The 19th Christmas (Women's Murder Club #19)(34)

I glanced at the mirrored observation window with its direct view into Interview 2.

Had they been watching me interrogate Rafferty? Were they laughing at me?

I said, “What’s the joke? I haven’t had a good laugh since last Thursday.”

Conklin pointed at the opposite window, the one with the view into Interview 1, where he’d been grilling Corey Briggs. He sputtered, still laughing, finally getting that I wasn’t amused.

“Briggs said that he and Megan were waiting for an earthquake. Then they were going to drive to Union Square …” More helpless laughing.

Brady added, “They were going to hit the boutiques. The van was their getaway car.”

Another jolt of rage just about lit me up.

“You believe them?”

“Nooooo,” said Brady and Conklin in unison.

I said, “Brady, I got nothing from Rafferty. Maybe Inspector Charming can get her to squeal. I’m going home. Don’t call. Don’t write. I’m done.”

I jerked the band out of my ponytail, pulled the sweatshirt away from my neck to let out the steam, and marched toward the Homicide bullpen.

Shit. If I didn’t find a cop to drive me home, I was going to have to ask Joe to pick me up. I didn’t think he’d be talking to me—and he would probably be pissed for days.

As I marched down the hall to the squad room, I heard Brady calling out to me.

“Boxer. Wait up.”

I ignored him and stiff-armed the door—and ran right into Jacobi.

“Boxer,” he said. “Brady, Conklin—you, too. The shit is about to hit the fan.”

“Loman?” Brady asked him.

“Bingo,” Jacobi answered. “It’s not over yet.”





CHAPTER 47





LOMAN LEANED BACK on the sofa and sighed appreciatively.

His wife, Imogene, would love this place. It was a great condo in an upscale neighborhood, high-ceilinged, furnished sparingly with some good modern art, and equipped with high-tech everything—including a great security system that Dick had dismantled in under five seconds.

But Imogene didn’t push for luxury.

She loved the husband she believed him to be—a hardworking man who sold gold necklaces to department stores and made just enough for them to get by. He smiled to himself. They’d be getting by in Zurich by the end of the week, living in a great rental under assumed names, wanting for nothing. Just the way he’d planned.

But there was something he had to do first.

Loman listened to the dishwasher chugging through its cycle in the open-plan kitchen. There was a wine bottle and a half-full wineglass on the dining room table. And here in the living room, the modern, artificial Christmas tree stood near the sliding glass doors that led out to the deck. Beautiful setup.

Loman shifted his eyes to the middle-aged man in pajamas and a blue velveteen robe who was duct-taped to an armchair. He said to his old friend, “Arnie, you’re planning to go see your kids over Christmas, am I right?”

Arnold Sloane didn’t answer. He appeared to be organizing his thoughts, maybe rehearsing a last-minute pitch. Loman was a reasonable man, but he couldn’t imagine Arnie coming up with an explanation that would excuse the betrayal. It had cut deep.

Loman got up and went over to Sloane, pulled the T-shirt they were using as a gag down onto Sloane’s neck, and said, “Arnie. Look. I want to understand you better. Why’d you do it? Why’d you even think you would get away with it? A hundred thirty K isn’t much to me. Hell, I would have just given it to you. But using a fake email address, picking a drop-off in a parking lot? You shouldn’t have blackmailed me to begin with. But then what? You thought I wouldn’t know it was you? Answer me. What were you thinking?”

Sloane said, “Why are you putting on this charade, Lomachenko? Just get it over with. I concede. You win.”

Dick Russell, Loman’s right-hand man, came out of Sloane’s home office and entered the living room. He was wearing purple latex gloves, microfiber booties over his shoes, a hairnet. He’d been working on the safe with some whiz-bang electronic tool.

He put four stacks of banded bills down on the coffee table, saying, “That’s about two hundred Gs, Willy. Here’s a satchel I found on the floor—and here’s the combination for the safe at Milano’s. He kept it in a box with his coin collection.”

Loman said, “Leave the combination on the table, Dick. Give the cops something to think about.”

Russell addressed the man duct-taped to his chair. “How ya doing, Mr. Sloane? Going to apologize to Mr. Loman?”

“Go to hell, Dick.”

“Very original,” Russell said. “But I’ll give you this for free. You’ve got balls.”

Loman gagged Sloane again. Patted the top of his head and said, “Don’t worry. This will be over soon.”

Loman knew Arnold Sloane from when they were both in sales, before Sloane became the manager of Milano’s, an upmarket jewelry store. Arnie made only about a hundred fifty thousand a year, but he skimmed. And he’d fenced some things for Loman.

Then he’d gotten greedy.

The wholesale value of the merchandise in the Union Square store averaged about sixteen million on any given day, but even with the combination to the safe in his hand, Loman wasn’t about to hit Milano’s. Too risky.