The 19th Christmas (Women's Murder Club #19)(47)

Then the mayor was threatened, and informants all over the city gave tips to cops they knew. This bank, that art gallery, the San Francisco Mint—all were named as possible targets.

We took down two nickel-bag drug dealers, dupes or extras who didn’t actually know anything about Loman or the job. And then, of course, there was the savage murder of a jewelry-store manager and a reported anonymous tip that Loman had been seen leaving the premises.

That brought us to last night, when a cop’s son who had picked up some chat-room braggadocio told Jacobi about a possible plan to hit a big computer company. Rich and I sat in the car overlooking Union Square and chewed on that bit of chatter. We concluded that unless Loman had an army and air cover, hitting BlackStar VR made no sense.

It was Christmas Day. Like almost all businesses, the offices would be closed.

Was the crime teed up and ready to go? Had it already been committed?

Apparently, our mayor didn’t think so, and he wasn’t going to call off his bodyguards or the SFPD until Loman was in jail.

At the same time, while every cop in the city was chasing the phantom Loman, there’d been a fatal stabbing in the Tenderloin, a shooting at a cash machine in the Marina, a vehicular manslaughter or outright homicide on Jackson, and a domestic dispute in Bayview that had ended with a child dead and a wife in a coma.

I was thinking of phoning Joe just to say hello when dispatch called on our radio channel. I grabbed the mic, and day-shift dispatcher May Hess said, “Sergeant, can you take a call? There’s a woman named Cheryl Sandler on the line. She claims to be a close friend of Julian Lambert, deceased.”

“Put her through.” I couldn’t say it fast enough.





CHAPTER 68





A TEARFUL FEMALE voice said, “Sergeant, the medical examiner’s office told me to talk to you. What should I do?”

An hour later Conklin and I were in the box with Cheryl Sandler. Tall, thirty, and pretty, she had boy-cut platinum-blond hair and wore a black dress and jacket; her eye makeup was smudged. She had an arrest record for running out on a restaurant check as well as convictions for shoplifting and returning the stolen merchandise for cash.

She and Lambert had petty theft in common.

I asked routine questions about where she lived and worked, and after she’d filled in those blanks, she told me about Julian.

He had a wonderful spirit. She loved him. They’d spent the night together at his place five days ago, before we’d pulled him in for his grab-and-dash on Geary. She told us that Lambert had called her from the jail and they had made plans to get together after his release, but he had stood her up. That wasn’t like him. At all. She went to his place and looked around. Nothing had been disturbed since she’d been there last. She was going insane worrying about him but figured maybe the police had moved him. Maybe he couldn’t use a phone.

And then, this morning, she’d seen the TV report about the man’s body being pulled from a car trunk. She’d called the hotline that was on the screen and was transferred to the ME; she’d ID’d Lambert from his morgue shot.

Cheryl’s story seemed logical. She was understandably distraught and jittery. I suspected she was coming down off a drug high.

“I never, ever, ever expected this,” she told us.

I asked, “When you last saw Julian, how did he seem to you?”

“Excited.”

“Excited about what?”

“Christmas was coming and …” She shook her head, wrapped her arms around herself, and cried. “He was the sweetest boy. Ever.”

Conklin handed Cheryl a box of tissues and said, “Can I see you for a minute, Sergeant?”

I left the room with Conklin, and we took up a position on the other side of the mirrored observation window. The young woman had put her head on the table and seemed to be sobbing.

“What’s your BS meter saying?” he asked.

“Too soon to tell,” I said. “What do you think?”

“If it’s an act, it’s a good one. I’ll get her some tea.”

“When you come back, why don’t you take over?”

Conklin has a way with women. In fact, he’s famous for it. I went back into Interview 1 and told the young woman that Inspector Conklin would be right back.

She said, “How can Jules be dead? How did this happen?”

I said, “Let’s try to figure it out.”

Conklin hip-bumped the door and came in with tea for three in paper containers. He found a clean ashtray for the tea bags, set down a dish of sweeteners, and took his seat across from Cheryl.

He said, “Sorry to have to ask you personal questions, but you may be the only person who can help us.”

She nodded. Wiped her eyes. “I want to help.”

Conklin asked, “How long have you known Julian?”

“We’ve been together about three months, but I’ve known him for a year or so. We hung out at the same bar. Had some bar talk, you know. Flirting.”

Conklin said, “Did he seem worried about anything or anybody? Had he been threatened at all?”

“No, that’s the crazy thing. Everyone liked Jules. He was friendly. He was funny, too. But can I tell you something off the record?”

She was talking to Richie now. Asking him if she could trust him. The camera in the ceiling was rolling.