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

Lambert was laughing now, enjoying the ride and the company. He said, “I always wanted to hit the mint. Must be pallets of gold bars and vaults full of coins in there. I’m a pretty good safecracker. But wait—that isn’t the target, is it?” he asked. “I didn’t accidentally give it away?”

Russell said, “Not at all. Make sure to tell Loman all about this; he’s going to love it. He’ll be meeting us in about five minutes. He’s never late.”





CHAPTER 24





THERE WAS A lull in the conversation between Lambert and Russell as Russell negotiated the traffic in the rain, looking at his watch every few minutes. Lambert didn’t want to interrupt Russell’s thoughts, so he tuned in to his own.

He thought again about Dietz. He didn’t know much about the guy, but he’d gleaned that Dietz was a sports fisherman, owned a boat called the Mai Tai he talked about a lot, and had a seventeen-year-old daughter named Debbie. When he’d known Dietz, he hadn’t yet been diagnosed with cancer. Shit. He’d been only about forty.

Lambert tried to picture what the cops had told him about Dietz firing on armed SWAT like he wanted to die. They didn’t know that Dietz and Loman had planned this “blaze of glory” in exchange for a payout to Dietz’s daughter. Generous of Loman to spring for it. But then, Dietz had come through for Loman even in death.

Lambert appreciated Loman’s game plan, throwing down fake clues like spike strips in the path of the police, distracting them from the real plan and, at the same time, scaring the citizens with random chaotic events. It took tremendous skill and confidence to do that.

Lambert’s own strength was that he was a complete athlete, almost a player-coach. The coach had foresight; he could diagram plays and knew when to call them. The player saw the whole field, anticipated events and knew what to do in the moment. His movements were quick and instinctive. He executed.

Lambert had used these skills in football and in life, and they had never failed him.

For this job, he would work with Loman’s playbook and carefully script out his plays. He had a nose for the goal line—in this case, the money. And he’d know how to make it to the end zone.

Right now Lambert was seeing himself at a nice restaurant at a table with a view, having a three-course lunch, Loman telling him what he expected from him in the upcoming heist of the century.

Russell made a turn onto the Great Highway, followed the signs toward Lands End. There was a good restaurant out there, the Cliff House, where on a clear day you could see 180 degrees of ocean beyond the rocky bluff.

“What we’re going to do,” Russell said, “is stop at the Lands End Lookout off El Camino del Mar. Loman is going to meet us there, and you’ll go in his car with him. I’ll drive around for a little while, make sure I wasn’t followed, and then I’ll meet you at the restaurant. There’s our turnoff.”

Russell turned left and drove toward a paved parking area flanked by trees and, ahead, the USS San Francisco Memorial. On the left was a breathtaking view of the Pacific, to the right, the Golden Gate Bridge.

“I need a little help,” Russell said. He angled the car and backed it up so that the rear was against the parking barrier and the front was pointed toward the road. Lambert noticed that the weather had kept the tourists inside. The parking lot, usually busy, was empty.

“Sure, Dick. What do you need?” Lambert asked.

And now he noticed that Russell seemed edgy.

“Everything okay?” Lambert asked.

“I’ve got a ton of weapons in the trunk. They’re in duffel bags, so no worries. We’ll transfer them to Loman’s car, but let’s get them out now.”

Russell pulled up on the trunk release and got out. Lambert climbed out of the passenger seat and, walking straight into the wind, reached the back of the car before the older man. He pulled up on the latch. The trunk lid sprang up.

The cargo space was carpeted in black. Lambert saw a duffel bag, but it was flat; it didn’t seem like it held “a ton of weapons.” He leaned in and patted it.

The bag was empty. Was he missing the obvious, or had Russell exaggerated?

Lambert was straightening up to ask when he felt a jolt of fear.

It was animal instinct, a realization that he’d read this game all wrong.





CHAPTER 25





THE MAN WHO had said that his name was Dick Russell fired a round into the back of Lambert’s neck.

Lambert was dead when Russell pushed him into the open trunk. The gunman didn’t look it, but he was strong enough to easily fold Lambert’s body into the rear compartment without getting any blood on himself.

He frisked the dead man for his wallet, took it from his back pocket, closed the trunk, then went through Lambert’s backpack, still in the front seat. Finding no other ID, he left the backpack and locked up the car. By now it would have been reported stolen, but it would be days before a car left here would be called in or even noticed.

Standing at the rear of the Ford, the man in the old-geezer clothes tossed the car keys, the wallet, and the unregistered gun over the cliff, one after the other, and watched each one bounce down over the sharp rocks and land.

Then he made a call with his burner phone.

“Dick, where are you? … Good. I’m leaving the parking area now. I hope you brought my clothes. All right. See you soon.”