The Final Twist

by Jeffery Deaver

  Russell’s phone appeared again and he took pictures of the newcomer.

  Braxton and Droon joined him, rather than he them, which meant he was a BlackBridge client and, given the wheels, a valued one.

  Shaw recalled what the woman had told her lieutenant earlier, in the Stanford library.

  We have that meeting tomorrow. I want to tell him something. Something concrete . . .

  That something would have been what they’d tortured out of Colter Shaw—the location of Gahl’s evidence. Shaw guessed that where they now were was an example of the UIP. He thought of the unfortunate addicts on the street they’d just walked around, and all the clearing going on before them. The man in the Rolls was probably a developer who’d bought the land for a song.

  Braxton and Droon would now have to share that Shaw had not, in fact, led them to the evidence, which would implicate Mr. Rolls too.

  How chilly would the meeting be?

  The body language suggested that the BlackBridge duo felt something other than respect for a wealthy client. Shaw was looking at two very intimidated people, and to see Irena Braxton this way—an ice queen, if ever there was one—was oddly unsettling. As the chubby man spoke with them, unsmiling and gesticulating with his stubby hands often and broadly, she nodded and gave a polite, attentive frown, like a schoolgirl who’d flubbed a homework assignment. This attitude was, Shaw had no doubt, wholly alien to the woman.

  But after what seemed to be her breathless reassurance, the client calmed. He gave them a smile of the sort you might affect when you hand a dollar to a homeless man, and his hands began to fidget less.

  They were moving on to other business. Droon unfolded a map and held it up against the side of their SUV. Why not the hood? Shaw wondered. Oh, because the client was too short to see the map there. Everyone consulted the fluttering sheet.

  “Who uses a paper map instead of a computer or tablet?” Russell asked.

  Shaw nodded at the rhetorical question. Someone who doesn’t want electronic evidence, that’s who. You can set fire to paper and it’s gone forever, unlike digital data, which will last as long as bones from the Jurassic era. Russell produced a range-finder telescope. He looked, then handed it to Shaw.

  After five minutes of discussion, the fat man pointed to several locations on the map and Droon marked them with a Sharpie. Then heads nodded and hands were shaken. Braxton and Droon remained where they were while the client stepped to the door of his Rolls. The driver swung the back passenger door open once more. Shaw got a look at two tanned legs, protruding from a short red skirt. Also: impressively high heels, which he thought odd for a woman to wear in the company of a short man like this, who, given the vehicle and his clothing had a surplus of ego. But, of course, there was no accounting for taste . . . or desire.

  Before he got into the Rolls he turned and, no longer smiling, fired off more words, accentuated by the curious, jittery hand gestures. Braxton and Droon responded with scolded-dog nods. The man climbed into his sumptuous vehicle. The driver too, and the car sagged under his weight. The car rocked away over the packed construction site dirt.

  29

  Standing beside their SUV, Irena Braxton lifted a phone from her purse and made another call.

  The vibrant handbag was similar to one of Margot’s, Shaw recalled from their time together. Hers had been made by indigenous people in South America. It wasn’t inexpensive but much of the purchase price went to a nonprofit organization that opposed the burning of the Amazon rain forest. Had Braxton, a known killer, bought hers from the same seller and for the same purpose? In his rewards business, Shaw had learned that the values and priorities people embraced were infinitely contradictory and enigmatic.

  She replaced the phone and she and Droon fell silent. Less than a minute later a white van, with no markings on the side, pulled up. Out climbed two men, both white, both in good shape. Their outfits were similar: dark gray slacks and jackets, zippered up. One was tall and bareheaded, with a crew cut, the other short and crowned with a black baseball cap. They were unsmiling and cautious, but didn’t scan the surroundings, perhaps assuming if Braxton and Droon were here, the place was safe. Their right hands, though, stayed gyroscopically close to their right hips, where their guns would reside.

