I was damp and still getting whiffs of pepper gas from my hair, but it couldn’t be helped right now. I went to my desk and called Joe.
He was pissed, I could tell.
“I got your car back,” he said, speaking of my comatose Explorer, which I’d left on Harriet Street when the night was still young. I thanked him sincerely and he talked right over me.
“It cost two hundred twenty-nine dollars for the auto shop to jump the car and drive it to Lake Street.”
I sighed into the phone.
“Don’t do that, Lindsay,” my husband said. “I’m the injured party here. By the way, Mrs. Rose’s daughter called. She’s taking the red-eye to SFO. I’m picking her up in the morning. Where are the keys to her mother’s apartment?”
“On a hook inside the cabinet next to the microwave. I’m sorry, Joe, but have a little compassion, will you? Do you think I want to be here? Do you?”
He grunted, then said, “Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. What if you just sign out for the night? Get a uniform to drive you home. You think you’re going to get canned if you leave? Because that’s not going to happen, but it wouldn’t be the worst thing if it did.”
“I’ve got to go now,” I said. “A suspect is waiting for me in the box.”
“We have to talk,” he told me.
“Fine,” I said. “Just not now.”
My eyes were swollen, my skin burned, and beneath my SFPD sweats, my underwear was still wet from the water cannon. And now my husband was mad at me.
His anger was justified.
But still, this hadn’t exactly been a day in the park tossing bread to the duckies for me.
Tips and clues were sucking us into black holes of nothingness. And yet Loman was still out there—somewhere.
CHAPTER 45
I POURED COFFEE into paper cups and went back to Interview 2, where Megan Rafferty, also wearing police department sweats, had folded her arms on the table and was sobbing into them.
I checked and saw that the camera in the corner of the ceiling was still rolling. I kicked a chair out from the table and sat down.
I said, “Hey, Megan. Look here.”
She lifted her head, saw the container of coffee I put down in front of her, and peeled off the lid. “Thanks,” she said. “When can I go home?”
Across the hallway Rich Conklin was talking to the lump of dump known as Corey Briggs, a minor-league drug dealer and likely part of the mysterious Loman’s crew.
Conklin had some leverage with Briggs.
Drugs and unregistered guns had been found on his person and inside his van. It was possible that Conklin could get the DA to make a deal in exchange for cooperation and usable information. He could promise to try.
Here in Interview 2, I was trying to get information from a twenty-two-year-old crack addict, a former college girl who no doubt had just about wrecked her parents’ dreams and her own future. But there was hope for her yet. The van belonged to her boyfriend. She hadn’t been armed and had had no drugs on her when we brought her down. Unless we found something that proved otherwise, she’d committed no crime.
If she helped us catch a dangerous criminal, maybe she’d use her clash with the SFPD to rethink her life, get clean. I knew my reasoning was wishful, but I felt sorry for her.
Megan said, “Corey didn’t tell me anything except that he was waiting for a phone call.”
“From whom?”
“He didn’t say. He didn’t tell me anything, Sergeant, I swear to God. Please believe me.”
I said, “You’re living with him. He had weapons and illegal substances inside the van. Why were you bunking in the van, Megan? You two live only a couple of blocks away. I really, really want to help you, but this makes no sense.”
“Corey was protecting me.”
“From what, exactly?”
She shrugged. Tears spilled. I patted her back. She said, “I don’t know one damned thing. Please let me go home now.”
“I’m afraid you have to stay with us for a while.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re holding you as a material witness. Look on the bright side—you’re going to be able to take a shower and get some sleep.”
“And I can talk to a lawyer?”
I sighed again. A shower and sleep sounded pretty good to me.
“Sure. Just remember to tell him or her that you’re not under arrest.”
“I’m crashing, Sergeant. Everything hurts.”
“Megan, why are you protecting him? He’s a known criminal. He’s been tagged as a murderer. Could you think of yourself, help the police, and tell us where to find Loman?”
“I don’t know who that is.”
Be her friend. Be her friend, I counseled myself.
“I’ll get you some Advil,” I said.
I walked out to the short hallway between the two interview rooms and closed the door behind me to see Rich there with Lieutenant Brady.
My partner’s hair was wet. He’d changed his clothes. And he and our good friend were laughing their asses off.
CHAPTER 46
THE WAY I felt right now, watching Brady and Conklin snort and guffaw was like grabbing a downed electric line in the rain. A surge of unexpected fury shot through me.
What the hell was this? I’d been working for three days straight. I could count the number of hours I’d slept on one hand. And the two of them were having a good ol’ time.
I glanced at the mirrored observation window with its direct view into Interview 2.
Had they been watching me interrogate Rafferty? Were they laughing at me?
I said, “What’s the joke? I haven’t had a good laugh since last Thursday.”
