate was working at erasing her shirt stain with a Tide to Go stick when her phone rang. It was Jessup, summoning her to his corner office.

“I have a case for you,” he said.

Kate hung up and did a fist pump. “Yes!”

Cosmo popped up on the other side of the partition. “What?”

“I got a case.”

“Does that mean you aren’t going to eat any more of those cookies?”

“It means I’m going to put them in my top drawer and save them for later. And I’ve counted them so don’t get any ideas.”

Kate put the Tide stick away and hurried across the long cubicle-crammed bull pen to Jessup’s office.

He was sitting behind his desk, and the view behind him was incredible. To the west, she could see the Santa Monica high-rises and the Pacific Ocean. To the northwest,
she could see the 405 freeway snaking through Sepulveda Pass below the hilltop Getty museum.

“Thank you, sir, for this opportunity,” she said, practically standing at attention in front of his desk. “I won’t let you down.”

Jessup slid a file across the desk to her. “A fifty-million-dollar collection of golden Peruvian antiquities is being loaned to the Getty.” Jessup aimed his thumb over his shoulder at the marble-clad museum on the hill behind him. “It arrives at LAX on Monday and I want you riding shotgun on the delivery.”

“Not to sound unappreciative, because I really, really do appreciate getting this case,” Kate said. “But what makes this FBI business?”

“That’s a good question. The antiquities were looted from Peruvian tombs in the late 1980s and sold to Garson Klepper, a collector in Cleveland. An archaeologist specializing in Peruvian antiquities saw the golden masks on display in Cleveland a few years ago, recognized them as coming from the Sipán tomb, and reported it to the FBI. We confiscated the artifacts and arrested Klepper, who admitted they were stolen, but said they were taken from another tomb elsewhere in Peru. It was a very cunning maneuver on his part. Under the National Stolen Property Act, establishing the site where a piece is taken is the key requirement for making a case for possession of stolen artifacts. Unfortunately, neither the Justice Department nor the Peruvian government could prove which site the antiquities actually came from. So the judge ruled we had to return it all to Klepper. He got away with the crime. The Peruvians were furious, and we got egg on our face. We can’t take the risk that the antiquities will be stolen, that would just add insult to injury. So you’re going to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Now the case was a
lot
more interesting to her. It wasn’t just a glorified security guard job. She was being entrusted with protecting the FBI’s reputation.

“What makes you think there’s a risk of theft?” Kate asked.

“To be perfectly honest, I think the risk of theft is small to none, but Klepper is worried, and he has the Getty worried. Klepper has hired Intertect, a private security firm. They’re going to oversee the transport of the antiquities. I wanted to brief you in private before you met the Intertect agent in charge of the operation.” Jessup hit a button on his intercom and buzzed the receptionist. “Send in John Drake.”

John Drake was hard, lean muscle packaged up in a custom-tailored suit. He had beach-bum hair, a 007 attitude, and brown eyes that gave nothing away. Kate thought he was the hottest guy she’d ever seen up close.

“Explain to Special Agent O’Hare why you think the collection is in danger,” Jessup said to Drake.

“Mr. Klepper fears that Nicolas Fox has been hired by the Peruvian government to steal the collection. Apparently Mr. Klepper has an associate who was relieved of a great deal of money and believes Fox was behind it.”

“Why did this associate think it was Fox?” Jessup asked.

“It was a very clever robbery and Fox is known for being very clever.”

Drake stated all this with authority since he
was
Nicolas Fox.

Kate turned to Jessup. “What do we have on Fox?”

“Nothing. Not a photo or a fingerprint. We know he’s out there, but he targets wealthy, powerful people who don’t say anything when he’s swindled or robbed them because they’re afraid they’ll look like idiots.”

“The risk is minimal,” Drake said. “We feel confident we can protect the Klepper collection. There’s nothing beyond my client’s paranoia to indicate that Fox is planning something.”

“I agree,” Jessup said. “I don’t think the collection is in any real danger, but the Getty has made a request and we’re glad to help our friends at the Getty. Agent O’Hare will work with you on the security arrangements and provide you with the appropriate resources.”

Kate figured that
appropriate resources
was Jessup’s way of saying
as little as possible
. This meant she’d probably be the only resource the FBI was willing to provide.

“I’d like to brief you on the security details, but I’m running late for another appointment,” Drake said to Kate. “I’m staying at Shutters on the Beach in Santa Monica. If you haven’t other plans we could have dinner at the hotel and run through the operation.”

“Perfect,” Kate said. “I have a stack of files I need to clear this afternoon and then I’m free. I’ll meet you at seven.”

Kate thought her blue jacket and tan slacks were perfect for every occasion. The shirt with the barbecue sauce on it, not so much. She made a fast stop at her apartment to change her shirt, slip her feet into dressy flats, swipe on some lip gloss, and she was good to go.

The Bureau motor pool had assigned her a dented silver Crown Vic with three hundred thousand miles on the odometer. It wasn’t pretty, but it got her to Shutters. The hotel was built to look like a Nantucket estate. Kate loved the massive, rambling gray shingle building, but she thought it fit in with Santa Monica about as well as a Taco Bell in Chinatown. She took the elevator up to Drake’s sixth-floor suite, and restrained herself from gushing over the room. It was about the same size as her apartment. Unlike her apartment, though, it was beautifully furnished and it had a view.

“Nice room,” Kate said. “The presidential suite wasn’t available?”

“I didn’t want to overindulge myself.”

She walked to the open veranda window and looked out at the Santa Monica Pier and the Ferris wheel. She listened to the ocean swells break on the sandbar, and she breathed in the sea breeze. She knew that on the beach below her there were piles of dog poop and signs warning swimmers to stay out of the polluted water, but in the encroaching darkness it was magical.

The table was set for two and looked suspiciously romantic to Kate. Candles, champagne in an ice bucket, a small vase of fresh flowers.

“Am I interrupting something?” she asked. “I don’t want to put a crimp in your date plans.”

“No date plans,” he said. “Just a working dinner.”

“My idea of a working dinner is a Domino’s Pizza, buffalo wings, and a six-pack of Coke served in a windowless conference room.”

Drake opened the champagne and poured two glasses. “I asked for a windowless conference room when I checked in, but they didn’t have any available.”

Kate took a glass of champagne from him and chugged it down.

Drake grinned and refilled her glass. “I like a woman with a healthy appetite.”