The Final Twist

by Jeffery Deaver

  She wore blue jeans, as did Shaw. He was in a black T-shirt and the leather jacket that still bore evidence of damage from various skirmishes in the past few days, most notably the cuts from the knife duel with Droon. He had examined the marks and decided to leave the blemishes. He had no clue how to go about mending a garment that had come from a department store. His expertise in leather was limited to hides and skins that he had fleshed, salted and tanned.

  They carried their bags to their respective rooms. Shaw stripped and took a scorching hot, then a freezing shower. He toweled off and dressed in clean jeans and a dress shirt. Then digging through his bag, he removed the eagle statue and replaced it on the shelf from which Russell had taken it so many years ago. He’d thought about keeping it in the camper but for some reason it seemed more appropriate here.

  He joined Victoria on the front porch. Mary Dove now brought out three cups of coffee, along with the milk and sugar service, which she set on the table.

  All three sat, fixed up the beverages to their liking and sipped.

  Victoria had dozed for a portion of the trip but had apparently been aware of several calls Shaw had taken and made on the drive.

  She mentioned this now and asked, “Status?”

  “Bail denied for everybody.”

  “I noticed the streaks,” Mary Dove said, nodding at his jacket. “And that.” Now she looked to his hand, still bandaged following the slash from Droon’s knife. “I do hope you wear your body armor when you ought to.” Spoken in the same casual way another parent might say, “Wear your raincoat and galoshes; it’s going to pour.”

  Shaw added, “The Bureau rolled up all the BayPoint Enviro-Sure Solutions executives and some BlackBridge people in L.A., Miami and New York. The company’s gone.”

  The reason for this, of course, was ultimately Ashton Shaw’s mission. Had he not started on his quest years ago to bring the outfit down, it would still be going full force, addicting people to drugs, engaging in dirty-tricks operations and leveraging companies like Devereux’s into the pilot’s seat of political office.

  Mary Dove asked, “That wouldn’t really have worked, would it? A corporation running for office?”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so, but who knows?” Shaw told her what Professor Field had said.

  Mary Dove said, “That’s a question Ash would’ve loved to think about—and debate until the wee hours.” She looked toward Victoria. “He was quite the historical and political scientist, you know.”

  “Colt told me.” Victoria said, “I wish I’d known him.”

  “He would’ve liked you,” Mary Dove said. “He enjoyed his rappelling buddies.”

  The woman looked Victoria over. “You’re free to stay as long as you like. I’m hosting a women’s health retreat next week. Some good people.”

  “I need to leave in a day or so. I have a job interview on the East Coast.”

  They’d talked about this on the drive here. The job interview was not exactly that, but, like Russell’s, Victoria’s line of work required the occasional euphemism.

  Her eyes were on his when she added, “But I’d like to come back.”

  “Always welcome,” Mary Dove said and pressed Victoria’s arm.

  Shaw’s glance seconded the motion.

  “Tell me about him?” Mary Dove asked.

  He knew that she was speaking of Russell.

  “Mysterious, doesn’t say much, sharp as a whip. Looks exactly the same—well, aside from the beard. It’s longer now. His hair too. Still couldn’t find out where he’s working. Government, deep cover.”

  Victoria said, “Has or had some Pentagon connection. DoD.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “In San Bruno, after the shoot-out, he said we were ‘black on backup.’ That’s Army talk. We used that on operations in Delta.”

  Shaw thought, Oh, yeah, Ashton Shaw would have loved this woman.

  Mary Dove gave a soft smile, and gentle wrinkles folded around her mouth and eyes. “Did Russell say anything about a family?”

  “Said he didn’t have one.”

  There was a pause as Mary Dove’s eyes fixed on a sunlit peak. “Did you ask him about visiting?”

  One never evaded, much less lied, within the Shaw family. “I did. He said he couldn’t. An assignment. Important.”

  “It’s his job and his life.”

  “He’s hard to read but I could tell he’s content.”

  Leaving another thought understood, but unstated: both she and Ash had made the right decision in plotting out and executing the most difficult task in the world: their children’s upbringing.

