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

The brothers climbed from the vehicle and walked half a block to an ancient three-story red-brick building. Above the arched doorway was etched in sandstone: haywood brothers warehousing & storage.

“Optimistic,” Shaw said.

Russell looked at him with a frown of curiosity. Shaw nodded at the lintel over the door.

“Warehousing and storage. Their business plan was set in stone. Literally. Never thought they might have to diversify.”

“Hmm.”

Russell was simply not going to fall victim to humor.

They walked into the scuffed lobby with checkerboard tile for flooring. The walls were yellow stucco and the crown molding featured grizzly bears, the state animal of California.

Which, of course, put Shaw in mind of the statuette his father had given his brother, following the incident on the avalanche field so many years ago.

The Reclusive One . . .

A double door at the back of the lobby was chained and padlocked. To the right was a glass door on which a stenciled sign read: manager.

Inside, a round man in a white short-sleeved shirt sat hunched over a computer. Shaw noted that when he and Russell entered, the man’s right hand had strayed toward a drawer before assessing there wasn’t much threat these two presented. The Embarcadero was not completely tamed.

“Help you?”

They had a cover story, which was similar to the fiction they’d spun upon first meeting Eleanor Nadler, Amos Gahl’s mother. They were brothers researching their late aunt’s life—she was a well-known professor at Cal—for a self-published book. It would be a Christmas present for their mother—the woman’s sister.

“Mom’ll love it,” Shaw said.

The manager said, “Women do seem to like that family stuff, don’t they? More’n us guys, I’d say.”

Russell said with a faint, utterly uncharacteristic laugh. “You got that right.” He really was quite the actor.

“We found a reference to the warehouse here in one of her diaries,” Shaw told him. “We’re curious what the connection was. Has this always been a working warehouse?”

“Not a working anything now. We’re closed up.” He nodded at the computer. “I’m making appointments for prospective buyers. The partnership owns it is putting it up on the block. This neighborhood is changing, you can see. Going to be condos and retail, probably.”

The air was close, the temperature hot in the office—a renegade boiler, it seemed—and the man mopped his brow with a Kleenex, which he’d taken from his pocket, unfolded, used and then replaced.

“Only thing is, unless your aunt was connected with the government somehow, I doubt she would’ve had much to do with the place.”

Shaw said, “Yessir, she did some government work.”

“On occasion,” Russell said, looking toward the door that seemed to lead to the warehouse proper. “What was stored here?”

The manager continued, “You know the earthquake, nineteen oh-six?”

The brothers nodded. The estimated 7.8- or 7.9-level event had destroyed about eighty percent of the city, killing three thousand.

“The quake was bad enough but it was the fires that did the most damage. Stop me if I’m telling you something you already know.”

“Please.” Shaw gestured with his hand for the man to continue. He seemed happy for the visitors. Shaw noted it was not an appointment calendar but a game of solitaire that was on his computer.

“The fire chief was killed in the initial quake and no one knew back then how to fight blazes that big, you know, ruptured gas lines and all. They dynamited buildings to make firebreaks but didn’t do it right. That just started more fires. Worst part was that insurance companies wouldn’t write earthquake policies but they would for fire damage. So people started setting fire to their own houses for the coverage—and most of them were wood. You can imagine.

“Anyway, there was fire in the Embarcadero, a lot of buildings went, but not these blocks, so the government workers loaded up all the official documents and records and drove them down here for safekeeping. Drove hell for leather, with the blaze right on their heels. The city and state removed a lot of the crap over the next decade. Went to the new city hall and the state and federal buildings. But they still left the warehouse half full. Millions of documents.”

Shaw regarded Russell. “So, that’s what she was doing, I’ll bet. Researching something in the archives.”

Shaw assessed that their acting was acceptable. Not Broadway, but superior community theater. To the manager: “She was a history prof.”

“Was she now?”

“Can we show you a picture of her?” Russell asked.

He frowned. “Would this’ve been in the last two years? That’s as long as I’ve been here.”

“Lot longer than that.”

“Well, I took over from a guy’d been at this desk for twenty years. Jimmy Spilt. I know, the name’s a burden.”

“You in touch with him?” Shaw asked.

“On and off.”

“What’s your name?”

“Barney Mellon.”

Russell shook his hand. “I’m Peter and this’s Joe.”

Shaw gripped Barney’s palm too.

“Say, Barney, any chance we could send Mr. Spilt a picture? See if he recognizes her?”

Russell added, “Tall order, but we’d appreciate it.”

“You boys sure must love your mom.”

“That’s the truth,” Shaw said.

Russell asked for Barney’s phone number and sent the picture, which was of Irena Braxton.

Colter Shaw didn’t have enough information to assess the odds of success. The best he could come up with was: Long shot, but let’s hope.

Barney sent the photo off to the oddly surnamed former manager and it was no more than thirty seconds later that his mobile hummed. He regarded the screen and answered. “Heya, Jimmy, how’s it hanging? . . . You still getting out to the mountains? Uh-huh . . . Heard it was bad, lost twenty thousand acres . . . Now, about that picture . . . These two fellows are here, doing something up nice for their mother.” He listened for some moments, nodding broadly. “Sure, I’ll let ’em know. So, what’re you doing on Wednesday? . . . Good, good . . .” A fierce grin was on his face. He sat back, made the used Kleenex reappear and mopped his brow.

Russell and Shaw shared a glance. Russell’s eyes dipped to the drawer, then the phone in the man’s hand. Shaw gave