  They joined Braxton and Droon, who opened the map he’d had moments before and spread it out on the hood of the Escalade. The discussion among them was brief and ended with a nod from the two newcomers, one of whom kept the map. Then Braxton and Droon climbed back into the SUV. The vehicle left.

  The brothers, however, remained. The BlackBridge ops were waiting for something and Shaw and Russell wanted to see what it might be.

  The answer arrived about five minutes later: two slim men, in shorts and T-shirts, one of them loud red, the other white. The shirts were untucked—a likely indication of concealed weapons. They had light blue vinyl shoulder bags slung over their shoulders. Their heads were shaved and their complexions dark. The TL was the home to several pan-Asian gangs, most notably the notorious Filipino Bahala Na Gang, more ruthless than the Mafia or the Mexican cartels, Shaw had heard. The BNG’s heyday was the end of the last century but many of the murderous crew still were active up and down the West Coast. San Francisco was their primary turf.

  “Cutouts,” Russell said. “The white-van men. They’re insulating the man in the Rolls and Braxton and Droon. The actors never know who they’re ultimately acting for. This is pro.”

  Among the men on the ground a discussion ensued. One of the van men pulled open the side door and took out two clear plastic bags, appearing to weigh two pounds each—maybe a kilo. Russell looked through the telescope again. He then gave it to Shaw, who scanned the clearing. He could see that the bags contained small packets of pills. These they handed over to the gangsters. The van man who’d kept the map now unfurled it.

  “UIP,” Shaw said. “Ashton’s letter I showed you?”

  His brother nodded, understanding blossoming in his face. He’d be recalling the Urban Improvement Plan, the cruelly ironic name for the BlackBridge operation that dumped hundreds of pounds of drugs on the streets of neighborhoods to destroy them.

  Shaw said, “Monkey wrench.” He dialed 911.

  The woman’s calm voice: “What’s the nature of your emergency?”

  “There’s a drug deal in the construction site behind Turk at Simpson. I think they might have guns . . . wait, yes, they do!” He put some urgent dismay into his voice, a rattled citizen. He described the men and then disconnected without giving the requested identifying information about himself. Dispatchers were often skeptical about anonymous calls, but with a big drug deal, they’d definitely send a patrol cruiser.

  And indeed they did. Almost immediately Shaw heard a vehicle approaching over the gravel. It was an SFPD car with two officers inside.

  “That was fast,” Russell said, frowning.

  The squad car drove right up to the van and the cops climbed out. The driver was a Latino patrol uniform. The other, a tall Anglo, was a detective, wearing a light gray suit, a badge on his belt. They looked over the van men and the two Filipinos. Shaw found himself tensing in anticipation of a firefight. He and Russell would not want to get involved, but he dropped his hand near his gun, in case any of the crew charged their way to escape up the alley, with their own weapons drawn.

  The foursome turned toward the cops. One of the men from the van nodded a greeting. The detective smiled back.

  “Hell.” A whisper from Shaw.

  The gold shield had a discussion with the van men. Then all six in the construction zone turned and gazed around them, as Shaw and his brother ducked once more.

  “Why they were here so fast,” Russell said. “The cops were up the street standing guard.”

  “They going to come looking?”

  But no. The men in the center of the cleared land stopped scanning; they�
�d apparently decided that whoever had dimed them out via the 911 call had, like most concerned citizens, hightailed it away. The two officers gave some words of farewell, maybe including the advice: pick a less visible place to meet next time. The taller of the van men gestured to one of the BNGs who fished some packets of Oxy or fent out of his bag and handed them to the officers, who nodded thanks then drove away.

  The bangers and the BlackBridge duo pored over the map once more, so the distributors knew what neighborhood they were to poison today.

  “How much?” Shaw asked.

  “Value? At the group we don’t get into that much. Guess a hundred K.”

  Scattering it on the street for free or at a bargain price. But, of course, Mr. Rolls would be making a thousand times that in the real estate deal.

