Джеймс Паттерсон - The 19th Christmas

“You call museum security,” I said.

“And you hit the keys.”

I grinned at him. It felt great to be partnered again with my old pal. We had always been able to read each other’s minds and finish each other’s sentences. We hadn’t lost the knack.

I booted up my computer. If the de Young was the target, I could envision gunfire spraying throughout the galleries. I could imagine a bloodbath.

Jacobi said, “Guy named James Karp was head of security last I checked. I used to know him.”

As Jacobi dialed out, I hit the keys, asking our software for museum robberies. Pages of them unfurled on my screen.

I clicked on the first link and read about an audacious museum heist in Boston. In this case, a couple of armed cops arrived after the museum had closed for the day and told a security guard that they’d received a call reporting a disturbance. Breaking the rules, the guard let the supposed cops in, and they promptly handcuffed him, threatened another guard, and made off with thirteen high-value paintings worth five hundred million dollars. There’d been no shooting. No mayhem. Just a well-planned and -executed robbery.

The return on investment was, frankly, unbelievable. The fake cops were never ID’d or caught, and the property was never recovered.

A similar job had taken place in a Swiss museum. Two bad guys in ski masks had forced their way in, bound the security guards with duct tape, and gone out the back with four paintings by the all-star masters’ club: Cézanne, Degas, Monet, and van Gogh.

As with the Boston heist, there’d been good planning, a huge haul disproportionate to the number of men in the crew, and, surprisingly, no bloodshed.

Jacobi sighed loudly and said into the phone, “Yes, I can continue to hold.”

I saw the beauty of these robberies that required very few people and had such enormous payouts. I went on to read about more sophisticated, over-the-top B-movie-type heists involving explosives and tunnels that had taken years to dig. A robbery of a Swedish museum had one team to lift the masterworks while another detonated cars in other parts of the city, closing off roadways so that police couldn’t fully respond.

I thought about that. Code 3, adrenalized cops swarming in from all points with lights, sirens, the works, and slamming into gridlock—everywhere. Damn. Frustrating wasn’t a strong enough word for that.

Jacobi had the receiver to his ear and was twisting the cord around his fingers, but he was still on hold, so I gave him the highlights of my research.

I said, “From what I can tell, you don’t have to come through the skylight on a rope with suction cups and a glass cutter or crawl under laser beams. You want to rob a museum, go at night. No civilians, small security detail. Threaten and terrify the guards, bind them with duct tape, get the keys and codes, lift the loot that is hanging in plain sight, and get the hell out.

“I wonder if that’s Loman’s plan. Do the hit not on Christmas Day, as we’ve been led to believe, but after museum hours on Christmas Eve. Not many security guards working then.”

Jacobi said, “I like your thinking,” and turned his attention back to the phone. “James Karp? It’s Warren Jacobi. Yeah, I know, long time. Listen, Karp, I’m helping out at Southern Station on a tip we got that the de Young is going to be burglarized.”

“Put him on speaker,” I said.

Jacobi hit the button and introduced the security head, adding, “Boxer, Karp and I were patrolling a beat when you were in high school.”

I laughed politely and said, “That can’t be right.” I cut to the chase, telling Karp about our unconfirmed lead pointing to a possible well-armed hit on the museum on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day.

Our call was interrupted when Officer Bubbleen Waters texted me from the seventh-floor jail. Sgt. I got your prisoner in a box. Lambert, Julian.

Jacobi told Karp he’d call him back and signed off.

We went upstairs to the jail. I was ready and eager to talk to Julian Lambert. I had news for him about his friend Dietz.

And we weren’t leaving Lambert until he had actionable news for us.

Chapter 22

Julian Lambert wore a day-old beard and the same odd expression I’d noticed when Conklin and I arrested him yesterday. He took a chair at the table in the jail’s small meeting room, seeming wan and pale, as if lockup was having a bad effect on his morale.

“Sergeant Boxer, right?”

“How’re you doing, Julian?”

I saw that I was going to be the good cop; Jacobi’s age and interrogation style made him a natural heavy. I introduced him as Chief Jacobi, and we all sat at the table, which was twice the size of a luncheon tray.

Would Lambert talk? Our deal with him was paying out tomorrow. He’d given us Dietz, and in exchange, when he went to arraignment court, the ADA bringing the assault and theft charges would drop them and he would be released.

Julian had made good on his side of the deal. We had no leverage.

I said, “We found Chris Dietz at the Anthony.”

“Like I said. I hope you didn’t mention my name.”

“We found him, Julian, but we didn’t talk to him. He pulled his weapon and fired on us. He was killed in the return fire.”

“Oh, no. You killed him?” The jolly expression was gone.

Jacobi jumped in, all business.

“Mr. Lambert, we need some help. We’re getting miscellaneous tips about what Loman’s crew is up to.”

Lambert said, “I can’t believe you killed Dietz. This is my fault. He’s dead because of me —because of what I told you. ”

I took temporary leave of my good-cop role. “He’s dead because he fired on police. He knew he was going to die.”

Jacobi refused to be sidetracked. He said to Lambert, “The calls we’re getting say Loman’s going to hit a bank, a museum, or some other high-value target—”

“Wow. Well, I’m not surprised. Loman has a rep for thinking big.”

Jacobi said, “I’ve got some questions for you, Lambert, and here’s your incentive. Tell us what we want to know, or we’re going to hold you as a material witness until you give us what we need to close this deal down.”

“No. Wait. I’m supposed to be released tomorrow.”

Jacobi said, “How do we find Loman?”

“I have no idea. He could live in outer space for all I know.”

“I know this,” said Jacobi. “You’re keeping back information.”

“Jezusss. I told the sergeant. I heard that Chris had a job working for Loman. I didn’t speak with Loman or with Chris. I guess it’s too late now.”

Lambert seemed genuinely broken up. Jacobi didn’t care.

I gave Jacobi a look and he pushed his chair back from the table. I said, “Julian, listen to me. More people could die. You want that on you?”

Lambert said, “I’ve told you everything I know. Supposed to be a big heist on Christmas. Loman is the boss. I’ve never met him, thank God. Who do you think I am, CIA?”

“Who’s your informant? Who told you that Dietz had a job with Loman and that there was going to be a heist?” I asked. “Give me a name, Julian.”

“I can’t say. I can’t say. It wouldn’t do you any good if I did. I got it from a nobody who happened to overhear a phone call.”

“Your story is changing, Julian. You overheard it? Or someone else overheard it? What’s the truth?”

“It’s getting to where your guess is as good as mine. I’m not sleeping. I’m not eating. I can’t even think anymore.”

Either Lambert was digging in or he really was empty.

I stood up from the table, walked to the door, hit it with the flat of my hand, and called, “Guard.”