The Final Twist by Jeffery Deaver (free ebooks romance novels txt) 📕

A perfectly reasonable, heartwarming explanation.

But Shaw believed there was another reason, a more important one, that Ashton had brought the eagle to San Francisco. It was the clearest message yet that Father wanted Colter, of all his children, to carry on his mission.

24

Shaw’s phone pinged with the sound of an incoming text. It was from his private investigator, in Washington, D.C., to whom he’d sent an encrypted email before his bike ride from the Tenderloin back here.

Charlotte “Mack” McKenzie might have been a model. With steely gray eyes, she was an even six feet tall, her complexion pale and her brown hair long. This was a problem for her in street work. Like a spy, PIs benefit from being inconspicuous. And no one could ever say that of Mack McKenzie. Her days of tailing people, though, were long past. She had put together a security and investigative operation that hummed, and she had a talented crew of staff and contractors to do the sweat labor.

Maria and Tessy Vasquez. Largely under the radar—likely undocumented—but social media and level-one governmental data confirm their identities. No criminal records. Probably legit. No AKA “Roman” in CA or U.S. criminal databases in SF area.

Mack was a woman after Shaw’s own heart. In keeping with Shaw’s approach to life, little was ever zero percent or one hundred percent with her, even if she wasn’t quite as quick to assign a precise number as he was.

Probably legit . . .

She finished with:

Your requested analysis presently underway.

He replied, thanking her, and looked over the notes he’d taken at Maria Vasquez’s apartment, a decent place in a modest building surrounded by the complex ’hood of the TL. He was concerned about the young woman, the talented singer and photographer.

For-profit kidnapping? Near zero percent.

The odds she’d been murdered and the body disposed of? Not great. Ten percent. That wasn’t as common as cable TV would have us believe.

And what about her being in a meth house somewhere, strung out, after having relapsed? Thirty percent. She seemed to be making good on a fresh start. But add Roman into this equation and that boosted the number to sixty percent.

He suddenly saw his BlackBridge mission as a distraction from the reward job, which was, after all, his main profession. But he’d make it work. He’d do whatever was necessary to find the girl, or at least get some answer for her mother.

It just then happened that his phone hummed, and he took a call from one of Tessy’s friends. The young woman couldn’t provide any information about the missing girl. But in response to his question about Roman said, “Is he involved? Shit.”

“I don’t know. Her mother thinks it’s possible.”

“He’s trouble. I think he’s crazy. I mean, really, like a psychopath.”

Shaw asked if she had any specific information on him.

“No, I never really knew him. He didn’t want Tessy hanging with us. He wanted her all to himself. He’s dangerous, mister. He hangs with some really bad people. You know, gangs, that kind of thing. I heard he killed somebody. Jesus, I hope she didn’t go back to him.”

He tried the people he’d called earlier and, when none of them answered, left new messages. This was all he could do on the reward assignment for the time being, until Mack got back to him with his earlier request.

Back to the scavenger hunt of Amos Gahl’s stolen evidence.

Glancing at his phone, he checked the tracker app. The chipped copy of Walden was still at the library.

He wondered what Helms, Braxton and Droon would be thinking about Blond’s death. Was the mysterious bearded shooter a friend of Shaw’s or was the incident merely a coincidence? Had Blond, who reeked of hired killer, been gunned down in retaliation for some earlier offense?

Shaw sat back, stared at the ceiling and silently asked Amos Gahl: What did you find?

And where is your courier bag hidden?

It was time to look at the two leads that might hold the answers to those questions: the house on Camino in Burlingame and the warehouse in the Embarcadero.

The coffee cup froze halfway to Shaw’s mouth when he heard the doorbell ring.

He turned fast, hand near his pistol. He stood.

A voice called, “Me. I’m coming in.”

The front door opened and Russell stepped inside. Still in the black hat, still in the dark, thigh-length coat, the tactical boots.

He walked into the kitchen.

“There’s an issue.” He took off his coat, revealing a green T-shirt. The muscles of his arms were pronounced. His jeans were held up by dark red suspenders. He sat. “Man in the alley?”

“Droon or the other one?”

“The dead one. Karin was handling disposal. She found a note, handwritten. In his pocket.”

His brother displayed a photo on his phone.

Confirmation from Hunters Point crew.

6/26, 7:00 p.m. SP and family. All ↓

Russell remained stone-faced as his brother looked over the screen, then sat back.

Shaw said, “Does the ‘All’ and the arrow mean what I think it does?”

A nod. “It’s a kill order. A hit on someone with the initials SP and his family. Or her family.”

Shaw noticed that it had been folded many times, like the notes Amos Gahl’s colleague had left for their father.

“Dead-drop,” Shaw said.

“Some messages you don’t send electronically no matter how good the encryption. We do it too.”

Used dead-drops?

Or issued kill orders?

“Did Karin find his ID? Anything else?”

“Not yet. Running prints and DNA and facial recognition. May get it right away, may take a while. May never find out. People in this line of work do a lot of track covering.”

Shaw asked, “With Blond gone, will they still go ahead with the hit?”

“Who?”

“The guy in the alley. My nic for him.”

“Have to assume it’s still a go. Handwritten KO, dead-drop, the arrow on the whole family. They’ll assume that Blond got disappeared for some reason unrelated to this. That woman Braxton’ll just find another triggerman.”

“Thanks for telling me. But I