The Final Twist Jeffery Deaver (ebook reader with android os TXT) 📖

“Good. I’m happy for you.”

The doorbell rang. He went to the intercom, spoke with Maria Vasquez and buzzed her in.

She flung her arms around her daughter.

“Ay, all the smoke.”

“He saved me, Mama. These men kidnapped me.”

“It was that club? On TV?”

Shaw nodded. He asked, “Any casualties? I haven’t seen the news.”

“Some people were hurt. Nobody got killed. The police arrested people there, the owner. Human trafficking. Drugs.” She began to sob. Her daughter held her tightly.

When he’d called 911 he’d mentioned he’d seen somebody in an office in the back of the club. “He seemed to be tied up. I don’t know what that’s about.” He hoped Mladic’s son was one of those who’d been collared.

Shaw said, “I got her out of there fast. We didn’t talk to the police. They don’t know your name.”

He didn’t tell her that he was no more eager to get the police involved than they were.

“I don’t have the money with me now.”

Shaw said, “Keep it. You can pay me when times are better for you.”

“Bless you, bless you.” She hugged him hard. Tessy did as well.

After they left, Shaw took his typical hot-then-cold shower and, when he’d dressed again, he drank down a whole bottle of mineral water, then opened a beer.

He caught a whiff of smoke, arising from the pile of clothes he stripped off. Into the trash. No time for dry cleaning.

He lifted his Android off the table and loaded the browser. At the website he sought, he had to scroll through a dozen numbers until he found one he thought might be helpful. He dialed and, despite the late hour, someone answered, a pleasant woman. He gave the name of the person he wanted to speak to and then his own.

It took no more than ten seconds to be connected.

PART THREE

JUNE 26 THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING

Time until the family dies: eight hours.

54

The water was a chameleon.

Back on the Embarcadero, Colter Shaw was looking over the Bay. One thing he recalled from living here ages ago: the hue of the rocking waves would change from day to day. A riveting blue, rich as an empress’s sapphire. Then a matte gray. Sometimes tropical green.

Today, under yet another June gloom overcast, the Bay was dun, the color—he couldn’t help but think—of a newly turned grave in a cemetery rich with clay.

He kept his eye on the street, the traffic. Russell hadn’t seen the green Honda or its blond driver recently but Shaw decided that she was too persistent to have given up.

He also suspected she’d rented a new car, now that he’d made her. It’s what he would’ve done.

But that sedan wasn’t the only vehicle he was interested in. There was another one he kept looking for.

And it happened to pull up to the curb now near him.

You didn’t see many Rolls-Royces in the Bay Area. Of course, there was plenty of money to buy everything from Teslas to Ferraris to Bugattis, but the Rolls—and sibling Bentley—marque was not the sort that appealed to the Silicon Valley crowd, it seemed. Maybe the recent designs—you could mistake them for a Dodge at a distance—were not showy or distinctive enough. Maybe they signified old money, which Google, Facebook and YouTube decidedly were not.

Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, Shaw stood and walked to the ruddy-colored vehicle.

The driver, who’d exited the car, was the same man he and his brother had seen at the Tenderloin UIP meeting and the safe house. He was armed, a large 1911 Colt automatic on his hip.

Shaw walked around the car to the driver’s side. The man said, “Mr. Shaw. I’m wearing a recording device, which will be running throughout this meeting.” He spoke in unaccented American English.

“Are you now?”

“So the record will show that there’s been no coercion. I’m inviting you into the car. And you’re free to get in or not.”

This was curious, since Shaw himself had arranged the get-together. There perhaps was a history of people being “encouraged” to get into Devereux’s car when they were not wholly inclined to do so.

“Fair enough. And since we’re setting ground rules, I’ll tell you that I just texted my associate a photo of your car and its license tag. If I don’t text her again in thirty minutes, she’ll alert the police that there’s been a kidnapping.”

Shaw heard a high-pitched chuckle from inside. When the driver looked into the back, apparently getting the okay sign, he opened the door.

Sitting in the driver’s side backseat was a gorgeous blonde with teased-up and sprayed-down hair. She was beautiful, no doubt, but would have been more so had she lost the heavy makeup, which favored purples and blues. She was not the woman Shaw and Russell had seen accompanying Devereux in the safe house on Alvarez, though in line with the dress code her skirt was just as short and her blouse just as low.

Devereux slipped his hand into a pocket and extracted several hundred dollar bills. “Get yourself some coffee or a glass of wine. Have some lunch. There’s a good girl.” The condescension dripped.

“Girl.” She huffed but took the money. “Can’t I come with?”

“Cassie, please.”

“It’s Carrie.”

“I do beg forgiveness. I was distracted.” His eyes scanned her figure.

Did men really get away with this crap? Shaw wondered.

She offered a forced smile to Shaw and climbed out, walking away on clattering heels.

He called after her, “If you get lunch, no garlic.”

Shaw bent down and looked at Jonathan Stuart Devereux. “Droon and Braxton? Anyone from BlackBridge?”

“They don’t even know I’m here, do they? I’m adhering to your requirements, Mr. Shaw. You’ve set the agenda.”

Shaw got into the seat Carrie had occupied. He was enveloped in the cloud of her perfume. He dropped his backpack on the spacious floor before him. He glanced around. Bird’s-eye maple, luxurious carpet, polished chrome. This really was a marvelous