The 19th Christmas (Women's Murder Club #19)(39)

“How do you know that?” Jacobi asked.

“He’s been streaming his ski trip in the Alps. He’s pretty good. Want me to show you how you can be, like, sitting on his shoulders going down a black-diamond slope?”

Jacobi said, “Some other time.” He thanked the kid and wished him a merry Christmas before he hung up.

Was anything he’d just learned useful?

Loman, whoever he was, did big stickup jobs, or so the story went. As Jacobi understood it, stealing a program wouldn’t require a crew with guns and masks. Digital theft would be done over the internet. Wouldn’t it?

Jacobi went back to the keyboard with his stiff old fingers and looked up BlackStar’s CEO on all available databases. He found him in a court document related to a lawsuit against BSVR for patent infringement. BlackStar had beaten that rap.

Noting that it was around midmorning in Davos, Jacobi made the call. He listened to the phone ring and had just about decided that Bavar must already be out on the slopes when someone answered the phone.





CHAPTER 54





JACOBI PRESSED THE phone to his ear and introduced himself to David Bavar as chief of police, retired, on special assignment.

He gave the tech billionaire Boxer’s extension and the phone number of the department so that he could call back on a line that would be answered “SFPD, Homicide.” Jacobi drummed his fingers on the desk, got a cup of mud from the break room, and returned to Boxer’s desk just as the phone rang.

“Chief Jacobi,” he said.

“Ah, this is David Bavar. Now, tell me again what this is about.”

Jacobi explained that a criminal with a rumored history of big, bloody robberies on an epic scale was reportedly targeting BlackStar, and possibly this hit would come tonight.

When Bavar laughed, Jacobi felt ridiculous. That pissed him off.

He took a breath and realized that most people would be skeptical if they got a call like this from a stranger. Still. He was trying to help the guy. When Bavar asked him the source of his information, Jacobi took the easy way out.

“I can’t discuss this while our investigation is in progress.”

Bavar said, “So what is it you think I should do? I’m at the airport in Zurich and will be out of touch for about eight hours. After that, I can be reached at this number. My offices are officially closed until New Year’s. We’re in the cybersecurity business, Chief, uh, Jacobi, and I guarantee you that no one is hacking into our systems. If we had a vulnerability, I would know about it.”

“Say that that’s true, Mr. Bavar. Do you have any enemies who might want to do harm to your company?”

“Hundreds. No one likes an overnight success.”

“Does the name Loman mean anything to you?”

“I don’t think so,” said Bavar. “Who or what is Loman?”

Jacobi reluctantly crossed that avenue off his list and moved on.

“Mr. Bavar, do you have any objects of value that a professional criminal with a history of armored-car and casino heists would find worth his time?”

“Like what?”

“You tell me, Mr. Bavar. This isn’t my field. Do you have some kind of cutting-edge gizmo or stealth hacking program or top secret government plans, anything like that?”

“Nothing that could be found, recognized, and stolen in some kind of break-in. It just doesn’t work that way, but if you want to drive out to our corporate headquarters in the Presidio—what time is it there, midnight?”

“A little later.”

“If you want to take a look around, go ahead.”

David Bavar gave Jacobi the name and number of his head of security, then told him he had to board his plane.





CHAPTER 55





JACOBI CALLED THE security guy, Ronald Wilkins, rousing him from bed. Jacobi apologized, then used the magic words “David Bavar asked me to call you.”

Wilkins said, “What do you need?”

“A look around your headquarters. A chat with you and your night security guy.”

Wilkins said, “I’d better talk to Mr. Bavar. I’ll call you back.”

“Do it quick. His flight is taking off.”

Jacobi leaned back in his chair and drifted off. Soon he was woken up by a ringing phone. He picked up. The voice said, “It’s Wilkins. Send me a photo of you.”

Jacobi said okay. He took a selfie against the backdrop of the squad room and looked at it. Highly unflattering, but he forwarded it to Wilkins, waited a few seconds, then asked, “Get it?”

“It’s out of focus,” Wilkins said.

“Jesus,” said Jacobi. “I’m white, have gray hair. I weigh two hundred pounds and look like I’ve been a cop for forty years. I’ll have ID to show you. All right?”

“I can meet you at BlackStar, east parking lot. Give me an hour.”

Jacobi said, “Make it thirty minutes. Tell your security guy not to let anyone into the building but you. No one but you. You understand me? Call him now. I’ll be driving an unmarked car. Gray Chevy sedan.”

Wilkins said, “Righto,” and Jacobi said, “See you in the parking lot.”

Jacobi called Brady, who, despite the late hour, was working in his cubicle at the back of the squad room. Jacobi remembered when he’d hired Jackson Brady a few years back, right out of Miami PD. First time out, Brady took a stance in front of a car with a kidnapped kid inside that was coming straight at him. Brady kept firing until the driver was dead. He was a winner. A great hire. Jacobi had recommended Brady to replace him as police chief. Brady hadn’t yet said he would take the job.