The 19th Christmas (Women's Murder Club #19)(56)

“This is Loman?”

“So I’ve been told,” said Jacobi.

It was a huge breakthrough. We had a name and a photo ID, and with that, we’d learn more.

I passed the phone to Conklin and asked Jacobi, “What do we know about Mr. Lomachenko?”

“He lives on Avila Street. Been in the same house for twenty years. He’s self-employed. Buys gold chains from overseas and sells them locally. His wife, Imogene, does the books. We have her in custody as a material witness.”

Conklin said, “No kidding.”

Jacobi smiled. “Chi and McNeil are questioning her, making sure she doesn’t give Willy a heads-up. She says that we’ve got the wrong man.”

Conklin said, “Any chance she mentioned where we could find her husband right now?”

“Imogene told Chi and Cappy that the mister is out doing last-minute errands. He’s planning a surprise for her birthday.”

I stared through the windshield, hoping to see an ordinary-looking white man in his late forties or early fifties, approximately five foot eight, 180 pounds, balding, with a potbelly, the kind of man who looked nothing like anyone’s idea of a criminal mastermind.

Jacobi said, “FBI has people inside the Lomachenko house in case he comes home. If he calls his wife, we’ll trace the call.”

My old partner looked good for someone who’d been on watch inside a surveillance van for about sixteen hours without sleep. I asked him if there had been any disturbances or if anything on this large campus seemed like a possible target for a heist.

“It’s busy,” he said. “The CEO told me that BlackStar was officially closed until New Year’s. Maybe he meant closed for business, because it looks like Christmas isn’t a holiday for BlackStar employees.”

We watched people walking between the buildings, most of them millennials in tight jeans and pullovers or satin BlackStar baseball jackets. I also saw several older, professorial types.

I noticed ordinary unmarked cars like ours in the lot, as well as dozens of cars with BlackStar parking stickers. I saw an undercover cop I knew standing by the waterfall, two others smoking cigarettes and strolling as they worked their phones.

“What’s the plan, Chief?” Conklin asked Jacobi.

“Special response teams have warrants. Risk warrants to seize weapons, and the Feds will have a search warrant for electronics, computers, and like that,” said Jacobi. “Couldn’t be more than a few hundred thousand computers in this place. After they lock all of these buildings down, the three of us and everyone else Brady can get will go in looking for Mr. Lomachenko. Just waiting now for the word ‘Go.’”

Conklin swept his gaze across the huge campus, the half a dozen buildings and the expansive greens between and surrounding them, some trees scattered around as well. He sighed. “Lot of ground to cover.”

I agreed. “I’m getting out,” I said, opening the car door. “I need some air. I’ve got to make a quick call to Joe.”

Jacobi held the door for me, and I’d just gotten my feet on the ground when a shot cracked across the campus.

Around us, some people stopped to listen, some dropped to the ground, and others dashed toward doorways.

I saw no gunmen, no sign of the shooter. I got out of my crouch behind the car door and went to help Jacobi to his feet.

That’s when I saw that his face was gray and that he was clutching his thigh.

“I’m hit,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

And then his eyes rolled back and he passed out.





CHAPTER 83





AN EMT NAMED Murphy hustled me out of the ambulance.

Doors banged closed, and the bus, with my dear friend Jacobi inside, took off down Lombard Street, turned a corner, and was gone.

I forced myself to come back to the moment.

BlackStar employees who had been crossing the green seconds earlier had hit the ground or were hiding behind trees as SWAT poured out of their vans and took up positions around adjacent buildings.

I stared out over my car-door shield, looking for the shooter—and something stood out to me. Within the scattered BlackStar workers, I saw three men walking away from the executive offices and toward the corner of the grounds leading to O’Reilly Ave.

They weren’t taking cover. They walked with purpose, as if unfazed by the shots and the panic. They were dressed differently from the techs I’d seen earlier sauntering through the campus.

They just looked … off.

The tallest of the three was dark-haired and wearing a leather bomber jacket. The shortest of the men wore a khaki-colored Windbreaker and a billed cap. He kept his eyes down.

The third man was bracketed by the other two. His hair was silver. The BlackStar logo was on the back of his jacket, and I had the impression that he was being propelled forward by his companions.

I grabbed my partner’s arm.

“Rich. The chunky one with the cap. Tell me. Is that our guy?”

Sunlight slanted through the copse of trees and into our eyes as the three men took the path heading away from us.

Conklin said, “I can’t say for sure.”

We crossed the lawns, planning to intersect the path the men were traveling. Then they changed course and walked more quickly toward one of the brick buildings.