The Final Twist

76

“It’s safe.”

“You say that. It’s easy to say it’s safe. Anybody can say it’s safe. It’s easy for me to say I can soar like a seagull but I can’t.”

Colter Shaw stood at the base of the porch and continued speaking to the shadows on the other side of the half-open door of Earnest La Fleur’s Sausalito home.

No arrows had been launched, though the man might have gotten a piece of Shaw if he’d been inclined. He’d moved the oil-drum barricades, as Russell had suggested.

Shaw said, “Droon’s dead. Braxton and Ian Helms’re in jail, and the FBI and state police have locked down all the BlackBridge offices. ATF and SEC’re after them too, I heard.”

“Okay, okay, given that’s true, which I still have to confirm,” La Fleur offered by way of meager rebuttal, “what about the chief boilermaker, Devereux?”

Shaw’s brow creased. “Nothing to nail him on yet.”

“Told you. Man’s elusive as a drop of mercury and just as toxic.”

“Earnest,” Shaw stretched out his unusual name. “Let me in. And could you point the arrow elsewhere?”

“How’d you know I was locked and loaded?”

Shaw exhaled loudly, not bothering to explain that he’d heard the creak of the bow once again — and not troubling either to correct the man, as he had others, by telling him that the “lock and load” phrase applied only to the M1 Garand rifle. And until you unlocked the weapon — which slipped a round into the chamber — it was only as dangerous as a baseball bat.

“All right. Come on in.”

Shaw stepped into the man’s cluttered house, still redolent of ocean and pot.

The scrawny hermit, gripping the bow and a de-notched arrow, pushed past Shaw and strode into the yard. There he stood for a moment and then disappeared into the complicated growth of plants most of whose genus and species Shaw did not know. Beyond them, however, was a landscape of plants featuring rich green leaves pointing outward like splayed fingers. Shaw knew what this crop was.

Returning, La Fleur said, “You might’ve been followed. It looked clear. But, listen to me: never assume you’re safe.”

Shaw nearly smiled. That was the last line of the letter his father had left in Echo Ridge.

La Fleur re-latched the door. There was a chain — that most insubstantial of protective devices. But it wasn’t alone. The other security mechanisms were a knob lock, a massive deadbolt, a crossbar like you’d see in a Middle Ages castle and an iron rod tilting upward at a forty-five-degree angle from floor to door. Shaw wondered if he had a rope ladder somewhere in the place for a fast emergency descent down the cliffside. As a matter of fact, he did: a glance toward the windows revealed a coil of rope, one end of which was tied to a radiator.

“You want coffee, anything?” He was sipping from a chipped mug, as bulletproof as those in the diner where Shaw and his brother dissected the courier bag containing the mixtape and the ancient document that could change the face of American politics forever.

Shaw declined. “Brought you a present.” He handed over one of the envelopes he and Russell had taken from the BNG gangbangers at the site of the Urban Improvement Plan meeting in the Tenderloin. “Ten K. Laundered and unmarked. Amos Gahl’s mother got one too.”

He peered inside and pulled the money out. “Okay, okay. Can’t say I can’t use it.” He walked to a painting of an old-time sailing ship and lifted it down, revealing a wall safe. After turning his back so Shaw couldn’t see the combination, he opened the door and slipped the cash inside. Upon closing it, he spun the dial a number of times and reseated the painting.

“Well, thankee.” His face grew troubled. “So that son of a bitch Devereux still got what he wanted. Corporations running for office? What does he want more power for, more money? He’s got a company worth a couple trillion dollars.”

“Just one point two.”

“This ain’t funny, Shaw. That’s bigger than Spain’s gross domestic product. Banyan Tree’s going to run for office, and then the world goes to shit with his new policies you were telling me about: fucking the environment, civil rights, immigration. Jesus my Lord, just occurred to me: Devereux could start his own schools. They can teach what they want. Indoctrinate the youth. Hitler did that. ‘The Future Belongs to Me.’”

“The man who would be king.”

La Fleur tilted his head slightly. “That was quite a flick. There was justice in the movie. You remember how it ended? But not here. Devereux? Hell, if he gets enough power he could change the U.S. Constitution and a company could become president of the United States.”

“You think it’d come to that?”

