The Final Twist, Jeffery Deaver [philippa perry book TXT] 📗

Ship horn 3. This matches the tone of the Sea Maid III, operated by Cruise Tours Unlimited, docked at Eureka Promenade, approximately 300+ feet away.

Cable car bells, from opposite directions, probably the north terminus of the Powell/Mason line to the east, and Powell/Hyde line to the west. Powell/Mason is closer.

Correlating these data, I think the location is the southwest Fisherman’s Wharf area, likely Ghirardelli Square.

“Whoever did it is good,” Russell said.

Shaw was looking around. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He climbed out of the vehicle and approached the guitarist. He pulled a twenty from his pocket and dropped it into the guitar case.

“Hey, man, thanks.” His eyes were wide.

“Got a question.”

“Sure.” Maybe hoping: Was he free to sign a multimillion-dollar recording contract?

“Do you know this girl? She’s gone missing. I’m helping her mother try to find her.”

“Oh, yeah. Tessy. Jesus. Missing?”

“When did you see her last?”

“I just got back from Portland. Before that. A week maybe.”

“You know her well?”

“No. Talked about music some. Mostly just to divide up the corners, you know. So we didn’t sing over each other. This sucks. I hope she’s okay.”

“You ever know if she had trouble with anyone?”

“Never saw it. Guys’d flirt. You know. She could handle it.”

“Was she ever with a man named Roman?” Shaw described him.

“Doesn’t sound familiar.”

Shaw thanked him. He studied the block, turning in a slow circle. His eyes came to rest on a gift shop, specializing in saltwater taffy and objets d’art based on cable cars, the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz.

He caught his brother’s eye and nodded at the store. Russell joined him.

“Video?” his brother asked.

“It’s right in the line of sight. Hope so.”

The two men greeted the manager of the store, dressed for some reason like a clerk in an Old West general store. Straw hat, candy-striped shirt, suspenders and a sleeve garter. When they explained why they were here, he said, “Oh, no. Terrible.” He added that he knew Tessy. She occasionally would come into the store and exchange the tip coins she’d received from performing for bills.

He handed over the counter to another worker, and the men followed him into the back room.

He logged on to a cloud server and typed in the date and time from the call Tessy had made to her mother. Scrubbing back and forth . . . Finally, in fast motion, Tessy walked into view, removed her guitar from the case, which she opened for the tips, and then slung the instrument over her neck. She was in a red blouse and a black gypsy skirt. Her dark hair was loose.

She began to sing, smiling to passersby. The chord changes seemed efficient. No fancy jazz riffs. He’d heard that a guitar had never been intended as a lead instrument, but a rhythm one. That came from his distant past, from Margot, who’d been a source of much of his popular cultural knowledge. The woman had then added, “But tell that to Jimi Hendrix.”

Shaw’s own personal favorite guitarist was the Australian Tommy Emmanuel, who seemed to pry an entire orchestra from his git-fiddle.

Shaw was amused that her guitar was a Yamaha, the same brand as his motorbike. He supposed they were the same company—though that was about as diversified a manufacturing operation as you would find.

“Can you scrub to where she leaves?”

The man did. They saw her put her guitar away and pull a phone from her pocket. She made a brief call—probably the one to her mother. She then picked up the guitar case, slung a purse over her shoulder and started up the street away from the store. She walked to the corner and turned right.

“You catch that?” Shaw asked.

“The van,” Russell said.

A gray minivan, which had been parked on the same side of the street as Tessy was on, pulled into traffic as she walked by and proceeded slowly, as if following her. It made the same turn she did.

“Christ, you think they did . . . I mean, did something to her?” The manager’s face radiated concern.

“Scrub back to where it arrives.”

That was about twenty minutes before she left.

“Let it play in normal time.”

Yes, it was suspicious. After the van parked, no one got out. And no one got in; it wasn’t there to pick someone up. Then the passenger side doors opened and two men got out. They were Anglo, pale with thick black hair—one’s was slicked back, the other’s was a disorderly mop. They were in dress shirts and slacks. The one from the front seat removed a phone from his pocket and took a picture of the square, then fiddled with the screen.

“He’s sending the picture.”

A moment later, after what seemed to be a text exchange, Slick put the phone away. He lit a cigarette and the two climbed back into the van.

“We should call the police.”

Russell said, “We will. Any way we can get a copy of that vid?”

“Sure.” He rummaged in the desk and found an SD card. “From the time she arrived?”

“If you would, yes.”

He typed some commands and within a minute the video, in the form of an MP4 file, was on the card.

Shaw said, “We’ll pay you for it.”

“No, no. Just get it to the police right away. God, I hope she’s okay.”

Shaw described Tessy’s ex, Roman. “Was she ever in here with somebody who looked like him?”

“Not that I remember.”

They thanked him. He handed them a business card. “Please let me know what happens.”

Russell said they would and the men returned to the SUV.

As his brother fired up the big vehicle, Shaw sent a text to Mack, with the priority code, requesting information on a vehicle. He’d memorized the van’s California license tag.

“Let’s look at the cross street.” Russell pulled into traffic and, following the same route as the gray van, turned the corner. The street was not much more than an alley—it was lined by the backs of buildings and loading docks, no storefronts or residences.

“Couldn’t’ve picked a