The 19th Christmas (Women's Murder Club #19)(28)

I wanted to get up, muss his hair, flip his tie, and tell him, What if someone brings in a smoke bomb? And automatic weapons? What if that person opens the back door for the rest of the crew?

But I didn’t do that.

I said, “Please pass our recommendations on to Ms. Fabiano. I’m putting them in my report.”

I got up from my seat feeling almost as tired as I had some months ago. Right before I was given doctor’s orders to take time off to rest. I needed to go home.

I returned to the main gallery just as Conklin came back in from the street. He signaled to me.

I said, “Whatcha got?”

He showed me his phone.

“I’ll take this,” I said.

I walked over to Ms. Fabiano, who was talking to another pair of 1 percenters, all three of them admiring a rare violin. I apologized for interrupting and said, “I need a moment.”

Again she looked at me like I’d crawled out of a storm drain, and I gave her a similar look—the homicide-inspector version.

“Are you still in touch with your ex-husband?” I asked.

“Royce? Occasionally. Why?”

“Did you know that three years ago he was arrested for robbing a jewelry store? He flipped on his partner and after six months was released on probation. He lives in San Francisco. Works at the Ritz-Carlton.”

I was thinking Renata Fabiano’s ex was just the type of bit player Loman considered disposable. If Mr. Fabiano knew the gallery’s vulnerabilities, he could be setting it up for Loman’s big score.

“Not Royce. I don’t believe it. That’s a mistake.”

But the look in her eyes told me that she was reviewing what she knew about her husband. And I had another thought: Possibly Renata Fabiano was collaborating in the hit. I’d heard weirder things.

I gave her my card and then Conklin and I split. I called Brady from the car.

“Soigne could be the target,” I said.

I told him about Mr. Royce Fabiano, about his record, and that he could be a Loman tool. I suggested that cars be stationed in front of the gallery and out by the loading dock.

“Even cruising by could be a deterrent.”

Brady said, “I’ll do what I can.”

“Okay. I’m signing off. Merry Christmas, Brady.”

I said it emphatically. I wanted him to hear that I was going home, and no one had better try to stop me.





CHAPTER 37





CONKLIN AND I had parked our cars on Harriet Street, convenient to the Hall’s rear entrance, a half block off Bryant. It was sevenish when I said good night to Richie under the overpass. We hugged, patted each other’s backs, and got into our respective cars.

In twenty minutes, tops, I’d be home. Home. A beautiful word, calling up clean clothes, hugs and kisses, shared news of the day over dinner, and then blessed sleep.

As Richie drove off, I realized I hadn’t asked what he’d gotten Cindy for Christmas. Our shopping trip to Union Square had careened off the rails when Julian Lambert ran past us shouting, “Merry flippin’ Christmas.”

Had it been only sixty hours ago? And now he was dead.

I called Joe, told him I was on my way. I kissed at the phone, clicked off, put my key in the ignition, and turned it. The engine coughed. I swore and tried to start her up again.

I’m a fair auto mechanic in a pinch, but not without tools and in a dark alley.

I called Joe back. “Joe,” I said into my phone. “My battery’s dead. Car battery.”

“Oh, crap,” he said. “Stove malfunctioned. I don’t know. The chicken is raw.”

“I’ll get a uniform to drive me home. I can pick up some noodles—”

“Just stay in the car,” he said. I heard him say, “Jules? Want to go for a ride?”

She screamed, “Noooooooo!” Martha woofed along with her. Joe said, “Lindsay. Stay put. We’re on the way.”

The entire expedition took an hour, including picking up take-out noodle-shop dinners. Julie cried in the car, and by the time we made it through the front door, she was having a full-fledged, all-about-me meltdown. She didn’t like the Christmas tree. She wanted something different. And she didn’t like me.

“You’re bad, Mommy.”

“What do you mean, bad?” I asked her.

She rolled onto her belly, kicked her feet, and cried.

Joe looked at me and mouthed, I don’t know.

I said, “Julie. This is our tree. I love it. If you don’t, I’m sorry you’re mad at me, but it’s time for bed.”

“Nooooooooooo.”

Her favorite word.

Joe said, “Yes. Would you like mac and cheese instead of the take-out noodles?”

“Nooooooooo.”

Joe said, “That’s it, then.” He picked her up and headed with her to her room, saying over his shoulder, “Take a shower, Linds. I’ll set the table.”

I poured wine for Joe and kibble for Martha. I locked up my gun, kicked off my shoes, and stripped off my clothes.

Standing under the shower felt like being reborn. The whole day dissolved under the hot spray—the staff meeting, the trip out to the de Young Museum and the talk with Karp and Jacobi, the security review of Soigne, and the certain feeling that I’d be hearing tomorrow that the gallery had been hit.