A smile, both coy and troubled, spread over La Fleur’s face. “But you don’t have to look back too far into U.S. politics to see that pretty damn weird things can happen.” He opened one of the metal blinds and looked out. The view of the city was indeed spectacular. And dominating the skyline was the massive office building that housed Banyan Tree. “It’s like the missiles have been launched. I’m enjoying the last view of the country before the nukes hit.” He gazed back to find Shaw looking at the same scene.

La Fleur was sizing him up. “You seem... what’sa word I’m looking for here, Shaw? Detached. Like you don’t care about the cataclysm.” The man squinted. “Yep, I’m sure of it. De-tached. How come’s that? Don’t you care?”

“Let’s put on the TV. Something you might want to see.”

La Fleur nodded toward the ancient set. “This one’s safe, terrestrial. The only kind I’d ever have. You can’t work for BlackBridge and not get this sense of how efficiently electrons can fuck you.”

This was a man Ashton Shaw would’ve counted as a friend.

Shaw clicked the unit on. It had to warm up before the picture crisped into view.

The crawl at the bottom of the screen said breaking news...

A brunette anchorwoman in a bright red dress was looking out at her invisible audience.

“Repeating this afternoon’s top story, three independent forensic examiners have concluded that a recently discovered California Constitution amendment, to allow corporations to hold office in the state, is a forgery. The tally was dated April seventeenth, nineteen oh-six, but all three examiners found that the paper and ink dated to the nineteen twenties.

“Professor Anthony Rice of the University of California had this to say earlier...”

The scene cut to a recorded in-office interview. One shot revealed a large, pale man in a navy suit and a white shirt. His graying hair was thinning and curly.

“Hello, Professor Rice.”

He tapped his round glasses higher on a lengthy nose and nodded to the camera.

“Afternoon.”

“Tell us about this voting tally.”

Rice repeated the story about the implications of Proposition 06 and then added:

“Over the years the voting tally became a kind of Holy Grail for big corporations, which would love nothing more than to hold office in the state.”

“But the experts are saying it isn’t real.”

“I believe what happened is that a businessman in the nineteen twenties hired someone to forge it and hide it in government archives with other documents from around nineteen oh-six. His plan was probably to quote ‘miraculously’ discover it. Why didn’t he? One reason might be the timing. Maybe he went bust in the Depression and his corporation went bankrupt. He faded off into obscurity.”

“Do you think there really is a legitimate copy of the voting tally somewhere?”

“No, no. I’m sure there isn’t. The tally was just a legal legend. It would be impossible for one to exist. The recount was a long time ago but it was in the twentieth century. As soon as the judge signed it, word would have spread... There were telephones, telegraphs, daily press and as many reporters per capita as we have nowadays. If a recount meant the proposition passed, that would have been front-page news. No, Prop Oh-Six was defeated by the people.”

“Professor, has a corporation ever run for office?”

“A few have tried, as public relations stunts, but they never got very far. All legal scholars and political historians I know think it would be disastrous for democracy.”

“Thank you, Professor. In other news—”

Shaw shut the TV off. It crackled to darkness.

“Well,” La Fleur said. “That’s one kettle of fish... You think it’s for real? About the thing being forged?”

“It’s real.”

“You say that like a man who knows.”

“I do. Because I was the forger.”

77

So, I say: as Americans and lovers of democracy you should light a bonfire and throw the damn thing in...

Just after Shaw and Russell had left Professor Steven Field’s house in Berkeley, with an understanding of just what Proposition 06 meant, Shaw had made a decision.

He’d considered the academic’s advice — either hide or destroy the tally.

But Shaw had concluded that neither of those would work. BlackBridge, on Devereux’s orders, would continue to search and would undoubtedly rack up more dead bodies in the scavenger hunt. The businessman had been searching for the tally certificate for years. Why would he stop now? But if it appeared that the tally never existed in the first place — that the rumors were based on a forgery — then he might lick his wounds and forget the matter.

Shaw would create a forgery himself. He would make sure Braxton and Droon stole it from the Pacific Heights safe house. Devereux would then send it to Sacramento to present to the state assembly, where forensic experts would determine it was a fake.

Shaw was confident he could pull it off. He had on occasion in the course of his business needed to track down documents for which people had offered rewards. Usually these were last wills and testaments, corporate purchase documents, adoption papers. Those jobs would occasionally land him square in the esoteric world of document examination and forgery.

