“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 wants to take me to his house?”
“He’s married.”
“Pig.” But spoken as if identifying a species, not offering an insult.
Shaw opened the paper bag that Mack’s delivery man had given him. He took out a plastic bag holding what looked like a credit card, slightly thicker than normal. On the front was printed the name of an airline and below that Prestige Club and a meaningless account number. He handed it to her. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You go up to the room with him. When you’re inside, take his jacket off and kiss him.”
“Do I have to?”
Shaw said, “Yes. Then tell him to go brush his teeth.”
“Oh, that’s why.”
He’d told her to bring paste and a brush.
“When he’s in the bathroom slip this into his wallet. He keeps it in his jacket pocket.”
“And?
“You leave. You got cold feet.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Okay.”
“Once I know you’ve done that, I’ll dump the tape and drugs.”
“How do I know you’ll do it?”
Shaw shook his head, offering a tight-lipped smile.
A glance at the Prestige Club card. “It’s not a bomb or poison or anything?”
“No.”
She looked up at the hotel. “What did this guy do to you? I mean, to deserve this?”
Shaw kept to himself that his father, Todd Zaleski, other colleagues and Amos Gahl were dead because of Jonathan Stuart Devereux’s quest for the Holy Proposition. He settled for: “A story for another day.”
Then the three-G girl stepped toward the entrance of the building and fired a faintly impatient glance at the doorman, who had fallen in love in the past five minutes, and he adoringly pushed open the heavy door for her.
80
Devereux’s still a problem.”
Shaw had just walked into the safe house on Alvarez.
He continued speaking to Russell. “Mary Dove and Dorie . . . They’re still at risk. We are too.”
“Didn’t figure him for the revenge sort. Thought he’d put his energies elsewhere.”
“Yeah, well, we blew up his Grail.”
Sitting at the coffee table, Shaw opened his laptop. He typed. “I’m tracing him.”
“You got a device on him?”
“Correct.”
Russell seemed impressed.
Shaw continued, “He can’t operate the Urban Improvement Plan without another group like BlackBridge. I’m hoping he’ll find some other dirty-tricks outfit. I’ll let our Bureau contacts here know. Let’s hope he stumbles.”
“Hmm.” On the screen Russell was watching the glowing dot representing the Rolls-Royce, which had left Nob Hill and was making its way south. “How long will it last?”
“Four days, five.”
“You know it’s a long shot, finding a meeting, identifying principals.”
“It is. But I’m hoping to find another UIP drop-off point, and the Bureau can get eyes and ears there in time.”
“What system are you using?”
“MicroTrace.”
“It’s a good one. We use it. Send me the number of that unit. I’ll have Karin keep eyes on him too.”
Shaw sent the text to Russell’s phone.
Both men watched the dot.
Then Shaw noted his brother’s duffel bag and backpack sitting near the stairs.
Why the hell the Oakland A’s? . . .
“Come back to the Compound. Victoria and I are driving down there. Until I can get some evidence on Devereux, I want to keep an eye on Mary Dove. Maybe have Dorie come too.”
“Can’t. There’s that problem in Alaska. I told you about it.”
Shaw said, “You can’t be the only one with a beard and a SIG Sauer.”
He thought this might, at last, raise a smile. No. His brother shook his head.
“Mary Dove’d love it.” He hesitated then added, “Been forever.”
Another pause. “Just can’t.”
“Sure.”
You make a good team . . .
Well, after a rocky start, they had. He was thinking of Russell’s enthusiastic embrace of his brother’s plan to finally nail the BlackBridge crew at San Bruno park.
Which made his brother’s abrupt departure now all the more painful.
Shaw was looking down at the floor. There was a black scuff mark in the shape of a crescent moon. Had it been left by Shaw or Russell? Maybe Droon or one of the ops when they’d assaulted the safe house in search of the tally. Maybe by Ashton Shaw himself, if the mark was indelible enough to survive polishings over the years.
“Better go.”
When it came to his brother there was no true north, there was not even a constellation to help Colter Shaw navigate through the words he wanted to say. He and Russell had never had serious conversations. They talked about how to cure pike for longest storage or which caliber and load were best for charging mountain lions. And for human intruders, armed and with intent. But never words about themselves.
That wasn’t acceptable to Colter Shaw, not after all that had happened over the past few days. “Wait.”
His brother turned back.
“Why . . . Why’d you disappear? All these years. We’re blood. I’ve got a right to know.”
A long moment passed. “What Ash taught us: survival.”
Shaw could only shake his head.
