Джеффри Дивер - The Final Twist

Sullen, Devereux muttered. “I doubt that will be a very productive endeavor, Mr. Shaw.”

They had arrived back at the place where they had picked Shaw up. Carrie was nowhere to be seen.

The CEO looked around for her.

Perhaps it had been one jab too many.

Devereux shrugged. “It happens. Those girls...”

Shaw thought: Good for you, Carrie.

Devereux tapped the driver on the shoulder. The man shut the recorder off. The tape was soon to be erased.

A sigh. “I would hate to have to turn this matter back to Ian Helms and Irena Braxton. They’re so... unsubtle. Let me encourage you to have another look at the contents of the courier bag. Discuss it with your bearded friend. Eight figures is, after all, eight figures.”

He handed the copies back and Shaw slipped them into his backpack.

The driver was out of the car and opening the door. Shaw stepped out onto the sidewalk.

Shaw heard Devereux’s voice. “I would look very carefully for that tally, Mr. Shaw. It would be good for everyone.”

“How is it there?” Shaw asked.

Victoria Lesston said through the speaker on Shaw’s Android, “We’re vigilant. Carrying sidearms. Your friend’s guys brought a machine gun.”

“Mary Dove told me.”

“What’re you up to?”

Back in the Pacific Heights safe house, sitting beside an open window and letting a pleasant breeze breathe past him. “Just hung out with a lecherous billionaire.”

“You have all the fun.”

His eyes were on the sketch he’d done of Echo Ridge, in the Davis & Sons frame, hanging on the wall. Even though it was in save-a-few-bucks plastic, the art didn’t look at all bad.

“Your mother,” she said, “was telling me about Ash. Sorry I never got a chance to meet him.”

“He was quite a man. Troubled, complicated, compassionate. Nobody like him in the world. He was a crusader.”

“This thing you found? So, you think it’s true?”

He said, “It is, yes. A real voting tally from nineteen oh-six. If it got out in public, it’ll change... well, it’ll change everything.”

“Is it safe? The tally.”

“I hid it in a picture frame.”

“In plain sight?”

“Not really. It’s facing backward.”

“A framed blank page — isn’t that a little obvious?”

“There’s a sketch I drew on the back. A landscape.”

“But it’s not what your father was looking for?”

“The tally? No. He didn’t even know it existed.” His voice grew terse. “He was looking for evidence to bring down BlackBridge and get the president — this guy named Helms — arrested. But there never was any. Only the vote tally. Oh, he had a mixed tape too.”

“A what?”

“Another story for when I see you again.” He wished they could have a longer conversation, but this wasn’t the time or place.

A pause. “Which will be when?”

Shaw nearly said as soon as possible. He missed her. But chose: “A few days. Just some loose ends here.”

The front door opened and Russell walked into the living room.

“My brother’s here. I better go.”

“Say hi to the mystery man for me.”

Shaw liked the lilt in her voice.

They disconnected.

Russell asked, “How did it go with Devereux?”

“He had an idea we’d found the tally. But he wasn’t sure. He might think Gahl hid it somewhere else. He offered to pay us a little money for it.”

“Little? Six figures?”

Silence.

“Seven?”

“More.”

“Hmm.” Russell’s go-to response. The accompanying facial expression was: easy come, easy go.

“He suggested that Braxton and Droon were going to step up to bat again.”

“Used a baseball analogy?”

“No, that was mine. He collects money. Devereux.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“No. I mean, he’s a real collector. Old coins and bills. Ancient. A hobby. Does that make him a numismatist?”

“Couldn’t tell you.” Russell walked close to the frame and examined his brother’s sketch.

It was only then that Shaw realized that it might be titled View from Echo Ridge . Which was, of course, the very spot where Colter had believed his brother had murdered Ashton. What had subconsciously motivated him to pick that scene for the drawing?

His brother studied it closely.

Would he remark on Shaw’s choice?

“You can’t see the typewriting on the other side” was all he offered. He turned away.

“They used thick paper back then.”

Shaw was about to say something but then tensed, cocking his head.

“Colt?” Russell asked.

Shaw held up a finger. He rose and stepped to the front door. He peered through the peephole.

He stepped outside, hand on his gun. He noticed a woman in a maid’s uniform, sorting towels on a cart, facing away. He returned a moment later and closed the door. “Maid.”

It was then that a brilliant white flash from outside filled the room and an instant later the staccato crack of an explosion rattled windows. Car alarms were wailing.

Both brothers drew their guns and looked out.

Two men in tactical black and ski masks had blown open the door of Russell’s SUV. Apparently the vehicle had extra reinforcement and the bang had not completely breached the vehicle. One of them was trying to pull the door open all the way.

Russell muttered, “You flank, the alley.”

Shaw nodded.

His brother didn’t bother with the subtle approach. He went for a frontal assault. He stepped out the window and balanced briefly on a ledge. He then judged angles and leapt onto the roof of the one-story building below.

Hiding his gun under his jacket, so as not to startle residents in the building and earn a 911 report, Shaw closed and locked the window his brother had just climbed through and then walked into the hallway, now empty. He was in a hurry, yes, but took the time to double-lock the door. He jogged to the stairwell that would take him to the exit in the basement.

On the street it was soon obvious that a firefight was not forthcoming.

The two tactical ops were gone.

Shaw joined Russell, standing beside the car and examining the damage, which was considerable. A six-inch hole had been blown in the door near the lock. It seemed like an efficient, if messy, way to enter a vehicle, but they hadn’t known about the extra steel plates. The door held.

“What happened?” Shaw asked.

“They saw me and my weapon and decided not to engage. They had a van waiting up the street.”

“BlackBridge? Or one of your customers from the Oakland operation?” Shaw was thinking of the hidden room in the safe house and his brother’s maps of the docks across the Bay — which had a decidedly tactical theme about them.

“BlackBridge or Devereux. My other project? No one is a risk anymore.”

“How’d they make us?” Shaw asked.

“I’ve got some thoughts on that.”

But he didn’t explain just now. He tilted his head, listening.

Sirens wailed in the distance.

“I’ll have to talk to the cops.” Russell was the epitome of calm.

“You have weapons inside?”

“Won’t be a problem.”

“Who’s it registered to?” The smoke was acrid, Shaw’s eyes burned. The breaching charge involved manganese or phosphorus.

“A company. Offshore. Done this before. Go back upstairs.”

Shaw nodded.

He turned and left, walking back to the front door of the residence. The back one, through which he’d exited, was self-locking. And while he could jimmy it, there was no reason to. Shaw entered the building and climbed the stairs. Survivalists tended to avoid elevators. For one thing, he recalled his father’s rule:

Never miss the opportunity to strengthen limbs in everyday life.