Джеймс Паттерсон - The 19th Christmas

Willy took their wedding picture off the wall and opened the safe.

He removed a short tube of ten Krugerrands and the packet of forged documents they’d need at the airport. He put the papers and the coins inside his bag next to the cash from Sloane’s safe. He added a rolled-up pair of trousers and a long-sleeved shirt, some underwear, and his toiletry kit, then zipped up the bag.

He went back to his father’s desk and ran his fingers across the top of it, tracing where he’d carved his initials, for which he’d gotten a pretty good beating. The right-hand file drawer held a box of notes and cards and memorabilia. He flipped through it, memorizing the contents, then took out a spare pair of eyeglasses and closed the drawer.

He’d mailed the thumb drive of family photos and passwords to his banker in Zurich. His attorney had his will and Imogene’s, dated two years ago, leaving everything to her brother and his family. He’d told his attorney that in some underground circles, he was a wanted man.

That he could be made to disappear without a trace.

You know what I mean, Phil? Take care of my family.

Having buttoned up the past, Willy turned his mind to the next twenty-four hours.

He and Dick had been planning the upcoming job for months. Over the past week they’d flooded the tip lines with a shit-storm of fake clues, exhausted the police department with isolated violent events and rumors of worse to come. They had drilled down on the knowns and unknowns. They had baked flexibility into their calculated terror attack so that they could manage mavericks, the unexpected accidents and incidents, and score as big as their dreams.

Today was their day.

Loman was checking the scoreboard at the start of the third quarter when the program was interrupted by local news. A cop was telling the windblown woman with the microphone that a body had been discovered in a car parked near the bay off Fort Point.

The cop said, “He’s a white male in his forties, medium weight and height, medium-length dark-blond hair. This man has been dead for three or four days, approximately. There was no ID on him. He was wearing jeans, a blue plaid shirt, and a red down jacket.

“If any of your viewers have knowledge of a missing person fitting this description, please call our tip line. That’s all I can say at this point.”

Loman clicked off the TV. It was about time the dead man made his curtain call. Not a problem. Julian had completed his mission. Loman took another look at the drone airfield in the patch of yard below, watched Dick teaching the kids about the electronic controls and aerodynamics.

Then he went downstairs to help the women and carve the bird.

Chapter 66

Brady sat inside the surveillance van parked on the verge of JFK Drive northeast of the de Young Museum.

The interior of his command post was lined with video screens, and he had three computer specialists with him monitoring live feeds from dash-cams in patrol cars in and around the target.

While Brady watched over the de Young operation, he was in contact with five other commanders who, like him, had eyes on possible heist targets. SFPD tactical teams and dozens of security companies stood by, braced for a Loman attack, whatever the hell that would look like.

Brady couldn’t imagine Loman and his crew getting away with an armed robbery in daylight under the watch of so many cops. Just couldn’t happen.

Calls came in from all points, and Brady took them, noting the reports of nothing stirring, not even a mouse. And then a face appeared on-screen. It was Lindsay Boxer, holding her badge up to the camera, Rich Conklin standing behind her inside the surveillance van on Geary at Stockton.

“Boxer. What’s up?” Brady said into the webcam.

“Do you know about the body just pulled out of a car trunk?”

“No, I don’t. What’s this about?”

She held up a morgue photo on her phone. He recognized Julian Lambert.

“Lambert, huh? What does the ME say?”

“Homicide. Cause of death was two rounds, one to the back of the neck, one to a vertebra. The bullets are the same caliber as the ones taken from Sloane’s body.”

“Please tell me that the gun is in the system.”

“Sorry. No.”

“And the car?”

“VIN was traced to a junkyard in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, in ’05. That’s all I’ve got, Lieu.”

Brady told Boxer he’d call forensics in a little bit, then said grimly, “I’m not surprised that guy turned up dead. While we’re chasing our tails, Loman has a game plan. I think he just rubbed out the only known witness against him.”

Chapter 67

Conklin and I stared out the windshield of our unmarked car, parked near the spot where Julian Lambert had bowled over an old gent holding a bag of belts and ties.

That was the beginning of the Loman affair as we knew it.

Lambert had told us he had overheard a street person named Marcus saying that a guy named Loman—first name, last name, fake name, he didn’t know—was planning a big heist on Christmas.

His unconfirmed tip had led us to Dietz, and after two nights in holding, Lambert had been released and then, shortly thereafter, professionally executed.

The morgue photos of Lambert’s body showed lividity from lying in a fetal position in the trunk of a car. The shot to the back of his neck, fired at close range, suggested that he’d trusted his killer enough to turn his back to him.

I remembered everything about Julian Lambert, the way he’d spoken, what he had said, what he’d looked like—vibrantly alive.

Conklin noticed that I’d gone quiet.

“You okay, Linds?”

I shook my head, trying to understand my own mood. I said, “It’s weird, but I felt like I knew him. I mean, he was a small-time thief. He was something of a charmer. The lead he gave us to Chris Dietz was the only real lead we’ve had. Did talking to us put Lambert on Loman’s hit list? Is he dead because he talked to us? I think so.”

“Lindsay, we didn’t kill the guy. Please. Don’t torture yourself.”

I needed to talk. We kept our eyes on the street, the thickening traffic, the pedestrians with coats and hats going in and out of hotels, going to and from the skating rink in Union Square, near the soaring artificial tree.

I said, “Rich, what are we looking for? We have a bunch of pieces and parts that add up to a big fat pile of nothing.”

He agreed, and while watching the scenery, we tried to connect the dots yet again, going from Lambert to Dietz with the circled map to the de Young Museum and Dietz’s girlfriend, Dancy, who’d confirmed the name Loman.

Then the mayor was threatened, and informants all over the city gave tips to cops they knew. This bank, that art gallery, the San Francisco Mint—all were named as possible targets.

We took down two nickel-bag drug dealers, dupes or extras who didn’t actually know anything about Loman or the job. And then, of course, there was the savage murder of a jewelry-store manager and a reported anonymous tip that Loman had been seen leaving the premises.

That brought us to last night, when a cop’s son who had picked up some chat-room braggadocio told Jacobi about a possible plan to hit a big computer company. Rich and I sat in the car overlooking Union Square and chewed on that bit of chatter. We concluded that unless Loman had an army and air cover, hitting BlackStar VR made no sense.

It was Christmas Day. Like almost all businesses, the offices would be closed.

Was the crime teed up and ready to go? Had it already been committed?

Apparently, our mayor didn’t think so, and he wasn’t going to call off his bodyguards or the SFPD until Loman was in jail.

At the same time, while every cop in the city was chasing the phantom Loman, there’d been a fatal stabbing in the Tenderloin, a shooting at a cash machine in the Marina, a vehicular manslaughter or outright homicide on Jackson, and a domestic dispute in Bayview that had ended with a child dead and a wife in a coma.