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

He turned back to Eleanor, expecting her to say, My, I can see the resemblance, or something similar.

Instead she was frozen, gaping at the picture.

“Ma’am?” Russell asked.

“I do know him.”

Shaw’s pulse picked up. “How?”

“Years ago, ages. He was older than in your picture and his hair was wilder. And whiter. But I remember him clearly. It was at the funeral. He was looking very distraught. Well, we all were, of course. But he seemed especially troubled. We thought that was odd since no one in the family had a clue who he was.”

Shaw: “Whose funeral was it?”

“My son. Amos.”

“Amos Gahl?”

“That’s right. I’m Eleanor Nadler now. I remarried after my first husband passed.”

She tilted her head and looked each of them over, and it was a coy, conspiratorial gaze. “Why don’t you come in? I’ll make some coffee. And you boys can tell me why you’re really here.”

33

The house smelled of mothballs, which, Shaw supposed, most people associate with grandparents’ homes and old clothing in odd cuts and colors stored away forever.

Shaw’s thought, though, was of snakes: during one particularly dry, infestive year, Ashton and the children had ringed the cabin and gardens with pungent spheres of naphthalene to ward off persistent rattlers searching for water and mice.

Eleanor nodded to a floral couch, and the Shaw brothers sat. She disappeared into the kitchen. Given his childhood, Shaw had no reference point for television sitcoms but he and Margot had occasionally lain on inflatable mattresses during one of her archeological digs and, on a tablet or computer, watched the shows her parents and grandparents had loved. Surreal to have just made love to a sultry woman, in the wilderness of Arizona, your pistol handy in case of coyotes, and be watching The Andy Griffith Show (funny) or Bewitched (not his style).

This home was immaculate, well dusted, pastel. There were many objects sitting on many surfaces. China figurines were outnumbered only by family photographs.

Five minutes later the woman returned with a silver tray on which sat three delicate porcelain cups, filled with black coffee, on saucers. A sugar bowl and pitcher filled with viscous cream, not milk, sat beside them. Also, three spoons and three napkins folded into triangles. She passed out one cup each to Shaw and Russell and took one for herself. The brothers doctored with cream. The coffee was rich. African. Kenyan, Shaw was pretty sure.

In her soft voice she said, “I have a feeling that this isn’t about 23andMe genealogy, is it?”

“No, Ms. Nadler—?” Russell began.

“Eleanor,” she corrected. “I have a feeling we have something important in common. First names seem appropriate.”

“Eleanor,” Shaw said, sipping again and putting the cup down. The clink seemed loud. “We’re here looking into how our father died.” He had to say the next part. “We think he was killed under circumstances similar to your son’s death.”

“It was no accident,” she muttered. “I know that.”

Russell said, “Not long before he died, our father was in touch with some coworkers who knew Amos.”

“At BlackBridge.” Her lips tightened.

A nod. “They think Amos smuggled some evidence out of the company. Evidence of crimes they’d committed.”

Shaw went on to explain about the Urban Improvement Plan and other illegal activities that the company was involved in: the stock manipulation, the kickbacks, the phony earthquake inspections.

She didn’t know UIP or other specifics—Shaw supposed her son intentionally didn’t tell her too much, to protect her—but she said, “There was always something wrong about that place. He was never comfortable there.” Her eyes strayed to a picture on the wall. It depicted Gahl in his early twenties. He was in a soccer kit. Curly dark hair, a lean face. “He was such a good boy. Smart. Good-looking . . . Oh, he was a catch. I’d thought he’d bring home the most beautiful girl in college.” A laugh. “He brought home some beautiful boys . . . That was the way he went. Fine with me.” A sigh. “My son was happy. He loved academia.”

“Where did he teach?” Russell asked.

“San Francisco State. He was happy there.” Her face tightened. “Then he joined that company. It wasn’t a good place. It was dark. But he got tempted. Where else could somebody with a history degree make the kind of money they paid him?”

Shaw: “Are you comfortable telling us more about his death?”

She was silent for a long moment, her eyes fixed on a ceramic statue of a bird, a mourning dove on the coffee table.

“Officially it was a car crash. He went off Highway One. You know how bad that can be south of the city?”

Both men nodded, and Shaw thought of the article in Ashton’s secret room about the state assemblyman’s crash and the ensuing fire that destroyed some records he had with him.

“It was near Maverick. The beach.” The extreme surfing capital of the state.

“Only he had no reason to be driving that way. He’d left BlackBridge and was spending all his time in the city on some project of his. That was odd—why he was fifty miles south of the city. And then . . .” She took a moment to compose herself. “And then there was the mortician.”

Shaw encouraged her with a nod.

“He asked me if the police found who attacked him. I was dumbfounded. Attacked him? What did he mean? Oh, the poor man was beside himself. He thought I knew. You see, the body was badly burned but in getting it ready for the crematorium, he noticed stab wounds, deep ones. Someone had . . .” She steadied herself. A few breaths. “Someone had stabbed him and then twisted the knife. To cause more pain.”

Shaw pictured the SOG knife, recalled Droon’s gesturing with the blade yesterday morning.

Insert, twist . . .

His torture method of choice.

With her jaw tightly set, she whispered, “He said it looked like he was stabbed in the leg and the blade hit the femoral artery. That would be an accident. They wanted to keep him