  The business was concluded—thick envelopes were handed out to the BNG men, who placed them, along with the drugs, into the shoulder bags. The van men returned to their vehicle, which was soon speeding away, leaving a trail of dust.

  It was only then that Shaw realized it was a workday, and construction equipment and supplies were present, yet the site was completely devoid of workers. The owner—presumably Mr. Rolls—would have ordered the place closed down for the meeting.

  And who are you? Shaw wondered of the man in the Rolls. Did you ever hear the name Ashton Shaw? Did your hands twitch and your mouth smile as Irena Braxton told you that one of her men was on the way to the Shaw Compound to have a “conversation” about what he’d discovered?

  They didn’t have license tags for an ID, but maybe Karin could get a facial recognition hit.

  The BNGs donned flashy wraparound sunglasses—the lenses orange—and started out of the site.

  The brothers rose.

  As Shaw started after the gangbangers Russell turned the other way—back to the alley where they’d parked their SUV.

  Both men realized they were on opposite courses and looked back to regard the other.

  Shaw whispered, “We’ve got to stop them. This way.” Nodding toward the BNGs.

  Russell said, “No.”

  Shaw flashed back immediately to the avalanche field of their youth so many years ago, when he had sped out to save the life of the woman photographer on the steep and dangerous slope—and Russell had held back.

  It’s not our job . . .

  He was about to lay out the urgent case for stopping the BNGs when his brother said tersely, “You thought I was leaving?”

  Shaw didn’t reply.

  “Hawker’s Pass,” his brother muttered, seemingly irritated, and continued on his way.

  Shaw said, “Oh.”

  30

  In the shadows, close to the brick walls in the alley, Shaw followed the slim men who stalked up the cobblestones out of the demolition zone. He stepped over several dead rats and two more men, sprawled on their sides. They were breathing.

  Where were the two Filipinos going to scatter their goods like farmers sowing corn seeds in the spring? What property did Mr. Rolls have his eye on?

  He picked up his pace; the men ahead of him were walking quickly.

  When they were nearly to the end of the alley, one glanced down and touched his partner on the arm. They stopped, removed the gaudy sunglasses and glanced at the wallet, lying on the cobblestones. They looked up and down the alley and spotted Shaw. He was strolling along in the same direction as they, paying the two no mind, pretending to talk on his cell phone as if in the middle of a pleasant conversation, perhaps a romantic one. Their looks revealed they didn’t consider him a threat.

  Red Shirt took a packet of drugs from his bag. While they were being paid to scatter the product on sidewalks and in alleys, what harm could there be in selling a bit? A little double-dipping never hurt anyone. As White Shirt bent and lifted the wallet and started to go through it, Red Shirt offered the packet toward Shaw.

  He said, “I’ll call you back.” And slipped the phone away.

  Shaw gave an intrigued smile as he stared at the drugs. He approached to within six feet and stopped. BNG crew were often skilled at the devastating forms of martial arts known as Suntukan and Sikaran, punching and kicking. The Philippines were also home to several grappling styles of combat.

  The banger could be thinking to lure Shaw close and mug him. After all, why sell your product when you can make off with both the cash and the drugs?

  “What is it?” Shaw asked.

  “Oxy.”

  “How much?” He squinted at the bag.

  “Twenty.”

  “How many pills? I can’t see.”

  The BNG held the packet higher.

  Which is when Russell stepped into the mouth of the alley and came up behind White Shirt and Tased him in the kidney. He groaned, shivered and dropped.

  Red Shirt spun and reached for his weapon, which Shaw, lunging forward, snagged with his left hand, while seating the muzzle of his Glock against the man’s ear.

  “Mapanganib ito . . . Dangerous what you do!”

  Shaw pulled Red Shirt’s silver revolver from his hand. His confrere had a Glock and a switchblade knife, both of which Russell pocketed. They took the men’s phones too.