He needed help, though, to make sure it was a solid job. And he knew whom to call. An expert skilled at detecting forgeries would also have to be an expert on how to create them. He called a friend. Parker Kincaid was a former FBI forensic document examiner. Based outside of Washington, D.C., he was now a consultant.

“Parker.”

“Colt. How’s it going?”

They caught up with small talk. Kincaid’s son, Robby, was now an accomplished martial artist and he’d just won a big competition.

“Congratulations.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Let’s say I was tracking down some materials someone might use to create a forged document. I’m talking San Francisco.”

“Okay.”

Ah, the cop word again. Kincaid, after all, had been one.

“I’m speaking hypothetically.”

“Hypothetically.”

Shaw was amused. Kincaid’s repetition suggested suspicion. On the other hand, he knew all about Shaw’s rewards business and the number of people he’d rescued and the number of perps he’d collared. If Shaw was being coy, it was for a legitimate reason. Still, Parker had to ask, “I assume my former employer in Washington, D.C., would not have any reason to be concerned by someone’s document?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Good. Are we thinking modern day?”

“No. Nineteen twenties.”

“Pen and ink?”

“And typewriter.”

Kincaid didn’t hesitate. “In the Bay Area, there’s only one place a forger would go for supplies. Davis and Sons Rare Books and Antiquities.”

“Thanks, Parker. Helpful.”

“You ever get reward assignments in Northern Virginia?”

“Haven’t yet. My sister lives in Maryland. I’ve been meaning to visit. I’ve got your number.”

“Tell someone good luck.”

The men had disconnected and Shaw had headed up to North Beach to the bookstore.

There, he had paid to have the original voting tally, with the sketch on the back, mounted in the cheap plastic frame.

He had bought a few other things too — out of the case he’d studied when he first arrived.

Among his purchases was a ninety-year-old Underwood No. 5 typewriter, the most common of the era. It was a high-standing classic, the workhorse of secretaries and reporters throughout the first half of the twentieth century. He also selected a notebook that dated to the 1920s, containing blank sheets similar in color and weight to the paper of the original tally, and pen-point nibs and holders. Most important, he was able to purchase a bottle of actual ink that was nearly one hundred years old. That had been his biggest concern. Shaw, though, had been surprised to find that there was quite the market among collectors for unopened ink bottles from the past.

No accounting for passions and hobbies...

Back in the safe house, he’d saturated the ribbon of the typewriter with the old ink, cranked in a piece of paper he’d cut from the notebook and typed out a voting tally certification identical to the original.

He’d examined it carefully. Nope. Didn’t work; the ink wasn’t as consistently dark as the original. He prepped the typewriter again. This one was better, but he still wasn’t satisfied. Now it was consistent, but too dark for a document that age.

The third one hit the mark. He let it dry then assembled a nib and holder to practice the signature of the Right Honorable Selmer P. Clarke — a wonderful name for a judge. He did what all professional forgers do when faking signatures: not attempt to actually sign the document, mimicking the original signatory, but to turn the page upside down and “draw” the signature, as if he were sketching a landscape or portrait.

After a dozen attempts he was confident, and he inked the man’s scrawl onto the phony tally.

He heated the document briefly in the oven to make sure the ink was dry and to give the sheet additional distress and patina of age.

He took apart the frame, extracted the real tally, which went into the lining of his backpack. He drew another sketch on the back of the forgery and mounted that one into the frame, sketch side out. Onto the wall it went.

Shaw had then called Devereux and they met about his proposition to buy his family’s safety with the “evidence” against BlackBridge and Banyan Tree. He’d arranged the get-together to give Droon or another op the chance to put a tracker on his bike (not guessing they would take the more sophisticated approach of the RFID dust), which led them back to Pacific Heights. At the safe house he’d purposefully left the window open, knowing that a surveillance outfit from BlackBridge was now eavesdropping. Shaw had made a pre-arranged call to Victoria Lesston and purposely sat near the open window to explain about the tally being hidden in the frame on the wall. He was pretty sure that the woman in the hall, dressed like a maid, was the op whose job it was to steal the document when her partners created a distraction by trying to blow the door off Russell’s SUV.

Shaw knew the document examiners in Sacramento would find his creation to be fake but he wanted some insurance. He had contacted Professor Steven Field and told him of his plan.

The professor had laughed. “Well, aren’t you your father’s sons?”

