Джеффри Дивер - The Final Twist

After five minutes he reverted to English once more, apparently addressing the original speaker. He wiped his brow and shiny head with a handkerchief. “You better do.”

He disconnected and turned his attention back to Shaw, who suspected that he had not needed to take the call at all but — like with the suit jacket label — it was a show of power. He’d also like to keep people waiting; he had arrived at the Embarcadero fifteen minutes late. “So. The floor is yours.”

“I have something you’re after. I want to negotiate a deal. That’s why I called you, and not Droon or Braxton. I don’t trust them. All of their strong-arm crap. It’s not helpful.”

Devereux was silent for a moment but the pleasure was obvious in his face. “Always good to eliminate the middleman, if possible. Cheaper in the long run.” He added, “Safer too in most instances.”

Shaw continued, “You and the people from BlackBridge broke into a house of my father’s. Alvarez Street.”

The driver glanced in the rearview mirror.

Devereux reassured him with a shake of the head.

To Shaw he said, “That’s not accurate. They were already there. I have no idea how they got in. They invited me to join them. I didn’t know whose house it was.” His fingers were flying, twitchy. It wasn’t a palsy; he could control it. “Not at that time.”

“My family’s in danger.”

Devereux nodded. “I see. You heard us. You were bugging the house.”

“I don’t believe it’s bugging if it’s your house.”

“Well taken. Go on.”

Shaw said, “My mother and sister are safe. But I want to make sure they stay safe. I’ll give you what you want and you call off Droon and Braxton.”

“I’m intrigued. So it was in Gahl’s courier bag.”

“That’s right.”

“And you want a guarantee of your family’s safety for it, of course. But there’s more in it for you. Do you know, Mr. Shaw, that one could argue that money dates back more than forty thousand years — to the Upper Paleolithic era. It took the form of barter but look at it this way: there were undoubtedly humans back then who did not need the flint arrowhead they traded ears of corn for. That makes the arrowhead a form of currency. A stone tuppence, you could say.

“Then there’s the Mesopotamian shekel. I have one from five thousand years ago. That was among the first coins. The first mints were built in the first millennium b.c. They stamped gold and silver coins for the Lydians and Ionians to use to pay for armies.”

“Hobby of yours?”

“Bloody well is!” Devereux blustered. He seemed delighted. “Now, back to business. I get what I want and I’ll write you a check — well, you’ll want a wire transfer, of course — for quite the pretty sum. You can move your family wherever you want. They’ll be completely out of harm’s way. What proof could you give me that you have it?”

Shaw said, “Why don’t I show it to you.” He lifted his backpack to his lap.

The fingers stopped moving, the arms stopped waving. Surprise — what seemed like an alien expression — blossomed in his face, followed by greedy anticipation.

Shaw unzipped the backpack and handed Devereux a thick plastic binder.

Devereux took it and emptied the contents onto his lap. He eagerly began flipping through the sheets of paper inside.

Shaw said, “Of course, these are copies. I have the originals.”

Devereux frowned when he’d finished. “What’s this?”

Shaw was hesitating, a confused look on his face. “It’s what you’re looking for.”

“No, it’s not. I don’t know what this is.”

“It’s what Amos Gahl stole from BlackBridge. What was in the courier bag. Proof about the Urban Improvement Plan. It’s evidence for the police.”

Devereux shook his head. “Where’s the voting tally?”

“What’s that?”

He eyed Shaw closely. “The legal ruling from nineteen oh-six? A single sheet of paper signed by a judge?”

Shaw looked toward the papers in Devereux’s hand. “That’s all that was in the bag. I mean, some magazines and newspapers, some memos, but all dated within the past ten years. I went through every single page. Nothing a hundred years old.” Shaw’s body language skills came into play again, though in reverse. He made certain that now, when he was lying, he kept his mannerisms and expressions unchanged from a moment ago when he’d been telling the truth. “I thought that’s what you wanted. To destroy the evidence about the UIP.”

Devereux sighed. The hands began to twitch again. “I don’t know what the UIP is.”

“Really?”

“No,” he muttered.

“BlackBridge’s Urban Improvement Plan. Seeding drugs into neighborhoods to lower property values. So people like you can buy up the land for cheap.”

The man’s face grew rosier, and not in a good way. His jaw was tight. “I have no knowledge of that whatsoever. I hire BlackBridge to help me identify properties to buy, yes, but I know nothing about any drugs. What a horrific idea.”

“It is. But it’s not my issue. I’m not going on a crusade if it puts my family in danger.”

Devereux would be wondering if Shaw was right. Maybe the courier bag didn’t have the tally in it. But if not, then where was it? His eyes grew cold, and under those small fingers the copies of the UIP documents shivered. He read through them again. “I’ve dealt with enough solicitors and barristers in my day to know this hardly amounts to evidence, Mr. Shaw.”

Silence for a moment as the Rolls climbed California Street and swerved around a cable car, bristling with enthusiastic tourists.

“I don’t think I believe you, Mr. Shaw. You’re playing hard to get. I’m going to assume you found the vote tally certificate. You hid it somewhere. And you’re holding out for more.”

Shaw appeared exasperated. He tried not to overdo it. “Voting about what? Why’s it so important?”

“It just is.” Devereux was growing irritated. Finally the man controlled his pique. “I would be willing to pay seven figures to you, in cash, untraceable, for the certificate. You will never want for anything again.”

Curious phrase, archaic. And an odd concept; Colter Shaw had not wanted for anything for a long time. Maybe since birth, and money had nothing to do with it.

“This tally, whatever it is, wasn’t in the courier bag. What do you want it for?”

The man who would be king...

Devereux didn’t answer. He looked out the window. Very few people disappointed Jonathan Stuart Devereux, Shaw supposed. And fewer still did not do what he wished them to.

If this were Ebbitt Droon, of course, Shaw would probably be on his way to a warehouse in a deserted part of the city. Maybe across the Bay Bridge to Oakland, a city where there would be far more industrial spaces practically designed for torture and body disposal.

The Tannery...

When they had met once earlier in the month, Droon had tried to extract information by threatening him with a .40 pistol — a big, nasty bullet — targeting joints, which would have the effect of altering them forever. Now, apparently he’d returned to the twisting knife — what he’d used on Amos Gahl.

Devereux turned back to him. “All right. Eight figures.”

Shaw wondered where on the scale between ten million and ninety-nine the man was thinking. He guessed the payoff would be on a low rung of the ladder.

“A higher number isn’t going to miraculously produce something I didn’t have two minutes ago. In exchange for leaving my family alone, I’ll give you the Urban Improvement Plan evidence, whether or not you say you don’t know what it is.” He shrugged. “If it’s not enough for the prosecutor, then it might at least point the police in a... helpful direction.”