The 19th Christmas (Women's Murder Club #19)(26)

Loman said, “Oh, no. Let me get out my tiny violin.”

Russell laughed and Loman joined him.

Loman pulled his new burner phone out of his pocket and dialed, said into the phone, “Yeah, it’s Loman. Go ahead and drop the next bread crumb.” He listened, then said, “Right. That’s all you have to say. I’ll be in touch.”

He clicked off, smiled at Russell. He was enjoying his little shell game. “Distraction number five is in play.”

Russell smiled back and said, “We are good.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

They clinked water glasses. Lunch arrived and the two men dug into their meals.

Were they friends? Not really. But they enjoyed the benefits of good partnership based on history and results. Loman had made Russell rich. And Russell allowed him his little slaughters.

Loman stabbed a tomato wedge, thinking how in two days they would be so loaded, neither would have to work again.

Loman had designed the smoke screen of chaos and terror that would settle an old debt and allow him to pull off a job that could net him a billion dollars, easy. It would be the job of his life.





CHAPTER 34





CONKLIN AND I were still at the de Young Museum going over the blueprints and security systems with James Karp, head of security, when news alerts about a possible large-scale armed robbery hit my phone.

The press now had the story.

In minutes 911 and the tip lines would be flooded with unconfirmed reports, adding to the mass confusion surrounding the ID of Loman’s robbery target.

Jacobi found us in Karp’s office, greeted his old friend with a hug, then filled us in about his meeting with Swanson.

“I didn’t punch him,” Jacobi said. “I wanted to.”

I nodded my understanding. Jacobi went on.

“Swanson theorized that Loman’s jobs come with a high number of fatalities intentionally, because dead people don’t talk. This is why Loman is a cipher. A ghost. No record, which explains why we don’t know who the hell he is.”

As Conklin, Jacobi, and I knew, Swanson’s own six-month-long robbery spree had left eighteen dead, so his opinion actually had weight. I touched my gun belt reflexively, hoping to hell I could finish my shift without firing a shot.

Jacobi offered to stay with Karp and drill the security team that would be working in the museum overnight. Conklin and I left them to it.

On the way out to the car, I asked Rich what he thought of the museum’s security.

“Better than I expected.”

“Agreed,” I said. “If a gang of robbers come to the door with cop badges and duct tape, they won’t get in. But …”

“But what if Loman has a bigger idea?”

“Explosives,” I said. “There’s so much glass.”

“Helicopter,” Conklin said. He was exploring that idea out loud, how explosives could be dropped, men coming down ropes, when my phone buzzed.

Brady said, “Boxer, two things. A wallet with Julian Lambert’s ID was found on China Beach near the Golden Gate.”

“What? Just his wallet? No body?”

“No body. Just the wallet with his driver license, some receipts, and a few business cards. Your card was in there. That’s how this piece of news got to us.”

I thought about the lightweight thief in the red puffy coat who had led us on a chase that ended with the firefight at the Anthony Hotel.

“Are people searching the area?”

“He could have lost the wallet, Boxer, or it could have been stolen or thrown there to make us think that Lambert was dead.”

“Or he was murdered and his body is out there somewhere.”

“I sent out a notification request,” Brady said. “If a body shows up that matches his photo, we’ll hear about it. We don’t have anyone to go on a body search right now.”

“What’s thing two?” I asked.

“An anonymous tip came in that a gallery in Nob Hill is the target,” the good lieutenant told me. He gave me the name and address.

It was almost six. I wanted to go home. Into the yawning silence of my hesitation, Brady said, “I’d go, but I’m with the mayor. He wants personal protection. There’s no one else I can send.”

“No problem,” I said. “We’ll check it out.”

I clicked off and said to Conklin, “A wallet with Lambert’s ID was found on China Beach. No body.”

Conklin said, “Lambert throwing down a fake clue?”

“Could be,” I said. “I can think of a few other possibilities.”

It isn’t scientific, but detectives solve cases with hunches. My hunch was that Lambert was dead.





CHAPTER 35





THE BANNER IN the long plate-glass window of the Soigne Gallery announced a special Christmas exhibition and sale of an anonymous collector’s rare musical instruments.

I didn’t get it.

Armored trucks, casinos, banks, and even museums made sense, but if this tip was for real, how would Loman turn musical instruments into big piles of cash?

Conklin and I entered the gallery through the main door and walked into an event in progress. Servers with trays of champagne and canapés skirted around the displays and drifted between the well-dressed prospective customers. The air was perfumed, and the honeyed sounds of a string quartet playing classic carols came from the mezzanine, setting a soothing and spendy mood.