“When the story breaks that it’s fake I want a nail in the coffin — some expert to say that the tally was just a pipe dream. It’d be next to impossible for there really to’ve been one.”

Field knew just whom to call. He got in touch with a colleague, Professor Anthony Rice, who had known Ashton Shaw too. He was more than happy to back up the story. Rice put out a tweet on the topic — that it was almost certain that there was no real voting tally. Media networks picked it up and invited the articulate, airtime-ready professor to be interviewed on the topic.

The entire world would get the word the tally was a myth.

Shaw now said to La Fleur, “You told us that when Amos found out that the tally was real, he was going to destroy it.”

La Fleur nodded. “I know it would’ve been tough for him. He was a historian. Against his training to destroy an original document.”

Never deny history...

One of Ashton’s rules.

Shaw told La Fleur this.

“Good advice.”

Shaw said, “Hitler’s and Goebbels’s and Himmler’s writings were despicable but we don’t burn them. That’s different, though, from the Nuremberg Laws — nineteen thirty-five. Took away citizenship of Jews in Nazi Germany and became the justification for the death camps. What if there was the same voting tally controversy then? The law was passed but the tally went missing, and you found it. You could submit it and have the law go into effect, or you could burn it. What’s your moral duty?”

“No doubt in my mind.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

La Fleur frowned. His fingers drummed.

Shaw dug into his backpack and extracted the original tally. He handed it to La Fleur, who gazed at the document. “Heh. Short, isn’t it? Doesn’t seem so scary up close.” He looked up. “You ever read Lord of the Rings?”

Shaw nodded.

La Fleur mused, “This is the ring of power.” Then he lit up his bong, took a hit and laughed, as the smoke floated. “I’m an old man. I can be as goddamn melodramatic as I want.”

Shaw rose and walked to La Fleur’s fireplace. He opened the grate. He took the tally and placed it inside. “You want to do the honors?” Shaw asked, picking up a cigarette lighter and handing it to the man.

“Me?”

“BlackBridge killed your friend for this. Tortured him.”

The man thought briefly. “And they killed your father. Let’s both do it.” He produced another lighter.

Shaw debated. It seemed sentimental, contrary to his theory of navigating your way through life by calculation and analysis. But then he recalled the day young Colter had saved the woman in the avalanche and his father had given him and his siblings their respective statuettes.

Never deny the power of ritual...

The men crouched before the pungent fireplace. Two clicks of two lighters, and they each touched the blue flame to opposite corners of the tally. They sat back and watched the document ignite and curl under the bright orange blaze, sending embers flitting upward into the flue like bugs curiously repelled by, rather than drawn to, a bright lamp on a gentle summer’s dusk.

78

While San Francisco is home to more than forty geographic elevations, the A-list celebrities are the famed Seven Hills, just like in Rome. They are Telegraph Hill, Russian Hill, Rincon Hill, Twin Peaks, Mount Davidson, Lone Mountain, and the most luxurious, Nob Hill.

The name derives from nabob, the term referring to a rich and conspicuous businessman, and it was applied to this summit because it was here that the Big Four — the tycoons involved in the creation of the Central Pacific Railroad — had mansions: Leland Stanford, Collis Potter Huntington, Mark Hopkins and Charles Crocker. The men modestly referred to themselves as “the Associates.”

Colter Shaw was now enjoying the unstoppable sun and the cool air in this lofty neighborhood, sitting in a rooftop bar and café. The view was fabulous. When the June gloom descends, or the autumn rainy season brings downpours for weeks upon end, San Francisco can be unbearably glum. But on days like this, the sun fully unfurled, the I-left-my-heart town can turn the wordless into Beat-era poets, the tone-deaf into chanteurs.

Shaw was sipping an Anchor Steam, the essential San Francisco beer. In his travels, which took him far afield, he always tended to pick local brews and this was one of his favorites.

Much of his day had been taken up with interviews with the San Francisco FBI agents who were running the BlackBridge case. All of the agents in the Bay Area field offices had been vetted and were clean. Ashton Shaw’s concerns had proven to be a bit excessive in that while there was some SFPD corruption, only five patrolmen and brass were in BlackBridge’s pocket, out of thousands of officers.

