Джеймс Паттерсон - Killer Instinct

“Don’t start without me,” she said. “I’ll be right there.”

She went back to the kitchen and turned off the oven. Brownies could wait.

Cindy Thomas and her fiancé, Rich Conklin, stood in the tree-lined path that divided Civic Center Plaza.

Up ahead, centered on the path, City Hall was alight in wide, horizontal red and green bands, the brilliant Christmas tree in front of the impressive old granite building pointing up to the magnificent dome.

Rich squeezed Cindy’s hand, and she looked up at his dear face.

She said, “Are you going to forgive me?”

“For us not going out to see my family?”

“I wish I could, Richie. Your pops always makes me feel like a movie star. But I’ve got that interview tomorrow.”

“And a deadline,” he said. “You think I don’t know the drill by now?”

“You. Are. The best.”

“Don’t I know it,” he said. He grinned at her and she stood up on her toes to kiss him. He pulled her in and made a corny thing of it, dipping her for effect, making her laugh between the dramatic rows of trees. People cut around them, taking pictures of the view.

Cindy said, “Hang on.”

She ran up ahead to the couple who had just taken a picture of City Hall.

“Sorry,” she said to the surprised couple. “I wonder if you might have caught me and my fiancé in your pictures?”

The woman said, “Let’s see.” She flicked through the photos on her phone and squealed, “Hey. Lookee here.”

She showed the phone to Cindy, who beamed and said, “Can you send it to me, please?”

“My pleasure,” the woman said. She took Cindy’s email address and said, “There you go. Merry Christmas.”

Impulsively, Cindy threw her arms around the stranger, who hugged her back.

“Merry Christmas to you, too. Both of you,” Cindy said, and she ran back to her sweetheart.

“Rich, look.” She showed him the photo on her phone.

“Instant Christmas card. Beautiful. I’ll send it to my family. And now let’s go home, Cindy. Home.”

Claire Washburn had slung her carry-on bag over one shoulder and her computer case over the other and was forging ahead toward the gate. She turned to look for her husband and saw him far behind.

She called to him, “Edmund, give me one of those bags.”

“I’ve got them, Claire. Just slow down a little so I can keep up.”

“Sorry,” she said, walking back to him. “Why is it you can never find a luggage trolley when you want one?”

He made a face. “You want me to state the obvious?”

They were at SFO, always a busy airport, and busier today with mobs of people flying out to spend the holidays with far-flung relatives.

It was a working holiday for Claire. As San Francisco’s chief medical examiner, she had been asked by National University in San Diego to give an extra-credit course for students in the master’s program in forensic medicine.

She was glad to do it.

The quick course would be held during Christmas break and was the perfect amount of time for a case study of a crime Claire had worked years ago, when the body of a young girl had been discovered in a ditch miles from home. Claire’s work on that case had helped the police solve the crime, from postmortem to conviction of the child’s killer.

Along with giving her a nice paycheck, the city of San Diego was putting Claire and Edmund up at Fairmont Grand Del Mar, a resort-style hotel with a gym and a gorgeous pool. It promised to be a great reprieve from the somewhat harsher NoCal winter.

Edmund had resisted going with Claire on this trip. He had made plans with friends to lay down a track for a CD they were working on together. But Claire knew the real reason, that Edmund was becoming more introverted by the year. He just wanted to stay home.

Claire had told him, “Edmund, it’s a chance for us to be together with a heated pool and room service. Your mom is dying to babysit her youngest grandchild over Christmas, and Rosie wants to be babied. Tell me I’m wrong.”

He couldn’t honestly do that.

Edmund knew how much Claire loved talking to students, encouraging them and sharing her experience on the Linda Caine case. And if Claire wanted his company, he just couldn’t say no.

Edmund saw a lone luggage trolley by the newsstand and he grabbed it.

He called to Claire, “I got wheels. We are definitely not going to miss our flight.”

JULIAN LAMBERT was an ex-con in his midthirties, sweet faced, with thinning, light-colored hair, wearing a red down jacket.

As he sat on a bench in Union Square waiting for his phone call, he took in the view of the Christmas tree at the center of the square. The tree was really something: an eighty-three-foot-tall cone of green lights with a star on top, ringed by pots of pointy red flowers, surrounded by a red-painted picket fence.

That tree was secure. It wasn’t going anywhere.

It was lunchtime, and all around him consumers hurried out of stores weighed down with shopping bags, evidence of money pissed away in an orgy of spending. Julian wondered idly how these dummies were going to pay for their commercially fabricated gifting spree. Almost catching him by surprise, Julian’s phone vibrated.

He fished it out of his pocket, connected, and said his name, and Mr. Loman, the boss, said, “Hello.”

Julian knew that he was meant only to listen, and that was fine with him. He felt both excited and soothed as Loman explained just enough of the plan to allow Julian to salivate at the possibilities.

A heist.

A huge one.

The plan had many moving parts, Loman said, but if it went off as designed, by this time next year Julian would be living in the Caribbean, or Medellín, or Saint-Tropez. He was picturing a life of blue skies and sunshine, with a side of leggy young things in string bikinis, when Loman asked if he had any questions.

“I’m good to go, boss.”

“Then get moving. No slipups.”

“You can bank on me,” said Julian, glad that Loman barked back, “Twenty-two fake dive, slot right long, on one.”

Julian cracked up. He had played ball in college, a very long time ago, but he still had moves. He clicked off the call, sized up the vehicular and foot traffic, and chose his route.

It was go time.

JULIAN SAW his run as a punt return.

He charged into an elderly man in a shearling coat, sending the man sprawling. He snatched up the old guy’s shopping bag, saying, “Thanks very much, knucklehead.”

What counted was that he had the ball.

With the bag tucked under his arm, Julian ran across Geary, dodging and weaving through the crowd, heading toward the intersection at Stockton. He waited for a break in traffic at the red light, and when it came, he sprinted across the street and charged along the broad, windowed side of Neiman Marcus. Revolving glass doors split a crowd of shoppers into long lines of colorful dots filing out onto the sidewalk, accompanied by Christmas music: “I played my drum for him, pa-rum-pum-pum-pum.” It was all so crazy.

Julian was still running.

He yelled, “Coming through! No brakes!” He wove around the merry shoppers, sideswiped the UPS man loading his truck, and, with knees and elbows pumping, bag secured under his arm, dashed up the Geary Street straightaway and veered left to cross again.

Another crowd of shoppers spilled out of Valentino, and Julian shot out his left hand to stiff-arm a young dude, who fell against a woman in a fur coat. Bags and packages clattered to the sidewalk. Julian high-stepped around and over the obstacles, then broke back again into a sprint, turning left on Grant Avenue.

He chortled as oncoming pedestrians scattered. Giving the finger to someone who yelled at him, knocking slowpokes out of his way, Julian shouted, “Merry fucking Christmas, everybody!”