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

“If you hadn’t followed me here,” Shaw said blandly, “you could’ve gone someplace with a better list.”

Devereux’s eyes strayed to a nearby table: two attractive women in business attire—white suit, lime-green dress, both form-fitting. He pushed the lenses higher, the better to study them. Which he did for a moment.

Shaw said, “I saw your political plans once Banyan Tree got into office. It was in Amos Gahl’s courier bag. Deregulation was the theme. Environment, banking, healthcare and insurance. Cutting social programs to the bone. Private police. I smelled human rights issues.”

Devereux turned away from visually molesting the two women diners.

“Ah, we could argue till the early hours, couldn’t we? I could respond that deregulation leads to corporate success, which leads to more employment and a better economy. One could also contend that corporations are far more efficient and ethical than a mere mortal politician: a company would never be caught with its fly open. But you would come up with a counterargument. I would counter-counter. It would become oh-so tedious . . .” Another sip of the wine he was going to finish despite himself. “It would have been a noble experiment . . . But let’s not quibble. Do you ride the cable cars?”

“I have.”

“You know what the engineer’s called.”

Shaw answered, “A gripman.” He seemed disappointed that Shaw had known. “And they have to be replaced every three days. The grips, not the men.” A chuckle.

Shaw had another hit of beer. The leisurely tip of the bottle, accompanied by a glance into Devereux’s eyes, was meant also to convey impatience.

The billionaire’s face flared with anger. He leaned forward. In a low voice he drew the words out. “Something very wrong went down here, Shaw. I’m not sure what or how. But you were at the epicenter.”

This was Devereux’s show. There was nothing to do but listen.

“There’s no record that we could find of any industrialist or financier in the nineteen twenties interested in a voting tally about Proposition Oh-Six.”

“Is that right?” Shaw frowned in confusion.

“Oh, yes it is.” Hands zipping here, hands zipping there. “And, from what I heard, the forgery was rather clumsily done. Not clumsy in the sense of technique or penmanship. It got the judge’s handwriting down perfectly.”

“You checked that too, did you?”

“I mean clumsy in terms of the materials, the supplies. One would think that a millionaire in the nineteen twenties would have hired a forger who’d use inks and paper that dated to nineteen oh-six. Easily come by back then.”

“One would think.”

Devereux extracted a monogrammed handkerchief. He patted his bald brow. “Of course, we’re not here to debate. The people involved, all those many years ago, they know the truth.” He couldn’t resist adding, with a sardonic grin, “If they existed.”

Shaw remained silent.

“A forgery it’s been declared and that’s tainted the whole barrel of apples. The army I had marshalled in Sacramento—quite the array—were enough to stop a court challenge. But now they’ve got cold feet. All those liberal, human-rights pundits and professors railing against capitalism . . . Yes, if we’d struck fast, we could’ve pushed it through and made sure it stuck. But t’was not to be.” Hands jittering in the air. The waitress thought it was a summons. “No, no, no,” he said darkly, and she retreated.

“So, it’s fallen out the way it has.” Then his fake thin-lipped smile vanished. “BlackBridge is gone. But I am CEO of one of the wealthiest corporations on the face of the earth, aren’t I?”

“I suppose so. Hadn’t actually heard of you until a few days ago.”

His fingers froze briefly. With a smile on his moonish face, he said, “The voting tally, BayPoint Enviro-Sure Solutions . . . You’ve crossed me, Shaw. And that means your family has crossed me as well. Bad thing to do.”

“I think it’s time to say goodbye, Devereux.”

“Oh, from your perspective, maybe. Not from mine.”

Shaw rose, put a twenty down beside his empty beer bottle.

Devereux’s eyes held his for a moment, then swiveled to the menu. He perused. “What to have, what to have . . .”

79

Shaw descended from the rooftop restaurant to the lobby and stepped out into the garish décor, then proceeded outside, putting his phone away, having made two calls.

He waited in front of the hotel, in the shade of an arching, dark red awning, as the intense sunlight made the unshaded portion of the street glow surreally. In ten minutes, a dark-skinned man on a Vespa rolled up and spotted Shaw, braking to a stop. Shaw joined him. “From Mack.” Shaw took the slim 4-by-5-inch envelope and instantly the courier was gone.

No more than five minutes later a cab pulled up and the second person he had called after meeting with Devereux climbed out, as the uniformed doorman scuttled forward.

Sophia Ionescu, aka Consuela Ramirez, aka Ksenia Vlanova, was really quite attractive.

Her shades were similar in shape to Devereux’s eyeglasses. Hers were pricey too; they bore the Chanel logo. She wore a short white skirt, blue silk blouse, white cotton jacket, and very little else, it seemed. Over her shoulder was a black purse on a chain, also Chanel.

Well, she was a three-G-a-night girl.

She appeared glum, an expression that did nothing to diminish her beauty—as she muttered, “You said it was dues time.”

Shaw nodded. “Take care of this, and I throw out the drugs you tried to plant. And erase the tape.”

“Take care of what?”

“There’s a man upstairs on the patio, having lunch.” He showed her a picture of Jonathan Stuart Devereux. “You’ll go up there, make contact and then take him to the Sherry-Nelson Arms Hotel. It’s up the street.”

“I know it.” A shrug. “He looks like the Wizard of Oz. How do I know he’ll come on to me?”

“He will.” Shaw wasn’t sure his entire plan would work but he had no doubt that Devereux would go for the bait.

After a drink or two, with conversation steeped in flirtation and wine, Devereux would make the offer.

“What if he