The 19th Christmas (Women's Murder Club #19)(23)

“I don’t know. The whole night was like a bad dream. I was very afraid of the cops. I see too many people deported. That’s all I can think. They will drop me off in the desert.”

Varela put his head down on the table and started to cry.

Guards came into the room.

Zac said, “I need another minute.”

One of the guards, a young woman, said, “One minute.”

Zac said, “Eduardo. Who is your lawyer?”

Eduardo stopped crying. “Peter Bard. He took my money. He didn’t get me bail. He didn’t say he quit, so I wait to hear from him. I need a public defender maybe, but they haven’t said anything about that.”

“Okay. Okay,” Zac said. “If you want, I’ll be your lawyer. No charge.”

Eduardo started crying again. Zac patted his hands and gave him his business card.

Yuki said, “I’ll call Maria for you, Eduardo. I’ll tell her you have a lawyer now. A good one.”





CHAPTER 30





’TWAS THE DAY before Christmas Eve, and I was not in my house.

At the desk across from mine, Conklin muttered to himself as our internet connection winked off-on-off and then went down completely. Curses flew up from surrounding desks. A wastebasket was kicked. Brady came out of his office, looked around, headed for the elevator.

“Why now?” Conklin said.

I didn’t have to answer because it was obvious. The Hall was old. Our signal was weak. The building was “seismically unstable.” The next earthquake could break it up into chunky granite rubble.

That pretty much summed up my mood.

Richie found Michaels, our most tech-savvy colleague. While they talked about the Wi-Fi, I watched the second hand on the wall clock sweep around the dial, propelling the minutes and hours forward.

At 10:00 a.m. we were no closer to learning the identity of the mysterious Loman or pinpointing his target than we had been when Julian Lambert coughed up the news that a big heist was going down.

I was starting to think that Lambert had made it up.

This morning had begun with another anxious full-house meeting of all available investigators from Robbery, Narcotics, Homicide, and Vice. The law enforcement pros were frustrated, clueless, and resentful that they were working on rumors instead of sitting at home eating sugar cookies and watching a ball game with their families.

I had to admit, I felt that way, too. I had a child and a husband, and the Loman heist was a potential robbery. If Lambert was to be believed, he had gotten this breaking news from a street person named Marcus who had overheard a phone call. This tip had resulted in a dead FBI agent and a dead shooter named Dietz who before dying had circled the de Young Museum on a map. For all we knew, the de Young was on the shooter’s bucket list of sights to see.

In sum, we were working a crime that hadn’t happened. A possible crime, potentially. Maybe. And right now, while I tried to solve a puzzle of random pieces, Mrs. Gloria Rose, our nanny in chief, was standing in for me at home.

I adored Mrs. Rose. Imagine the most loving granny ever living in an apartment across the hall from you. A woman who can cook, who loves dogs and babies, and who is available almost on call. She even had a little OCD, which meant the apartment was tidy when I got home and locked my weapon in the antique gun safe.

I was damned grateful to Mrs. Rose. But right that minute I would have loved to trade places with her, be the one playing reindeer games with Julie. Instead I was at work, as was Joe, and I didn’t know when I would be home.

From the cheers around me I gathered that the Wi-Fi had returned. And in the next second Brady’s voice startled me.

He said, “Conklin, you get anything on Dietz from the prostitute?”

“TMI,” said my partner. “Dietz was twisted, but all he told her about Loman was that he’d hired him to do a job on Christmas.”

“Fantastic,” Brady said glumly. “Another lucky day. I guess I’ll go out and get a lottery ticket. Buncha them.”

I said, “Conklin and I are going out to the museum to go over procedures with the head of security. Jacobi is on his way to San Quentin.”

“Because?” Brady asked.

“He wants to talk to Ted Swanson.”

“Okay. That’s smart.”

He told me to keep him posted.

I smiled at him and said, “Yes, boss.”

He went back into his office.

Conklin and I suited up and headed out to Golden Gate Park. My mood had shifted again. I was getting a paycheck. I was on the Job.

If possible, Conklin and I were going to make sure that that stunning, treasure-filled museum was bulletproof.





CHAPTER 31





FORMER CHIEF WARREN Jacobi drove the twelve miles north from the Golden Gate to San Quentin, the oldest prison in California. Beautifully situated on 432 acres on San Francisco Bay, it was home to a rotating roster of over thirty-five hundred prisoners.

The Q was also the only men’s prison in California with a death row. But Ted Swanson had lucked out—the governor had imposed a moratorium on the death penalty. If he hadn’t, Swanson would certainly have been executed by now.

It was a perfect day, but Jacobi hardly noticed. He was inside his head, thinking about Swanson, the dirtiest of dirty cops. He owned that title. Who in the future could match him?