The 19th Christmas (Women's Murder Club #19)(16)

Ike Wroble was captain of the Homeland Security Unit, now reporting to Brady in his role as temporary police chief.

Brady sat down, drummed his fingers on the legal pad.

“About a robbery at the de Young,” said Brady. “It’s a rich target. If Lambert, your shopping-bag thief, is right that there’s going to be a heist, that sounds more like the way to go than taking out the mayor. There’s a fortune in artwork at the de Young.

“Either way, we’ve got three days to get ahead of this. I don’t have to tell you, we have limited resources and not one goddamn reliable fact.”

We kicked it around for ten more precious minutes. Conklin argued that we should lean on Dancy. “She says Dietz confided in her. She’s skittish, but motivated by cash.”

“Okay,” said Brady. “Grab up a partner from the bullpen or get a couple of unis and pick her up. If she’s uncooperative, hold her as a material witness. And, Conklin, you interview her alone. Do your magic. Boxer, we’ve still got Lambert upstairs?”

“Yes, his arraignment is tomorrow.”

“Good. You and Jacobi squeeze him hard. What else does he know about Dietz, about Loman, and does he know anything about any possible hits on, say, local politicians? And get ahold of security at the de Young. Tell them what we’ve got.”

Brady’s phone lines were blinking like a flock of rabid bats, and Brenda was at his door.

Conklin and I got out of his way and went to work.





CHAPTER 21





CONKLIN FOUND A pickup partner in Robbery, and they left the Hall to bring Ms. Dancy in.

Jacobi swooped in, took Conklin’s vacant chair, and plugged in his laptop.

I said, “Must suck to get dragged back into this mess.”

“Not at all, Boxer. It’s retirement that sucks.”

Job one for us was the de Young Museum in Golden Gate Park. We were both familiar with the spacious modern showplace that held a permanent collection of great American art as well as priceless jewelry and special exhibits. With the opening of the annual holiday artisan fair and special viewing hours, foot traffic would be up.

“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.”