The 19th Christmas (Women's Murder Club #19)(60)
“Why did you disguise yourself?”
Loman stared at me without answering for a long moment, then he said, “There were cops everywhere. I knew Russell was dead and you guys would try to pin it on me. I wanted to disappear. Saddest thing. That man has been my friend for twenty years. He was almost family.”
I said, “Okay. But why did you have a gun? What was that all about?”
“Ah. Well. Russell told me that the head of the company, Mr. Bavar, had stolen an invention of his, some kind of software hack. He said it could be worth millions. Dick wanted to scare Bavar into paying him for this intellectual theft. So he tracked down the information that Bavar would be alone in his office on Christmas. Apparently, it was a habit of his to go to his office and write seven-figure bonus checks for his inner circle.”
I listened, teeing up my next question.
I asked, “So how did this go wrong, Mr. Lomachenko? Why did you shoot Russell?”
“Me? No. You’ve got it all wrong, Sergeant Boxer. Bavar shot Dick. Not me. But it was understandable. Russell was out of control,” Lomachenko said. “He was getting madder and madder, threatening to shoot Bavar if he didn’t get a million bucks. Like I said. Dick was shaking him down. I was just standing there, watching, and then Bavar snatched Dick’s gun away from him and bang. Just like that, he shot him. Bang, bang, bang. I didn’t stick around to see what happened after that.”
“Yes, I see,” I said, thinking Loman didn’t seem or act nervous. No blinking, no tears. Lying came easily to him. I would even say he enjoyed the attention.
I went on. “So, do I have this right? You say you were just tagging along, and next thing you know, a fight breaks out. Bavar gets the gun away from Russell and shoots him.”
“Exactly right. I had nothing to do with this, except that I saw Bavar shoot Dick. Honest to God, I was just window dressing.”
No. He was just full of shit.
For the next hour Conklin and I took turns asking Loman about BlackStar. When he’d gotten to the point where he was repeating himself, we asked about other elements of the Loman-related crime spree we’d been chasing for the past five days—the false leads, the dead bodies, and the airport terror attack this morning.
We had a lot. We wanted to let him know how much we had and how closely we’d been keeping track of him, hoping he would slip up or try to make a deal.
But he denied every piece and part of it with a smile.
“Whatever you think you’ve got on me, you’re just wrong. I have nothing to do with any of that.” That’s what he said.
And we had no proof that he was lying.
CHAPTER 88
LOMACHENKO ACCEPTED THE offer of a cup of water, and Conklin and I had the same.
When the lying sack of crap was hydrated, he said, “I want to call my wife. It’s her birthday. She’s got to be worried about me.”
I said, “You can call her in a little while, Mr. Lomachenko, but we’re just getting started here.”
“Look, let me say this one more time. You’ve got me wrong. I’m just a jewelry salesman. Small potatoes. Hey, I’ve got to call my wife. That’s my one phone call, all right?”
I said, “You want to speak to Imogene?”
“How’d you know her name?”
I said, “We’re holding her, Mr. Lomachenko. In a jail cell.”
“What? No. What for? She’s a housewife.” Finally we’d rattled him.
“And she’s also your business partner, actually, because she keeps your books. In fact, we’ve charged her as an accessory to everything you’ve done. Including the murder of Richard Russell.”
Loman blew up.
“She’s a housewife. She cooks, does laundry. I’ll sue you for harassing her. I mean it. I want to talk to her!”
“We can discuss that later,” Conklin said, “after you tell us what you’ve done with David Bavar.”
“I already told you. I don’t know him. I don’t know where he ran off to when the shit hit the fan,” said Lomachenko. “All of this is bullshit. And I’m tired of talking to you. I’m done.”
He was done, but we weren’t.
Conklin, a.k.a. Inspector Good Cop, said, “Mr. Lomachenko, we have pull with the DA. We’ve both known him for years. We might be able to help you with the shooting if you tell us where to find Mr. Bavar.”
“Fuck if I know where he is. I told you.”
We still had no clue as to Bavar’s whereabouts. His wife hadn’t heard from him, and she insisted that Bavar would call home if he could. His car was still in its private underground slot at BlackStar, but a sweep through Building 3 hadn’t turned him up. He could be dying or dead. We had to find him.
I jumped back in.
“You know your hands were tested for gunpowder at booking.”
“Yeah? No, I didn’t know.”
He still didn’t blink.
“The test was positive.”
“Bullshit.”
“You fired a gun and we have that gun,” I said. “Ballistics is working overtime. About now, they’re test-firing bullets from your gun and will compare them with the bullets the ME takes out of Mr. Russell’s body.