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

to lower property values. So people like you can buy up the land for cheap.”

The man’s face grew rosier, and not in a good way. His jaw was tight. “I have no knowledge of that whatsoever. I hire BlackBridge to help me identify properties to buy, yes, but I know nothing about any drugs. What a horrific idea.”

“It is. But it’s not my issue. I’m not going on a crusade if it puts my family in danger.”

Devereux would be wondering if Shaw was right. Maybe the courier bag didn’t have the tally in it. But if not, then where was it? His eyes grew cold, and under those small fingers the copies of the UIP documents shivered. He read through them again. “I’ve dealt with enough solicitors and barristers in my day to know this hardly amounts to evidence, Mr. Shaw.”

Silence for a moment as the Rolls climbed California Street and swerved around a cable car, bristling with enthusiastic tourists.

“I don’t think I believe you, Mr. Shaw. You’re playing hard to get. I’m going to assume you found the vote tally certificate. You hid it somewhere. And you’re holding out for more.”

Shaw appeared exasperated. He tried not to overdo it. “Voting about what? Why’s it so important?”

“It just is.” Devereux was growing irritated. Finally the man controlled his pique. “I would be willing to pay seven figures to you, in cash, untraceable, for the certificate. You will never want for anything again.”

Curious phrase, archaic. And an odd concept; Colter Shaw had not wanted for anything for a long time. Maybe since birth, and money had nothing to do with it.

“This tally, whatever it is, wasn’t in the courier bag. What do you want it for?”

The man who would be king . . .

Devereux didn’t answer. He looked out the window. Very few people disappointed Jonathan Stuart Devereux, Shaw supposed. And fewer still did not do what he wished them to.

If this were Ebbitt Droon, of course, Shaw would probably be on his way to a warehouse in a deserted part of the city. Maybe across the Bay Bridge to Oakland, a city where there would be far more industrial spaces practically designed for torture and body disposal.

The Tannery . . .

When they had met once earlier in the month, Droon had tried to extract information by threatening him with a .40 pistol—a big, nasty bullet—targeting joints, which would have the effect of altering them forever. Now, apparently he’d returned to the twisting knife—what he’d used on Amos Gahl.

Devereux turned back to him. “All right. Eight figures.”

Shaw wondered where on the scale between ten million and ninety-nine the man was thinking. He guessed the payoff would be on a low rung of the ladder.

“A higher number isn’t going to miraculously produce something I didn’t have two minutes ago. In exchange for leaving my family alone, I’ll give you the Urban Improvement Plan evidence, whether or not you say you don’t know what it is.” He shrugged. “If it’s not enough for the prosecutor, then it might at least point the police in a . . . helpful direction.”

Sullen, Devereux muttered. “I doubt that will be a very productive endeavor, Mr. Shaw.”

They had arrived back at the place where they had picked Shaw up. Carrie was nowhere to be seen.

The CEO looked around for her.

Perhaps it had been one jab too many.

Devereux shrugged. “It happens. Those girls . . .”

Shaw thought: Good for you, Carrie.

Devereux tapped the driver on the shoulder. The man shut the recorder off. The tape was soon to be erased.

A sigh. “I would hate to have to turn this matter back to Ian Helms and Irena Braxton. They’re so . . . unsubtle. Let me encourage you to have another look at the contents of the courier bag. Discuss it with your bearded friend. Eight figures is, after all, eight figures.”

He handed the copies back and Shaw slipped them into his backpack.

The driver was out of the car and opening the door. Shaw stepped out onto the sidewalk.

Shaw heard Devereux’s voice. “I would look very carefully for that tally, Mr. Shaw. It would be good for everyone.”

55

How is it there?” Shaw asked.

Victoria Lesston said through the speaker on Shaw’s Android, “We’re vigilant. Carrying sidearms. Your friend’s guys brought a machine gun.”

“Mary Dove told me.”

“What’re you up to?”

Back in the Pacific Heights safe house, sitting beside an open window and letting a pleasant breeze breathe past him. “Just hung out with a lecherous billionaire.”

“You have all the fun.”

His eyes were on the sketch he’d done of Echo Ridge, in the Davis & Sons frame, hanging on the wall. Even though it was in save-a-few-bucks plastic, the art didn’t look at all bad.

“Your mother,” she said, “was telling me about Ash. Sorry I never got a chance to meet him.”

“He was quite a man. Troubled, complicated, compassionate. Nobody like him in the world. He was a crusader.”

“This thing you found? So, you think it’s true?”

He said, “It is, yes. A real voting tally from nineteen oh-six. If it got out in public, it’ll change . . . well, it’ll change everything.”

“Is it safe? The tally.”

“I hid it in a picture frame.”

“In plain sight?”

“Not really. It’s facing backward.”

“A framed blank page—isn’t that a little obvious?”

“There’s a sketch I drew on the back. A landscape.”

“But it’s not what your father was looking for?”

“The tally? No. He didn’t even know it existed.” His voice grew terse. “He was looking for evidence to bring down BlackBridge and get the president—this guy named Helms—arrested. But there never was any. Only the vote tally. Oh, he had a mixed tape too.”

“A what?”

“Another story for when I see you again.” He wished they could have a longer conversation, but this wasn’t the time or place.

A pause. “Which will be when?”

Shaw nearly said as soon as possible. He missed her. But chose: “A few days. Just some loose ends here.”

The front door opened and Russell walked into the living room.

“My brother’s here. I better go.”

“Say hi to the mystery man for me.”

Shaw liked the lilt in