Shaw was sipping the beer and, mostly from curiosity, perusing a menu that was heavy with tourist fare — though of the Nob Hill variety: Manchego cheese, serrano ham, bruschetta, lobster rolls. Also a kids’ menu, evidence that trust-fund youngsters enjoyed the same chow as their common counterparts did: cheese sticks, pizza, and potatoes and onion rings that had met their crispy fate in boiling oil.

He was not here for the food, though. He and Victoria would meet later and go to a back alley in Chinatown. He hoped he could find one of the places where, years ago, Ashton Shaw had had meetings over lunch with local Chinese businessmen, art dealers and professors. Occasionally Ash would bring along one or more of the children. Even Dorion too, at the time younger than three years old. His sister had eaten her noodles by hand, one at a time. Young Colter had been mesmerized by the quiet, observant Chinese men who treated Ashton with respect and seemed subtly impressed with the man’s ability to discuss Asian philosophy and politics and wield chopsticks as if he’d been weaned from bottle to the lacquered rods at a single-digit age.

The memory faded, and it was on his third sip of Anchor Steam that he noted he was being watched.

A large man, Anglo, in a dark suit and slightly less dark shirt, was standing immobile near the hostess station outside and had been there for more time than seemed normal. Tables were available but he simply stood in one spot, with arms crossed. Through sunglasses he was eyeing the patio, but mostly he was eyeing Colter Shaw.

Shaw’s right hand set the bottle down and continued casually to the napkin in his lap and thereafter to the grip of the Glock 42 in the holster, tucked in the waistband of his black jeans and hidden by the shirt, which was roughly the same shade as that of the behemoth man’s at the hostess station.

Well, there’s the minder.

But where is the mindee?

The answer arrived a moment later like a foraging pigeon.

“No need for that,” came the man’s voice behind him. It had a delicate English lilt.

Shaw turned.

At a nearby table Jonathan Stuart Devereux lifted a glass of wine Shaw’s way. Apparently he’d been observing Shaw observe the admirable scenery — and the substantial bodyguard.

“He’s safe.” As if talking about a dog. Then: “Join me, join me.”

Shaw dropped his own menu on the table. He swiveled his chair, the metal legs gritting unpleasantly on the concrete floor. He easily lifted the heavy piece of furniture and plopped it down across from Devereux. The man was in a garish light blue suit — no stripes today — and pink shirt. The groping octopus of a handkerchief was cream-colored today. The shoes were polished to black mirrors.

“You followed me,” Shaw said. “Not easy to miss a Rolls. I wasn’t paying attention.”

Devereux looked over his guest from behind those large, rectangular TV-screen glasses. Today the frames were baby blue. “Ah, but why here, Mr. Shaw? My word.”

“The view. The beer.”

“Don’t have the soup, whatever you’re leaning toward. Fair warning. It’s watery and the onions grew from cans.”

The man looked around, his hands gesturing before him, fingers bending and straightening, palms up, palms down. The digits adjusted his busy handkerchief. Why this look? What impression was he trying to convey? The word dandy came to mind.

The melodious voice, with its suave over-the-Pond modulation, offered, “Quite the adventure you’ve had in this town, haven’t you, Shaw? You were born here.”

This was not a question.

“Technically Berkeley.”

“Cal. That’s what the University of California at Berkeley is called. Yes. Berkeley’s the town, Cal is the school. Your mother was a professor, a physician, but you were born off campus. Not at the medical center where she taught. She did quite the work as a principal investigator too, now, didn’t she?”

Again, this was certain information that Devereux had found and kept, like acorns buried by fat-cheeked squirrels in late summer. Meant of course to intimidate.

“Quite the adventure,” the man repeated, his voice now an ominous whisper.

“What can I do for you, Devereux?”

His hands became spirited once more and he muttered angrily, “I had such a fine plan. Such a pure design. We’d find the voting certificate, my companies would run for office, we’d win, of course. And then, bang.” A palm struck the tabletop and drew attention. “Onward to the new world.”

Shaw thought once more of the protests in Berkeley.

Devereux took a sip of yellow wine. “Oaky chardonnay. The sort that makes you shiver. The vintners in California need to work on that. But it’s the best they have here.”

Devereux would be a man who had to order from the right side of the menu.

“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 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 everybody 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.

“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.

He stared at the words for a moment. Then the meaning hit him. Jesus. He did as the message instructed. Shaw replied.

A moment went by. Shaw debated. He sent another.

Shaw wondered if he would get a response. Seconds later the phone vibrated again.