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

wrap its arms around him. Rock climbing was a complex, intellectual joy. Low-gear, high-throttle racing around corners on slidey tires, powering up and over hills . . . well, that was a pure, raw high.

Shaw had seen the police thriller Bullitt, from the ’60s, in which the actor Steve McQueen—to whom, Shaw was regularly reminded, bore more than a passing resemblance—had muscled his Ford Mustang through the winding and hilly streets of San Francisco in pursuit of two hitmen in a Dodge Charger—the best car-chase scene ever filmed. When in town here, on his bike, Shaw never missed the chance to exploit the tricky and exhilarating geography of the city just like Detective Frank Bullitt, occasionally going airborne and enjoying lavish skids.

He now plowed through the neighborhood the safe house was located in: the Mission.

Shaw had some affection for the area, where he’d spent weeks on a reward job a few years back. The district had been sparsely populated until the infamous 1906 earthquake, which destroyed much of San Francisco. Because there was more open land and therefore less quake and fire damage in the Mission, residents began to move here to start life anew. These newcomers were Anglo—largely Polish and German—as well as Chicano and Latino. In the early to mid-twentieth century, the neighborhood was tawdry and rough-and-tumble and more than a little lawless. So it remained until the ’70s, when counterculture hit.

The Mission was the epicenter of the punk music scene in the city, and of the gay, lesbian and trans communities as well.

Shaw had learned too, in his search for the Benson twins, that one of the more interesting aspects of the district was the number of inhabitants whose families came from the Yucatan. In the portion of the Mission he was driving through now, the Mayan language—expressive and complex—was the main tongue of many residents. He sped past grassy In Chan Kaajal Park, which in Mayan means “My Little Town.”

As he traveled north he left the Mission behind and cruised into SoMa, the silly urbanized abbreviation of “South of Market.” It was also known—mostly among the old-timers—by the more interesting nic “South of the Slots,” after a now-defunct cable car that had run along Market. Like the Mission, SoMa had a colorful history but now that color was giving way to enterprise. This was home to scores of corporate headquarters, museums, galleries and traditional performing venues. What would the punksters have said?

Shaw soon arrived at the library, which was located on the north border of SoMa, the more affluent portion of the neighborhood. This portion of SoMa was close to the financial district and the legal firms and corporations that would use the services of a university business library.

Shaw pulled to the curb and idled his bike across the street from the library, which was a functional two-story structure constructed of glass and aluminum framing. Architecturally, the place didn’t approach interesting. But Shaw observed it closely. He saw people were coming and going, dressed in conservative business attire for the most part. Some messengers, a few delivery people.

He pretended to make a phone call as he observed the entry procedures.

There was one entrance into a large lobby and inside were two doorways. One, to the left facing the guard station, was for visitors. The other, to the right, was members only. Visitors to the public side had to walk through a metal detector and dump pocket litter into a basket for examination. You also needed to display an ID, and your name was jotted down on a clipboard sheet, but there was no confirmation of your identity.

He dropped the bike into gear and drove up the block to a space reserved for cycles and scooters. He locked the Yamaha to a post with a snaky cable. He affixed his helmet too. Looking around, he slipped the holstered gun and blade into a locked compartment, under the seat, he’d built for this purpose. He’d made sure the hidden GPS transmit system, like a LoJack, was active—even a double-chained motorcycle can be stolen by a determined thief.

Colter Shaw didn’t like leaving the weapons but there was no option. Then he reminded himself not to let his father’s paranoia enwrap him entirely. After all, how much trouble could he possibly get himself into in a library?

8

He had his story ready.

Legal associate Carter Skye, of the law firm Dorion & Dove, had been sent by his firm to look up an insurance law issue. This cover was not made up entirely out of whole cloth. When he was a legal assistant years ago, he’d had to do some research on the topic for one of the partners. It was a tricky question of subrogation—when an insurance company pays off a claim and then earns the right to sue in the insured’s name.

The pleasant Latino guard, however, had no interest in what Skye/Shaw’s purpose might be, and Shaw had been undercover enough times to know never to make an otherwise innocent story seem suspicious by volunteering information.

“There a charge?” he asked.

The man explained that if you weren’t affiliated with a school, entrance was ten dollars, which Shaw handed over in cash. Then, on request, he displayed his ID, which happened to feature his picture, height, weight and eye color, but the name, Skye, was his cover from his most recent undercover role. Mack was an expert at ginning up new identities. (This was completely legal as long as you didn’t try to trick the law or scam someone.)

A machine hummed and out eased a sticky-backed badge with his picture on it. He plastered it onto his chest.

Shaw debated about showing the picture of Amos Gahl—he’d taken a shot with his phone from the article about the man’s death—and asking if the guard remembered his being in here. The man, though, was young and if Gahl had used the library it would have been years ago.

“What’s over there?” Shaw pointed to the double doors to