Джеффри Дивер - The Final Twist

“I have.”

“You know what the engineer’s called.”

Shaw answered, “A gripman.” He seemed disappointed that Shaw had known. “And they have to be replaced every three days. The grips, not the men.” A chuckle.

Shaw had another hit of beer. The leisurely tip of the bottle, accompanied by a glance into Devereux’s eyes, was meant also to convey impatience.

The billionaire’s face flared with anger. He leaned forward. In a low voice he drew the words out. “Something very wrong went down here, Shaw. I’m not sure what or how. But you were at the epicenter.”

This was Devereux’s show. There was nothing to do but listen.

“There’s no record that we could find of any industrialist or financier in the nineteen twenties interested in a voting tally about Proposition Oh-Six.”

“Is that right?” Shaw frowned in confusion.

“Oh, yes it is.” Hands zipping here, hands zipping there. “And, from what I heard, the forgery was rather clumsily done. Not clumsy in the sense of technique or penmanship. It got the judge’s handwriting down perfectly.”

“You checked that too, did you?”

“I mean clumsy in terms of the materials, the supplies. One would think that a millionaire in the nineteen twenties would have hired a forger who’d use inks and paper that dated to nineteen oh-six. Easily come by back then.”

“One would think.”

Devereux extracted a monogrammed handkerchief. He patted his bald brow. “Of course, we’re not here to debate. The people involved, all those many years ago, they know the truth.” He couldn’t resist adding, with a sardonic grin, “ If they existed.”

Shaw remained silent.

“A forgery it’s been declared and that’s tainted the whole barrel of apples. The army I had marshalled in Sacramento — quite the array — were enough to stop a court challenge. But now they’ve got cold feet. All those liberal, human-rights pundits and professors railing against capitalism... Yes, if we’d struck fast, we could’ve pushed it through and made sure it stuck. But t’was not to be.” Hands jittering in the air. The waitress thought it was a summons. “No, no, no,” he said darkly, and she retreated.

“So, it’s fallen out the way it has.” Then his fake thin-lipped smile vanished. “BlackBridge is gone. But I am CEO of one of the wealthiest corporations on the face of the earth, aren’t I?”

“I suppose so. Hadn’t actually heard of you until a few days ago.”

His fingers froze briefly. With a smile on his moonish face, he said, “The voting tally, BayPoint Enviro-Sure Solutions... You’ve crossed me, Shaw. And that means your family has crossed me as well. Bad thing to do.”

“I think it’s time to say goodbye, Devereux.”

“Oh, from your perspective, maybe. Not from mine.”

Shaw rose, put a twenty down beside his empty beer bottle.

Devereux’s eyes held his for a moment, then swiveled to the menu. He perused. “What to have, what to have...”

Shaw descended from the rooftop restaurant to the lobby and stepped out into the garish décor, then proceeded outside, putting his phone away, having made two calls.

He waited in front of the hotel, in the shade of an arching, dark red awning, as the intense sunlight made the unshaded portion of the street glow surreally. In ten minutes, a dark-skinned man on a Vespa rolled up and spotted Shaw, braking to a stop. Shaw joined him. “From Mack.” Shaw took the slim 4-by-5-inch envelope and instantly the courier was gone.

No more than five minutes later a cab pulled up and the second person he had called after meeting with Devereux climbed out, as the uniformed doorman scuttled forward.

Sophia Ionescu, aka Consuela Ramirez, aka Ksenia Vlanova, was really quite attractive.

Her shades were similar in shape to Devereux’s eyeglasses. Hers were pricey too; they bore the Chanel logo. She wore a short white skirt, blue silk blouse, white cotton jacket, and very little else, it seemed. Over her shoulder was a black purse on a chain, also Chanel.

Well, she was a three-G-a-night girl.

She appeared glum, an expression that did nothing to diminish her beauty — as she muttered, “You said it was dues time.”

Shaw nodded. “Take care of this, and I throw out the drugs you tried to plant. And erase the tape.”

“Take care of what?”

“There’s a man upstairs on the patio, having lunch.” He showed her a picture of Jonathan Stuart Devereux. “You’ll go up there, make contact and then take him to the Sherry-Nelson Arms Hotel. It’s up the street.”

“I know it.” A shrug. “He looks like the Wizard of Oz. How do I know he’ll come on to me?”

“He will.” Shaw wasn’t sure his entire plan would work but he had no doubt that Devereux would go for the bait.

After a drink or two, with conversation steeped in flirtation and wine, Devereux would make the offer.

“What if he wants to take me to his house?”

“He’s married.”

“Pig.” But spoken as if identifying a species, not offering an insult.

Shaw opened the paper bag that Mack’s delivery man had given him. He took out a plastic bag holding what looked like a credit card, slightly thicker than normal. On the front was printed the name of an airline and below that Prestige Club and a meaningless account number. He handed it to her. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You go up to the room with him. When you’re inside, take his jacket off and kiss him.”

“Do I have to?”

Shaw said, “Yes. Then tell him to go brush his teeth.”

“Oh, that’s why.”

He’d told her to bring paste and a brush.

“When he’s in the bathroom slip this into his wallet. He keeps it in his jacket pocket.”

“And?

“You leave. You got cold feet.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Okay.”

“Once I know you’ve done that, I’ll dump the tape and drugs.”

“How do I know you’ll do it?”

Shaw shook his head, offering a tight-lipped smile.

A glance at the Prestige Club card. “It’s not a bomb or poison or anything?”

“No.”

She looked up at the hotel. “What did this guy do to you? I mean, to deserve this?”

Shaw kept to himself that his father, Todd Zaleski, other colleagues and Amos Gahl were dead because of Jonathan Stuart Devereux’s quest for the Holy Proposition. He settled for: “A story for another day.”

Then the three-G girl stepped toward the entrance of the building and fired a faintly impatient glance at the doorman, who had fallen in love in the past five minutes, and he adoringly pushed open the heavy door for her.

“Devereux’s still a problem.”

Shaw had just walked into the safe house on Alvarez.

He continued speaking to Russell. “Mary Dove and Dorie... They’re still at risk. We are too.”

“Didn’t figure him for the revenge sort. Thought he’d put his energies elsewhere.”

“Yeah, well, we blew up his Grail.”

Sitting at the coffee table, Shaw opened his laptop. He typed. “I’m tracing him.”

“You got a device on him?”

“Correct.”

Russell seemed impressed.

Shaw continued, “He can’t operate the Urban Improvement Plan without another group like BlackBridge. I’m hoping he’ll find some other dirty-tricks outfit. I’ll let our Bureau contacts here know. Let’s hope he stumbles.”

“Hmm.” On the screen Russell was watching the glowing dot representing the Rolls-Royce, which had left Nob Hill and was making its way south. “How long will it last?”

“Four days, five.”

“You know it’s a long shot, finding a meeting, identifying principals.”