  His mother said, “I’ve got to get dinner going. Venison with blackberry glaze. It’s been soaking all day.”

  Her habit was to steep the meat in buttermilk, which eliminated the gamey flavor.

  Motion in the corner of Shaw’s eye. A nighthawk jotted above the field in his buoyant, erratic path. These particular birds have among the most complicated markings of any avian—their camo makes them virtually invisible during the day, but now, in approaching dusk, they’re easily spotted as they hunt for flying insects. They’re easily heard too: they issue a repetitive, raspy creek-creek when on wing. Colter had once been attacked by one when he had unknowingly trod too close to a nest. Both man and bird disengaged unharmed.

  Looking away from the spirited bird, Shaw said, “Have a thought. What do you say about the three of us hiking Echo Ridge tomorrow.”

  “Lovely idea,” said Mary Dove.

  “Sounds good to me,” Victoria said. Then after a brief pause she turned her head slightly and squinted. “But I think it’s going to be four.”

  Shaw glanced at her and noted she was looking past him. Both he and his mother turned.

  A figure stepped from the dirt road onto the driveway. The man was dressed in black and wearing a stocking cap. He carried a duffel bag in one hand, and a backpack was over his right shoulder. He paused, looking at the house and, seeing the trio on the porch, he brushed at his long beard with the back of his left hand and continued in a slow lope toward them.

  “My,” Mary Dove whispered, a hint of uncharacteristic emotion in her voice. She stepped off the planks, into the grass, to greet her eldest son.

  Acknowledgments

  Novels are not one-person endeavors. Creating them and getting them into the hands and hearts of readers is a team effort, and I am beyond lucky to have the best team in the world. My thanks to Sophie Baker, Felicity Blunt, Berit Böhm, Dominika Bojanowska, Penelope Burns, Annie Chen, Sophie Churcher, Francesca Cinelli, Isabel Coburn, Luisa Collichio, Jane Davis, Liz Dawson, Julie Reece Deaver, Danielle Dieterich, Jenna Dolan, Mira Droumeva, Jodi Fabbri, Cathy Gleason, Alice Gomer, Iven Held, Ashley Hewlett, Sally Kim, Hamish Macaskill, Cristina Marino, Ashley McClay, Emily Mlynek, Nishtha Patel, Seba Pezzani, Rosie Pierce, Abbie Salter, Roberto Santachiara, Deborah Schneider, Sarah Shea, Mark Tavani, Madelyn Warcholik, Claire Ward, Alexis Welby, Sue and Jackie Yang. You’re the best!

  Keep reading for an exciting excerpt from Jeffery Deaver’s next Lincoln Rhyme novel, The Midnight Lock.

  1

  Something wasn’t right.

  Annabelle Talese, though, couldn’t quite figure out what that might be.

  One aspect of this concern, or disorientation, or mystery, could be explained by the presence of a hangover, though a minor one. She called them “hangunders”—maybe one and a half glasses of sauvignon blanc too many. She’d been out with Trish and Gab at Tito’s, which had to be one of the strangest of all restaurants on the Upper West Side of Manhattan: a fusion of Serbian and Tex-Mex. Fried cheese with beans and salsa was a specialty.

  Big wine pours too.

  As she lay on her side, she brushed the tickling, thick blond hair away from her eyes and wondered: What’s wrong with this picture?

  We
ll, for one thing, the window was open a few inches; a May breeze, thick with the gassy-asphalt scent of Manhattan, eased in. She rarely opened it. Why had she done so last night?

  The twenty-seven-year-old, who had dabbled at modeling and was now content behind the scenes of the fashion world, rolled upright and tugged her Hamilton T-shirt down, twisted it straight. Adjusted her silk boxers. Finger-combed her curls.

  She swung her feet over the edge of the bed, feeling for her slippers.

  They weren’t where she’d kicked them off last night before climbing under the blankets.

  All right. What’s going on?