“Survival for you, for everyone in the family. You have an idea of my job. I do bad things. I was afraid I’d put ev
erybody at risk. There’re prices on my head—sort of like a reward, if you think about it.”
Just last week, in the cult in Washington State, one of the self-help gurus had told Shaw much the same.
I think he didn’t want to leave. He felt he had no choice. If you pursue him now, and find him, he’s just going to keep running . . . A protector sometimes protects best by leaving those in his care. The way a bird leads predators away from their young.
“Russell, we all know how to handle risks. It’s what Ashton taught us. From day one in the Compound.”
“All right.” His brother inhaled twice before continuing: “It was survival for me too.” The white noise roared like a deadly wave. “You really believed I’d hurt Ash?”
So we get to it. At last.
“I looked at the facts—the fight you two had about Dorie, the knife. Then you lied, you said you were in L.A. when he died. You were near the Compound.”
“It was one of my first assignments. An op near Fresno. They gave it to me because I knew the territory. Nobody could know about it. Okay, Ashton taught us to look at facts. ‘Never make decisions based on emotion.’ But who somebody is, that’s a fact too, isn’t it? What you thought, what you accused me of . . . That was tough. It was easier to go away.”
“I was wrong.”
Was this a transgression that could be remedied by apology? Colter Shaw simply couldn’t tell.
Russell’s eyes went to the statue of the soaring eagle.
“Remember that?” Shaw asked, nodding at it. “Do you have the bear?”
“No.”
Had he thrown it away because Ashton’s ritual gave first prize to Colter? Russell’s was for the supporting role.
His brother surprised him by saying, “I’d been meaning to send it back. Never got around to it.”
Shaw considered this. “You had it, not Ash?”
“I took it, after the funeral.”
“Why?”
Russell was silent for a moment. “I couldn’t tell you.”
“Keep it,” Shaw said.
“No, it’s yours.”
Silence flowed and within it, this thought: the words he’d rehearsed for so long had finally been spoken . . . but had done nothing to bridge the chasm between them.
“Okay. Got to get the team up north. I’m glad this reward thing’s working out. It suits you. The Restless Man.”
“You were right. This BlackBridge operation, it wasn’t what I do. I needed you.”
A nod. There was no question of a handshake, much less an embrace. With backpack on his shoulder and duffel bag in hand, his older brother was out the door.
81
At ten that evening, Shaw and Victoria were returning to the Alvarez Street safe house from a fine Italian dinner in the Embarcadero. The day had been rainy and the streets slick, so they had taken her rental, the car that had been at the scene of the takedown in San Bruno park. They both were curious what Avis would make of the bullet hole in the fender. At least she’d bought the loss-damage waiver, so she would not be charged, though Shaw wondered if gunfire invalidated the coverage.
They paused outside.
“Anything?” Victoria asked.
Shaw was looking at the security app on his phone. Russell had left several cameras in the house. With Devereux still a wild card, and with him knowing where the safe house was located, they were being cautious, though Shaw believed the man would play the long game. Nothing would happen to Shaw or the family just yet. That would be too suspicious. The descendant of the beheaded member of English royalty was dangerous, greedy and narcissistic, but not stupid.
“Clear.” Shaw put the phone away.
They went inside, set the security system to at-home mode and opened wine and beer. “Think the fireplace works?” she asked.
“I checked. It’s sealed. My father and his colleagues? Didn’t want any surprise packages dropping in.”
“Your mother and I had a conversation about him. He had a reputation for being paranoid,” she said.
“That’s right.”
“But I guess after all this, he was just being cautious.”
“Russell said some of his concerns were smoke. That was true. But what he really was? A survivalist before anything else. That’s how I think of him now.”
Shaw had some beer and called up the tracking program on his laptop. The red dot that was Devereux pulsed, but didn’t move. Shaw panned in and saw that he was in a developed area off Highway 1, south of the city. He’d probably stopped off for a meal at one of the many seafood places along that sidewinding road. Perhaps he was on his way to Carmel, the magical kingdom on the Monterey Peninsula—it was the sort of place where he would have one of his mansions. And if so, was he accompanied by a tall, picturesque woman?
It was then that he heard Victoria’s alarmed voice, “Well.”
He noted her attention was on her phone.
“You have a news feed?”
Shaw asked, “Which one?”
“Any of them.”
He picked one at random. And read.
BILLIONAIRE BUSINESSMAN JONATHAN STUART DEVEREUX, CEO OF BANYAN TREE HOLDINGS, WAS SHOT AND KILLED TONIGHT IN THE TOWN OF HALF MOON BAY, SOUTH OF SAN FRANCISCO.
