Джеймс Паттерсон - The 19th Christmas

“Because?” Brady asked.

“He wants to talk to Ted Swanson.”

“Okay. That’s smart.”

He told me to keep him posted.

I smiled at him and said, “Yes, boss.”

He went back into his office.

Conklin and I suited up and headed out to Golden Gate Park. My mood had shifted again. I was getting a paycheck. I was on the Job.

If possible, Conklin and I were going to make sure that that stunning, treasure-filled museum was bulletproof.

Chapter 31

Former chief Warren Jacobi drove the twelve miles north from the Golden Gate to San Quentin, the oldest prison in California. Beautifully situated on 432 acres on San Francisco Bay, it was home to a rotating roster of over thirty-five hundred prisoners.

The Q was also the only men’s prison in California with a death row. But Ted Swanson had lucked out—the governor had imposed a moratorium on the death penalty. If he hadn’t, Swanson would certainly have been executed by now.

It was a perfect day, but Jacobi hardly noticed. He was inside his head, thinking about Swanson, the dirtiest of dirty cops. He owned that title. Who in the future could match him?

Swanson had done something Jacobi had never seen or heard of before. He had recruited two crews from the Robbery Division he commanded at the SFPD’s Southern Station; one of these crews, wearing SFPD Windbreakers and pig masks, had hit Western Union outlets and payday-loan stores, gunning down moms, pops, and whoever else stood between them and the money, and the second crew had executed the more sophisticated and more dangerous robberies, taking down the distribution point of a drug lord known as Kingfisher. Swanson’s cops–turned–armed robbers had stolen millions of dollars in cash and a huge amount of drugs during the fifteen-minute heist, killing four people in the process.

There had been payback for that. Kingfisher had obliterated all of Swanson’s forces, although not Swanson himself.

If Ted Swanson’s gang hadn’t been killed, they might still be robbing drug dealers and check-cashing joints, leaving dead bodies behind and enriching their corrupt and dirty selves to the tune of millions of dollars that they’d tuck away in their fat retirement accounts.

Until the massacre, nobody had guessed that Swanson was behind the robberies. There had been no leaks, no one stepping forward from the ranks. But as chief of police, Jacobi couldn’t duck the responsibility and hadn’t tried. It had happened on his watch. But while he’d refused to let Swanson’s corruption dishonor him, it had tarnished his career.

He couldn’t change that. But maybe he could stop what was coming.

In Jacobi’s mind, there was one worthwhile thing that had come from the Swanson catastrophe. Swanson knew robbery from both sides. He might have usable information. And if he did, Jacobi might be able to extract it. But that would depend on who Swanson was now. Would he be cooperative? Unrepentant? Brain-damaged?

Soon Jacobi would know. He parked in the official lot, entered the main building, and walked into the reception area, which was packed with families, young children, and babies. Families making Christmas visits to inmates.

He waited in line, then spoke to one of the guards at the desk. He told her his name and affiliation, why he was there, and whom he was visiting, and he cited prior approval from Warden Jason Blau.

As directed, SFPD’s former chief of police emptied his pockets, deposited his wallet, badge, gun, phone, and pen in a tray, and raised his arms for the electronic security pat-down. A guard scribbled a receipt and handed it to Jacobi, saying that he could collect his belongings when he left the prison.

Jacobi was escorted through electronically operated doorways, down corridors loud with shouting of prisoners and clanking of metal gates, and into a cage of an interview room.

The gate closed behind him.

Jacobi pulled out one of two facing chairs and sat down heavily. He hadn’t seen Ted Swanson since his conviction a year ago. Now he needed him to open the vault inside his head and give him something on Loman.

He figured Swanson more than owed him.

Chapter 32

Ted Swanson shuffled into the interview room, his leg chains rattling and scraping against the floor.

Jacobi hardly recognized him.

Before the massacre, Swanson had looked like a typical guy next door: sandy hair, average build, blue-gray eyes; a very convincing career cop with a future. Then he misjudged a drug lord, was ambushed in a firefight, underwent innumerable surgeries, endured six months of rehab, and suffered through a scorching murder trial. Last time Jacobi saw Swanson, he was being helped into a prison van, looking scrawny, beaten up and beaten down.

But a year at San Quentin in the seclusion of administrative segregation with few visitors, fewer privileges, and no hope of freedom had apparently been good for him. Swanson had bulked up and his face looked sculpted. He appeared fit, healthy, even respectable, for whatever that was worth.

Swanson grinned broadly and said, “My God, Chief Jacobi. So glad to see you, man.”

He held out his cuffed wrists so a guard could chain them to a hook in the table.

Jacobi said, “How you doing, Swanson? Accommodations agree with you?”

“Not bad, not bad. First time in my life I’ve had time to think. Of course, I don’t get a lot of visitors, so this meet with you makes my month. What brings you here, Chief?”

“I’m officially retired. Brady hired me to help with a case.”

“You’re retired? How’s that going?”

“As you said—first time in my life I have time to think.”

Swanson nodded appreciatively while Jacobi fought back the urge to punch him in the face. Again. And again. And again.

“So how can I help?” Swanson asked.

“It’s like this, Swanson. We’ve got some information about a job going down, but our informant had limited info and our next-best lead is dead.”

“You want me to help you?”

Jacobi nodded. “If you’re still connected.”

“And what do I get in return?” Swanson asked.

The bastard wanted a deal.

“How’d you like a conjugal visit?”

“Ha. Love it,” said Swanson. “But you’re gonna have to do a little more than twist my ex-wife’s arm. Oh, I see. You didn’t know Nancy divorced me.”

“So what do you want?” Jacobi asked. “A hooker? A generous deposit to your commissary account?”

“Here’s what. A ‘conjugal visit’ with a pen-pal girlfriend of mine. And I’ll take that deposit to the commissary. A hundred a month for a year sound okay?”

Jacobi nodded slowly, said, “I can do that.”

Swanson reached his hands out the length of his chain as if to shake on it.

Jacobi didn’t go for it. “Let’s see if you still have your chops. Ever heard of a guy named Loman?”

“He’s the one who’s doing this?”

“His name came up in the investigation,” said Jacobi.

“Look, I don’t know him, but I know a little about him. He supposedly knocked off an armored car and a bank, two-for-one heist in LA about five years ago.

“There were about five or six fatalities, if I remember correctly. LAPD got his name from one of his crew who was breathing his last. Then there was a casino job in Vegas a couple of years later that looked like Loman. Close to a nine-million-dollar haul.”

Jacobi said, “Black Diamond Casino, right?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” said Swanson. “Bodies were littering the pit. The robbery crew got out with their mega-score but then fate intervened. They were incinerated in a collision with a gas truck.”

Jacobi said, “What about Loman himself? Is that his name or an alias? Where does he live? Known associates?”