  Talese had no phobias or OCD issues, except one: New York City streets. She couldn’t help but picture the carpet of germs and other unmentionable critters that populated the city’s asphalt—and which got tracked into her apartment, even when, as she did every day, she stowed her shoes in a carton by the door (and insisted her friends do the same).

  She never went barefoot in the apartment.

  Instead of the slippers, though, the dress she’d worn yesterday, a frilly, floral number, lay spread out beneath her dangling feet.

  The front hem was drawn up, almost to the décolletage, as if the garment were flashing her.

  Wait a minute . . . Talese had a memory—more hazy than distinct—of tossing the garment into the hamper before her nighttime routine.

  Talese qualified her narrative now. The slippers weren’t where she thought she’d left them. The dress wasn’t in the hamper where she thought she’d tossed it.

  Maybe Draco, the bartender, always a flirt, had been a little more generous than usual.

  Was the drink count, possibly, 2.5 on the scale?

  Careful, girl. You need to watch that.

  As always, upon waking, the phone.

  She turned toward the bedside table.

  It wasn’t there.

  No landline for her, her mobile was her only link at night. She always kept it near and charged. The umbilical, attached to the wall plug, was present, but no phone.

  Jesus . . . What’s going on?

  Then she saw the slippers. The pink fuzzy things were across the room, each on either side of, and facing, a small wooden chair. It had been scooted closer to the bed than she normally kept it. The slippers were facing the chair in a way that was almost eerily obscene—as if they’d been worn by somebody whose legs were spread and who was sitting on a lap.

  “No,” Talese gasped, now spotting what was on the floor beside the chair: a plate with a half-eaten cookie on it.

  Her heart thrummed fast; her breath grew shallow. Somebody’d been in the apartment last night! They’d rearranged her clothes, eaten the cookie.

  Not six feet away from her!

  The phone, the phone . . . where’s the goddamn phone?

  Talese reached for the dress on the floor.

  Then froze. Don’t! He—she figured the intruder would have been male—had touched it.

  My God . . . She ran to her closet and pulled on jeans and an NYU sweatshirt, then stepped into the first pair of sneakers she found.

  Out! Get out now! The neighbors, the police . . .

  Fighting back tears from fright, she started out of the bedroom, then noticed that one of her dresser drawers was partially open. It was where she kept her underwear. She’d noted something boldly colorful inside.

  She approached slowly, pulled it fully open and looked down. She gasped and finally the tears broke free.

  On top of her panties was a page from a newspaper. It wasn’t one she read, so he would have brought it with him. Written on it, in lipstick—the shade that she favored, Fierce Pink—were three words:

  Reckoning.

  —The Locksmith

  Annabelle Talese turned to sprint to the front door. She got about ten feet before she stopped fast.

  She’d noticed three things:

  One was that the butcher block knife holder, sitting on the island in the small kitchen, had a blank slot, the upper right-hand corner, where the largest blade had rested.

  The second was that the closet in the hallway that led to the front door was open. Talese always kept it closed. There was an automated switch in the frame so that when you opened the door, the bulb inside went on. The closet now, however, was dark. She would have to walk past it to get to the front door.

  The third thing was that the two deadbolts on the door were turned to the locked position.

  Which meant—since the man who’d broken inside had no keys—he was still here.

  2

  The defense attorney, approaching the empty witness stand, beside which Lincoln Rhyme sat in his motorized wheelchair, said: “Mr. Rhyme, I’ll remind you that you’re still under oath.”

  Rhyme frowned and looked over the solidly built, black-haired lawyer, whose last name was Coughlin. Rhyme affected a pensive expression. “I wasn’t aware that something might have happened to damage the oath.”

  Did the judge offer a faint smile? Rhyme couldn’t see clearly. He was on the main floor of the courtroom, and the judge was considerably above and largely behind him.

  The testimonial oath in court had always struck Rhyme as an unnecessary mouthful, even with the “so help you God” snipped off.

  Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?

  Why did swearing have to be solemn? And once one affirmed the first “truth,” was there any point to the overkill? How about: “Do you swear you won’t lie? If you do, we’ll arrest you.”

