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

64

At three that afternoon, Shaw’s iPhone trilled. He answered, “Hello?”

“Is this Colter Shaw?” The woman’s voice was low, matter-of-fact.

“That’s right.”

“I was just speaking to your brother, Russell. I’m Julia Callahan. I’m with Systems Support in Bayshore Heights. He called me earlier about an analysis of an old cassette audiotape.”

“I was with him then. You work with Russell, right? He never said exactly.”

“My company does contract work for his organization. He told me to call you ASAP.”

“Russell said you were going to do a deeper analysis. You find something else on the tape?”

“I did. They were smart, whoever made it. The first run through the analyzer showed only music tracks. But the more I listened to it I decided there was a pattern of sounds within the static between the tracks.” Her voice was excited.

“Static?”

“Which wasn’t static at all. I isolated it and slowed it down. Way down.”

“What was on it?”

“A man’s voice, reciting account numbers, routing instructions to offshore corporations and banks, wire transfers to individuals. The man specifically mentioned that the purpose of the transfers was to evade taxes. And some payments were made to outside contractors. And by contractors, it sounded like he meant . . . well . . .”

“Hitmen?”

“That was my impression. I’m just an audio analyst. But we work with companies that do security consulting, so I’ve got experience in the subject. He also mentioned some names. Braxton, Droon—I think that’s a name. And the company they worked for, BlackBridge. And something called UIP was mentioned a half-dozen times. He gave sources for what he called ‘product.’”

“Drugs.”

“I figured.”

Shaw asked, “So you’ve extracted what was said?”

“Yes, it’s a separate recording. An MP3 file.”

“Good. I need to get a copy. I can use it as leverage in an operation Russell and I are running.”

“Give me an email address and I’ll upload it.”

Shaw said, “No. We need to keep it off the internet. Can you get me a physical copy? Maybe on a thumb drive?”

“I can.”

“We only have a few hours. Bayshore’s south of the city?”

“That’s right.”

“You know San Bruno state park?”

“Sure. I jog there some.”

Shaw asked, “Is there a deserted place we can meet?”

“The south entrance, off McGuire Road. Nobody ever uses it.”

“A half hour?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll be on a motorcycle. Black leather jacket.”

“I’ve got a Toyota Camry. Blue.”

“I’ll bring the original tape.”

“Good. I can do some deeper analysis.”

Shaw paused. He whispered, “Evidence against them . . . So Ashton was right after all.”

“What was that?”

“Oh. Just thinking out loud. I’ll see you soon.”

65

Many years ago, San Bruno, south of San Francisco, was an Ohlone village.

The Ohlones lived in scores of indigenous settlements from San Francisco down to Big Sur in precolonial America. Numbering in the tens of thousands, they were hunters, fishers and gatherers, and did some farming too. They were the first people in America to learn how to make bitter acorns into food. The Ohlone practiced the Kuksu religion, heavy into rites and rituals, usually practiced in secretive underground chambers.

Life was fine among these people until the conquistadores arrived and, with the Franciscans, set to work “missionizing” the tribes, moving them off their lands and forcing conversion to Christianity. The population was reduced by three-quarters on account of European diseases, against which the Ohlone had no natural immunity. The coup de grâce for the tribes, however, was not the missions, the Spanish or bacteria, but the state of California itself, whose first governor, Peter Burnett, said, in an address to the legislature in 1851, he would wage a war of extermination against the native people “until the Indian race becomes extinct.” He pursued that policy to grim effect, though several Ohlone tribes still existed in the Central Coastal region.

Shaw knew this because he had some Ohlone blood in his veins, through Mary Dove, who’d taught him about their distant ancestry. San Bruno park, which had been in the heart of their territory, was a sample of what their home had been like two hundred and fifty years ago, before the gold, silver and silicon rushes: Lush and rich and verdant, covered with undulating hills.

It was into a small parking lot here that Colter Shaw now steered his Yamaha. He traversed the smooth asphalt, stopping in the center. He looked with some envy at nearby hiking trails, which would make for an exhilarating dirt bike ride.

That diversion would, of course, have to wait.

The place was not quite deserted. On one side of the small parking lot was a commercial van—a plumbing company. The driver, in overalls, was eating a sandwich and sipping from a very large soda cup. Also present was a California State Parks service pickup, its driver—in an oversize Smokey-the-Bear hat—making a call and referring to a clipboard. No joggers or hikers or sightseers were present. The gray sky shed mist and teased with the promise of rain.

A blue Toyota sedan pulled into the lot and edged slowly toward him. The car stopped and the door opened.

Shaw nodded to the woman in black leggings and sweater and a navy-blue windbreaker. “Julia?”

“Colter.”

He joined her. “You weren’t followed?”

“No. I’m sure. You?”

“I have an anti-tailing device.”

She frowned. “What’s that?”

He nodded to the Yamaha.

“In your motorcycle?” she asked.

“It is my motorcycle. You drive on the lane stripes seven miles over the limit and nobody can follow.”

“I might try that someday.”

“You ride?”

“No. But I always wanted to. I’d need somebody to teach me how. You have to take a test, don’t you? To get a license.”

“Piece of cake. You’ll pass with flying colors.”

She pursed her lips. “What are flying colors exactly? I’m always curious where expressions come from.”

Shaw didn’t know and he told her so.

She pulled a hair elastic off her wrist and tied her tangle of dark-blond hair up into a ponytail, centered high on the back of her head. “Where’s Russell?”

“He’s back at the safe house. Following up on some other leads for our operation.” He looked her over, frowning. “You’re