  Rising unsteadily and wincing against the pain in his back, White Shirt said in a thick accent, “You fucker, you die. You aren’t know.”

  Russell picked up his wallet—emptied of ID and containing only cash—and slipped it back into his hip pocket. While Shaw covered both men, his brother plucked the barbs from White Shirt’s skin. Then he collected the man’s shoulder bag. Shaw gripped the strap of Red Shirt’s tote but the man held on to it hard and turned, looking up at Shaw with furious eyes. “You stupid. This danger shit. It get you cut.”

  Russell had reloaded the Taser and was aiming. The man slumped and Shaw pulled the bag away.

  “Run,” Shaw whispered.

  The man glared once more and, after White Shirt picked up his sunglasses—as enraged at the scratches on the lenses as at the theft of the drugs and money—they strode off, looking back. For the second time that day the brothers received a single-finger salute.

  “They’ll be stealing burners in five minutes and calling it in. We’ve got to go.” Russell nodded up the alley. They walked to the SUV and climbed in. Russell pulled into traffic and the heavy vehicle sped out of the TL.

  Hawker’s Pass . . .

  A battle between a settlement and a group of claim jumpers in Northern California during the Silver Rush days. The settlers planted a half-buried strongbox on the back road into the camp, and when the outlaws found it and started to dig it up, one group of settlers came in from the north side of the road, the other from the south and easily took the distracted jumpers. Shaw remembered sitting beside his father and brother and watching Ashton draw a map of the battle, as he lectured the boys about tactics.

  Never attack an enemy directly when you can distract and flank . . .

  So, no, Russell had not intended to leave. He had made stopping the BNGs his fight, as well as Shaw’s, and had come up with a good strategy to do it with no bloodshed.

  They left the TL and Russell drove back to the waterfront at Hunters Point, where they pitched the drugs and the BNGs’ guns and phones and the knife into the Bay.

  They returned to the safe house on Alvarez. Russell ran the plate of the van—it was not obscured, like the Caddy’s and the Rolls’s—and the information came back that it was registered to a corporation that was undoubtedly owned by an offshore entity. Russell sent the picture he’d taken of Mr. Rolls to someone—presumably Karin. Soon he received a text in return.

  “Too far away for facial recognition.”

  “Burlingame now. Nadler’s house.” The town was south of San Francisco, a working-class and commuter community, the home of San Francisco airport. Shaw had seen a picture of the house, which Mack had sent. It was a tidy one-
story dwelling, painted yellow and set amid a small but well-tended garden.

  Shaw was calling up the address when his phone dinged with an incoming email.

  It was from Mack McKenzie. He read the message.

  He said, “We have to make a stop on the way.”

  31

  Ghirardelli Square—part of the tourist magnet Fisherman’s Wharf—wasn’t busy on this cloudy day. Rain threatened.

  Shaw and Russell were in the SUV, parked near the corner on which a man strummed a guitar. His case was open and people would occasionally toss coins or bills in. He was tall and lean and long blond hair flowed from beneath a cowboy hat with a tightly curled brim.

  You could smell chocolate, exuding by chance or design from the Ghirardelli building. He explained to Russell how he’d come to take on the reward job to find Tessy Vasquez.

  He then told him that his private investigator had, among her contractors, an audio analyst, to whom she’d sent Tessy’s message. The expert had filtered out the young woman’s voice and analyzed every sound on it.

  The email Shaw had just received in the Tenderloin contained the results of that analysis. He called it up and the men read.

  Music: Ambient music from outdoor café, recorded.

  Music: Performers, including live guitar, drums, rap music and applause, possibly accompanying hip-hop dancers. Occasional breaks in vocal performances to say “Thanks” or “Thank you,” presumably in response to tips. Hence, street performers.

  Sounds of children laughing and occasionally breathless: Playground.

  Foghorns, decibel level suggesting distance of three to four miles. Echoing off tall structure nearby. Possibly Avnet Tower on California Street.