  More efficient.

  He now relented. “I acknowledge that I’m under oath.”

  The trial was being conducted in New York Supreme Court—which, despite the name, was in fact a lower-level court in the state. The room was wood paneled and scuffed, the walls hung with pictures of jurists from over the years, going back, it seemed, to the days of Reconstruction. The proceeding itself, however, was pure twenty-first century. On the prosecution and defense tables were computers and tablets—the judge had a slim high-def monitor too. There was not a single law book in the room.

  Present were thirty or so spectators, most here to see the infamous defendant, though perhaps a few hoping to see Rhyme.

  Coughlin, whose age Rhyme figured to be about fifty, said, “I’ll get to the substance of my cross-examination.” He flipped through notes. Maybe there were no books, but Rhyme noted easily a hundred pounds of foolscap between the defense and the prosecution tables.

  “Thank you, sir,” said the judge.

  Being a criminalist, a forensic scientist aiding in criminal investigation, is only partly about the laboratory; the other aspect of the job is performing. The prosecutor needs an expert witness to present findings in an articulate way and to patiently and effectively parry the defense counsel’s assault on your conclusions. On redirect, a good prosecutor can sometimes rehabilitate a witness battered by the defense, but it’s best not to get into hard straits in the first place. Lincoln Rhyme was reclusive by nature, and loved his time in a laboratory above all, but he was not entirely introverted. Who doesn’t enjoy a little grandstanding before the jury, and sparring with the defendant’s attorney?

  “You testified on direct that no fingerprints of my client were left at the crime scene where Leon Murphy was murdered, correct?”

  “No, I did not.”

  Coughlin frowned, looking at a yellow pad that might have contained perceptive notes or might have contained doodles or a recipe for beef brisket. Rhyme happened to be hungry. It was ten a.m. and he’d missed breakfast.

  Coughlin glanced at his client. Viktor Antony Buryak, fifty-two. Dark-haired like his mouthpiece but bulkier, with Slavic features and pale skin. He wore a tailored charcoal gray suit and a burgundy vest. Buryak’s face was oddly unthreatening. Rhyme could picture him serving up pancakes at a church basement fundraiser
and remembering every parent by name and giving the kids an extra splash of syrup.

  “Do you want me to read you back your testimony?” Coughlin, who’d been hovering close to Rhyme, like a shark near chum, lifted a palm.

  “No need. I remember it. I stated—under oath, I’ll just reassure you—that of the fingerprints collected at the scene of Leon Murphy’s murder, none could be identified as your client’s.”

  “What exactly is the difference?”

  “You said I testified that your client left no fingerprints at the scene. He might very well have left a million of them. The evidence collection team simply didn’t recover any.”

  Coughlin rolled his eyes. “Move to strike.”

  Judge Williams told the jury, “You’ll disregard Mr. Rhyme’s response. But try again, Mr. Coughlin.”

  Looking put out, Coughlin said, “Mr. Rhyme, no fingerprints of my client were discovered at the crime scene where the convicted felon Leon Murphy was shot, correct?”

  “I can’t answer because I can’t speak to whether the victim was a convicted felon or not.”

  Coughlin sighed.

  The judge stirred.

  Rhyme said, “I agree with your ‘were discovered’ part of that sentence.”

  Coughlin and Buryak shared a look. The client was taking this better than his attorney. The lawyer returned to his table and glanced down.

  Rhyme regarded the jury and found more than a few looking his way. They’d be curious about his condition. Some defense attorneys, he’d heard, privately complained about his presence, given that he was a quadriplegic, testifying from a wheelchair—which, they believed, generated sympathy for the prosecution.

  But what could he do? Wheelchair bound he was. Criminalist he was.

  Rhyme’s eyes circled to the defendant. Buryak was a unique figure in the history of organized crime in the region. He owned a number of businesses in the city, but that wasn’t how he made most of his money. He offered a unique service in the underworld, one that had probably cost more lives than any other organized crime outfit in New York’s exceedingly criminal history.