MR. DEVEREUX WAS LEAVING AN EXCLUSIVE GOLF RESORT WHEN HE WAS FELLED BY A SINGLE SNIPER SHOT FROM THE HIGHWAY. HE WAS LEAVING THE RESTAURANT IN THE COMPANY OF EXECUTIVES OF ABERNATHY CONSULTING, SANTA CRUZ, AND A BODYGUARD. NO ONE ELSE WAS INJURED.
THE SAN FRANCISCO DAILY HERALD REPORTED THAT AN ANONYMOUS CALLER TO THE PAPER STATED THAT A LOCAL GANG WAS BEHIND THE DEATH BECAUSE OF DEVEREUX’S INVOLVEMENT IN ILLEGAL DRUG OPERATIONS THROUGHOUT THE BAY AREA. A SAN MATEO COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE SPOKESPERSON SAID THE INVESTIGATION WAS ONGOING.
“God,” Victoria said. “The UIP thing.”
Shaw was doubtful. “He was insulated. That was BlackBridge’s thing. Nobody’d know that he was the ultimate client. He was careful about that.”
Dangerous, greedy and narcissistic, but not stupid . . .
It was then that his phone hummed with a text, and he read the brief message from an unknown number.
Delete the tracking app.
He stared at the words for a moment. Then the meaning hit him. Jesus. He did as the message instructed. Shaw replied.
Done.
A moment went by. Shaw debated. He sent another.
Take care . . .
Shaw wondered if he would get a response. Seconds later the phone vibrated again.
The number you are trying to reach is no longer in service.
PART FIVE
JULY 3
ASH
82
One of those stainless-steel afternoons, when humidity, temperature, clarity of the air and a show-off of a sun conspire to make the setting as perfect as a setting can be.
Colter Shaw parked the Winnebago near the cabin and climbed out, stretching after the seven-plus-hour drive from the north, eyeing the craggy and soaring peaks to the west of the property, the dense pelt of pine and oak to the east and south. Sun danced off the pond where he and Russell had fished for hours upon hours.
There’d been several days of matters to attend to in San Francisco, answering more questions—and there’d been quite a few—about the San Bruno shootout, Droon’s death and the explosion of the Prescott home, the Urban Improvement Plan, BlackBridge. Yes, the various authorities had quite the list. Unfortunately Shaw could offer no insights into the tragic death of Devereux, but he said there was some credibility to the drug claim, since he knew for a fact that the man was one of the chief beneficiaries of the UIP.
Shaw had spent a day closing up the safe house on Alvarez, feeling his brother’s absence even more keenly than he had after Russell had departed the first time, following the rescue at the library. He thought back to his surprise and p
leasure when the man had returned to explain that he would be helping Shaw identify the victims of the kill order.
It’s not a reward job, Colt. You can’t do it on your own . . .
Then he’d tucked the feeling away and finished filling his backpack. He had hopped onto the Yamaha for the zipping ride to the RV camp to pick up the Winnebago.
Upon leaving the park, Shaw had not headed south toward the Sierra Nevadas. And the reason for this was that he was not alone in the camper. Beside him in the passenger seat was Victoria Lesston. It turned out that she found the idea of a vacation as alien as he, but they decided to take the plunge and spend some R & R in wine country.
They had found a charming bed-and-breakfast nestled into a verdant quadrant of a vineyard. The place was long on views and complex, tasty meals, and—thank God—short on gingham and plaques of ducks and geese in bonnets.
Those days—in the safe house and then in Napa—were the first time in ages that he had spent several contiguous nights in the company of a woman. Oh, he’d been wary of the trip at first, very wary, but Shaw soon found there was nothing to worry about; all the vineyards they toured offered good beer.
The amount of time in each other’s company had been just right. At almost exactly the same moment, silence materialized between them, like a summoned spirit at a seance. It was benign, but it was silence nonetheless and they’d smiled, both understanding simultaneously that it was time to get back to their real worlds.
Now, in the Compound, Victoria climbed out of the camper too and stretched, somewhat more carefully than Shaw, given her hundred-foot high dive from a cliff not long ago—and the tumble to cover in San Bruno park. Together they walked toward the cabin, where they saw Mary Dove approaching from a field. She carried a heavy basket of vegetables.
Smiling, she nodded toward them, then the house, meaning she would off-load the provisions and then join them.
Victoria pulled off her sweater—Napa and Sonoma had been far more damp and chill than the weather here. Beneath she wore a gray silk blouse. And beneath that was a pale blue, lacey garment, not presently visible, though Shaw was by now quite familiar with its construction and the mechanics of the clasps.
The Final Twist Page 32
