Джеймс Паттерсон - The 19th Christmas

And we had no proof that he was lying.

Chapter 88

Lomachenko accepted the offer of a cup of water, and Conklin and I had the same.

When the lying sack of crap was hydrated, he said, “I want to call my wife. It’s her birthday. She’s got to be worried about me.”

I said, “You can call her in a little while, Mr. Lomachenko, but we’re just getting started here.”

“Look, let me say this one more time. You’ve got me wrong. I’m just a jewelry salesman. Small potatoes. Hey, I’ve got to call my wife. That’s my one phone call, all right?”

I said, “You want to speak to Imogene?”

“How’d you know her name?”

I said, “We’re holding her, Mr. Lomachenko. In a jail cell.”

“What? No. What for? She’s a housewife. ” Finally we’d rattled him.

“And she’s also your business partner, actually, because she keeps your books. In fact, we’ve charged her as an accessory to everything you’ve done. Including the murder of Richard Russell.”

Loman blew up.

“She’s a housewife. She cooks, does laundry. I’ll sue you for harassing her. I mean it. I want to talk to her!”

“We can discuss that later,” Conklin said, “after you tell us what you’ve done with David Bavar.”

“I already told you. I don’t know him. I don’t know where he ran off to when the shit hit the fan,” said Lomachenko. “All of this is bullshit. And I’m tired of talking to you. I’m done.”

He was done, but we weren’t.

Conklin, a.k.a. Inspector Good Cop, said, “Mr. Lomachenko, we have pull with the DA. We’ve both known him for years. We might be able to help you with the shooting if you tell us where to find Mr. Bavar.”

“Fuck if I know where he is. I told you.”

We still had no clue as to Bavar’s whereabouts. His wife hadn’t heard from him, and she insisted that Bavar would call home if he could. His car was still in its private underground slot at BlackStar, but a sweep through Building 3 hadn’t turned him up. He could be dying or dead. We had to find him.

I jumped back in.

“You know your hands were tested for gunpowder at booking.”

“Yeah? No, I didn’t know.”

He still didn’t blink.

“The test was positive.”

“Bullshit.”

“You fired a gun and we have that gun,” I said. “Ballistics is working overtime. About now, they’re test-firing bullets from your gun and will compare them with the bullets the ME takes out of Mr. Russell’s body.

“Mr. Lomachenko. Your friend is on the ME’s table now. Do you want to wait for us to have conclusive proof that you shot him? We don’t mind. Because once we have you sewn up for Richard Russell’s murder, we’re done with you. No bargaining. No deals for cooperation.”

Loman stared at me for a long time and I stared back.

He blinked now.

“I shot him.”

“You shot who?”

“I shot Russell. It was self-defense. He was paranoid and going nuts. He said that I was on Bavar’s side, was waving his gun at me. Are you getting this down?”

I pointed to the camera.

“Good. Because this is the truth. He was waving the gun like this, fanning it back and forth between Bavar and me. I didn’t recognize him anymore. When he told me that he was going to kill me, I had to shoot him. Bavar opened the door and I ran inside. I wasn’t thinking about Bavar. I was thinking about hiding until the coast was clear.” He scanned our faces to see if we were buying it. “You can understand that, can’t you?” he said. “There’s a good chance I was going to come forward and tell the police, but first I had to get my head straight. I never shot a gun before. I never shot a person.”

“I hear you,” said Conklin. “A gun pointed at you is a life-changing experience. I’m sure you’re very upset. But I just want to remind you that right now you’ve got some leverage. The DA may make some allowances when he charges you for shooting Russell. You know what I mean?”

Lomachenko was silent.

Conklin said, “Tell you the truth, Mr. Lomachenko, the best thing you can do for yourself is to tell us where to find Bavar.”

Lomachenko looked my partner straight in the eye and said, “No offense, but I think the best thing I can do for myself is not say another word until I speak with my lawyer.”

Chapter 89

Our squad room was empty, and not because the guys on the night shift had stayed home with their families.

Every cop in the Hall of Justice, including the sheriff’s department and the motorcycle division, was at either SFO or BlackStar, mopping up after Loman.

I called Brady and gave him the shorthand version of our four-hour interrogation.

“He copped to shooting Russell in self-defense,” I said. I asked him again about obtaining security footage from Building 3. “Brady, the footage shot from the doorway could show us what happened to Bavar.”

“Boxer, I’m dancin’ as fast as I can. We had to locate someone who could access the system. We’ve pulled the tapes, and we’re finding people to look at them. It’s late. We’ll have pictures from the side doorway as soon as humanly possible. If the camera was running. Go home. Now. That’s an order.”

“I’m defying you,” I said. “I’m not done with Loman, not yet. I just had an idea.”

Brady told me that he was going to crash his car if he didn’t get some sleep.

I said, “Go home now. That’s an order.”

He croaked out a laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”

I texted Joe, told him I was alive but didn’t know when I would be home. I sent a long string of X s and O s, and he texted back: I’m up. And awake. Julie’s asleep. Be safe.

I went looking for Conklin. I found him in the break room.

“Wut up, Linds.”

He looked like he’d been run over by a garbage truck, and I was pretty sure he looked better than me.

I had stashed a chocolate bar in the back of the silverware drawer. I sat down, offered to share my snack with Conklin.

He said, “Thanks. But no.” I could feel it coming. In another minute he was going to tell me what time it was and put on his jacket.

I said, “Just reviewing what we know.”

He nodded.

“We saw Bavar walking with Loman and Russell before they hooked a fast left to the side door of Building Three.”

“Right,” said Richie.

“So Loman shoots Russell. Maybe Bavar takes off?”

“Possible. And as soon as he can get a phone or find a squad car in the parking lot, he tells the police.”

“Or Loman points the gun at Bavar and orders him into the building.”

“Let’s assume that,” said Conklin.

“If that’s true, dead or alive, he’s in Building Three.”

Conklin and I had gone all through that building, looking for the janitor and for Bavar. The ground floor had the reception area and a half a dozen conference rooms, all open spaces. The top three floors were filled with small offices. “Is David Bavar’s body lying behind a desk in one of the offices?” I wondered out loud.

Conklin said, “Tac teams also went through those offices.”

“Yep. But it was fast, a security sweep, looking for a shooter, a body, a person in distress. It will take days before they get maintenance and security people to take them through the building with blueprints. Dismantle it brick by brick.”

Conklin nodded his agreement.

I said, “We know one person who can tell us where to find Bavar.”

“I’ll go up to the jail and tuck Loman in,” Conklin said. I washed the chocolate bar down with coffee, went back to my desk, then called Metro Hospital and said that I was Warren Jacobi’s sister and I wanted to talk to him.