The 19th Christmas (Women's Murder Club #19)(57)

My heart was banging hard and I was panting even though I was walking at a steady pace. My gut was telling me that the guy with the cap was the man in the picture on Jacobi’s phone.

My gut said that it was Loman. William Lomachenko.





CHAPTER 84





THIS WAS JUST brilliant. Had Russell’s shot hit a cop?

Loman stood with his hostage and his second in command outside the side entrance to Building 3. He’d seen cops wearing SFPD Windbreakers cluster around a body on the ground, and an ambulance had pulled up to the main parking lot near the lake.

The three of them were hidden from the SWAT team on the green, but Loman still felt exposed. He reached around Bavar and pulled on the door handle. It didn’t budge. A tiny red light centered on a metal plate in the brick wall beside the door caught his attention. Below the light was a small lens at eye level.

His screwup associate stated the obvious. “It’s an iris reader.”

Loman had nothing to say to Russell. His shot, fired in panic when Bavar tried to make a break for it, had hit a cop, launched a law enforcement response, and guttered the smooth execution of their plan.

But he did speak to Bavar. “Look at the lens.”

“I don’t think so,” said Bavar, laughing. “You shoot me, and this becomes the worst day of your life.”

Bavar’s contempt despite the loaded guns pointed right at him actually made sense to Loman. Bavar was a cocky bastard but he was not stupid. Without him, there would be no payday.

According to the plan, while the airport fandango was going down, Russell’s man on the street, Sam Wallace, had been tracking David Bavar, watching and reporting to Russell when Bavar left his home in his candy-apple-red Maserati. So Loman and Russell had been waiting for BlackStar’s CEO superstar when he arrived at his private parking space behind Building 4.

It had worked just like it was supposed to. Until now.

Russell was sputtering, spinning excuses for why he hadn’t known that BlackStar would be overrun with staffers today, unable to explain the police presence.

Loman burned as he looked at Russell, standing there with his gun in Bavar’s gut.

“I can’t know everything, Willy,” Russell said. “I had excellent information. It’s well known that Bavar always comes in alone on Christmas—”

Bavar said, “Oh. I guess you didn’t get my memo to staff last night. BlackStar has a rush order. Santa says all those who work on December twenty-fifth get a bonus.”

It was like a lit match had been dropped into a gas can. Loman’s anger at Russell exploded.

He moved his gun out of his retirement plan’s back and pointed it at Russell’s chest. Russell’s eyes widened and he started backing up.

“Willy, no, no, no.”

“I thought I could count on you, Dick.”

Loman fired twice.

Russell dropped, then rolled on the ground, moaning. When he opened his eyes, he saw that Loman still had the gun on him. Russell held up his hand, palm facing Loman, a plea not to shoot.

Loman shot him again, through his palm and into his heart, and Russell, the big gambler, the deep thinker with a scientific mind, exhaled his last breath. Loman wished he could kill him again. Russell had blown their carefully choreographed hit-and-escape strategy.

Loman had planned to milk Bavar for information for a while before killing him, but a reboot was possible. His flight was paid for and the jet was still waiting. He had seed money in Zurich. He’d figure out how to finance his new life once he was out of the country.

He said to Bavar, “Look into the scanner.”

Bavar had gone pale. He wasn’t joking and smirking now that he’d seen how easy it was for Loman to kill. He put his eye up to the iris reader. The lock thunked open, and Loman pulled on the door, held it open with his foot, and poked Bavar with the gun.

Loman said, “Move.”

Bavar did it.

Loman’s pulse was pounding loudly in his ears. Shooting Russell hadn’t alleviated his anger at all. He flashed on his wife, imagining Imogene sitting in her rose-colored chair in the living room, having packed for an overnight trip like he had told her to. He thought she’d be wearing her engagement ring and the diamond pin he’d gotten her for her birthday. Sweet woman born on Christmas Day.

He had planned a wonderful life for them. Now he thought that he might never see her again.





CHAPTER 85





CONKLIN AND I lost sight of maybe-Loman when the three men suddenly ducked into the space between Buildings 3 and 4. Speeding up, our guns holstered, we continued along the footpath in their direction.

Two shots rang out, then a third.

Conklin and I now ran toward the gap in the staggered line of brick buildings, and there, in front of a side door, was a body that matched Ben Wallace’s description of Loman’s number-two man. Bullet holes had punched through the tall man’s flight jacket, and blood was pooling around him.

Conklin stooped, felt for his pulse, then shook his head no.

I went for the door, pulled on the handle, shook it a couple of times, and looked at my partner.

“Go ahead,” he told me. “If this circumstance isn’t exigent, I don’t know what is.”

I fired shots into the door around the lock, hammered in the glass with my gun butt, reached inside, and opened the door.