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

The Rolls pulled away from the curb and moved silently and smoothly through the streets. It had to be one hell of a suspension system; some roads in the Embarcadero were cobblestoned.

Shaw had seen Devereux from a distance, in the Tenderloin and through Russell’s security camera at the safe house. Up close, observing the man clearly, Shaw decided he could be an ambassador. This suit was gray with darker gray stripes. Maybe he felt the vertical lines made him look thinner. Today’s explosive handkerchief was pale blue. Shaw caught a glimpse of a Ferragamo label inside his jacket. Did he keep it unbuttoned to show off the name? How much wealthier would he be if his corporation began holding office in the state? He suspected after a certain decimal place, you begin to focus on power, not gold.

“Mr. Shaw. I was, as you can imagine, surprised when I got your message.”

Before they got to business, though, Devereux’s phone hummed. He looked at the screen. “Yes?” Upon listening to a caller Shaw could not hear, Devereux grew motionless, his face stilled. “That will hardly work, now, will it?” His face was the epitome of calm but the voice was filled with ice. “Mais, non.” And launched into what Shaw assumed was perfect French. Shaw had known a number of people from the UK who were multilingual. It was only a fifty-dollar BudgetAir ticket from London to any number of exotic locales. Very different in faraway America.

After five minutes he reverted to English once more, apparently addressing the original speaker. He wiped his brow and shiny head with a handkerchief. “You better do.”

He disconnected and turned his attention back to Shaw, who suspected that he had not needed to take the call at all but—like with the suit jacket label—it was a show of power. He’d also like to keep people waiting; he had arrived at the Embarcadero fifteen minutes late. “So. The floor is yours.”

“I have something you’re after. I want to negotiate a deal. That’s why I called you, and not Droon or Braxton. I don’t trust them. All of their strong-arm crap. It’s not helpful.”

Devereux was silent for a moment but the pleasure was obvious in his face. “Always good to eliminate the middleman, if possible. Cheaper in the long run.” He added, “Safer too in most instances.”

Shaw continued, “You and the people from BlackBridge broke into a house of my father’s. Alvarez Street.”

The driver glanced in the rearview mirror.

Devereux reassured him with a shake of the head.

To Shaw he said, “That’s not accurate. They were already there. I have no idea how they got in. They invited me to join them. I didn’t know whose house it was.” His fingers were flying, twitchy. It wasn’t a palsy; he could control it. “Not at that time.”

“My family’s in danger.”

Devereux nodded. “I see. You heard us. You were bugging the house.”

“I don’t believe it’s bugging if it’s your house.”

“Well taken. Go on.”

Shaw said, “My mother and sister are safe. But I want to make sure they stay safe. I’ll give you what you want and you call off Droon and Braxton.”

“I’m intrigued. So it was in Gahl’s courier bag.”

“That’s right.”

“And you want a guarantee of your family’s safety for it, of course. But there’s more in it for you. Do you know, Mr. Shaw, that one could argue that money dates back more than forty thousand years—to the Upper Paleolithic era. It took the form of barter but look at it this way: there were undoubtedly humans back then who did not need the flint arrowhead they traded ears of corn for. That makes the arrowhead a form of currency. A stone tuppence, you could say.

“Then there’s the Mesopotamian shekel. I have one from five thousand years ago. That was among the first coins. The first mints were built in the first millennium b.c. They stamped gold and silver coins for the Lydians and Ionians to use to pay for armies.”

“Hobby of yours?”

“Bloody well is!” Devereux blustered. He seemed delighted. “Now, back to business. I get what I want and I’ll write you a check—well, you’ll want a wire transfer, of course—for quite the pretty sum. You can move your family wherever you want. They’ll be completely out of harm’s way. What proof could you give me that you have it?”

Shaw said, “Why don’t I show it to you.” He lifted his backpack to his lap.

The fingers stopped moving, the arms stopped waving. Surprise—what seemed like an alien expression—blossomed in his face, followed by greedy anticipation.

Shaw unzipped the backpack and handed Devereux a thick plastic binder.

Devereux took it and emptied the contents onto his lap. He eagerly began flipping through the sheets of paper inside.

Shaw said, “Of course, these are copies. I have the originals.”

Devereux frowned when he’d finished. “What’s this?”

Shaw was hesitating, a confused look on his face. “It’s what you’re looking for.”

“No, it’s not. I don’t know what this is.”

“It’s what Amos Gahl stole from BlackBridge. What was in the courier bag. Proof about the Urban Improvement Plan. It’s evidence for the police.”

Devereux shook his head. “Where’s the voting tally?”

“What’s that?”

He eyed Shaw closely. “The legal ruling from nineteen oh-six? A single sheet of paper signed by a judge?”

Shaw looked toward the papers in Devereux’s hand. “That’s all that was in the bag. I mean, some magazines and newspapers, some memos, but all dated within the past ten years. I went through every single page. Nothing a hundred years old.” Shaw’s body language skills came into play again, though in reverse. He made certain that now, when he was lying, he kept his mannerisms and expressions unchanged from a moment ago when he’d been telling the truth. “I thought that’s what you wanted. To destroy the evidence about the UIP.”

Devereux sighed. The hands began to twitch again. “I don’t know what the UIP is.”

“Really?”

“No,” he muttered.

“BlackBridge’s Urban Improvement Plan. Seeding drugs into neighborhoods