Conklin pointed at the opposite window, the one with the view into Interview 1, where he’d been grilling Corey Briggs. He sputtered, still laughing, finally getting that I wasn’t amused.
“Briggs said that he and Megan were waiting for an earthquake. Then they were going to drive to Union Square …” More helpless laughing.
Brady added, “They were going to hit the boutiques. The van was their getaway car.”
Another jolt of rage just about lit me up.
“You believe them?”
“Nooooo,” said Brady and Conklin in unison.
I said, “Brady, I got nothing from Rafferty. Maybe Inspector Charming can get her to squeal. I’m going home. Don’t call. Don’t write. I’m done.”
I jerked the band out of my ponytail, pulled the sweatshirt away from my neck to let out the steam, and marched toward the Homicide bullpen.
Shit. If I didn’t find a cop to drive me home, I was going to have to ask Joe to pick me up. I didn’t think he’d be talking to me—and he would probably be pissed for days.
As I marched down the hall to the squad room, I heard Brady calling out to me.
“Boxer. Wait up.”
I ignored him and stiff-armed the door—and ran right into Jacobi.
“Boxer,” he said. “Brady, Conklin—you, too. The shit is about to hit the fan.”
“Loman?” Brady asked him.
“Bingo,” Jacobi answered. “It’s not over yet.”
CHAPTER 47
LOMAN LEANED BACK on the sofa and sighed appreciatively.
His wife, Imogene, would love this place. It was a great condo in an upscale neighborhood, high-ceilinged, furnished sparingly with some good modern art, and equipped with high-tech everything—including a great security system that Dick had dismantled in under five seconds.
But Imogene didn’t push for luxury.
She loved the husband she believed him to be—a hardworking man who sold gold necklaces to department stores and made just enough for them to get by. He smiled to himself. They’d be getting by in Zurich by the end of the week, living in a great rental under assumed names, wanting for nothing. Just the way he’d planned.
But there was something he had to do first.
Loman listened to the dishwasher chugging through i
ts cycle in the open-plan kitchen. There was a wine bottle and a half-full wineglass on the dining room table. And here in the living room, the modern, artificial Christmas tree stood near the sliding glass doors that led out to the deck. Beautiful setup.
Loman shifted his eyes to the middle-aged man in pajamas and a blue velveteen robe who was duct-taped to an armchair. He said to his old friend, “Arnie, you’re planning to go see your kids over Christmas, am I right?”
Arnold Sloane didn’t answer. He appeared to be organizing his thoughts, maybe rehearsing a last-minute pitch. Loman was a reasonable man, but he couldn’t imagine Arnie coming up with an explanation that would excuse the betrayal. It had cut deep.
Loman got up and went over to Sloane, pulled the T-shirt they were using as a gag down onto Sloane’s neck, and said, “Arnie. Look. I want to understand you better. Why’d you do it? Why’d you even think you would get away with it? A hundred thirty K isn’t much to me. Hell, I would have just given it to you. But using a fake email address, picking a drop-off in a parking lot? You shouldn’t have blackmailed me to begin with. But then what? You thought I wouldn’t know it was you? Answer me. What were you thinking?”
Sloane said, “Why are you putting on this charade, Lomachenko? Just get it over with. I concede. You win.”
Dick Russell, Loman’s right-hand man, came out of Sloane’s home office and entered the living room. He was wearing purple latex gloves, microfiber booties over his shoes, a hairnet. He’d been working on the safe with some whiz-bang electronic tool.
He put four stacks of banded bills down on the coffee table, saying, “That’s about two hundred Gs, Willy. Here’s a satchel I found on the floor—and here’s the combination for the safe at Milano’s. He kept it in a box with his coin collection.”
Loman said, “Leave the combination on the table, Dick. Give the cops something to think about.”
Russell addressed the man duct-taped to his chair. “How ya doing, Mr. Sloane? Going to apologize to Mr. Loman?”
“Go to hell, Dick.”
“Very original,” Russell said. “But I’ll give you this for free. You’ve got balls.”
Loman gagged Sloane again. Patted the top of his head and said, “Don’t worry. This will be over soon.”
Loman knew Arnold Sloane from when they were both in sales, before Sloane became the manager of Milano’s, an upmarket jewelry store. Arnie made only about a hundred fifty thousand a year, but he skimmed. And he’d fenced some things for Loman.
Then he’d gotten greedy.
The wholesale value of the merchandise in the Union Square store averaged about sixteen million on any given day, but even with the combination to the safe in his hand, Loman wasn’t about to hit Milano’s. Too risky.
Loman was happy enough for Sloane’s nest egg. He would distribute the cash to his crew for their work and their silence. And this home invasion would mess with the cops’ minds and keep them busy.
In a couple of minutes, after he and Dick had left Arnie Sloane’s place, Loman would attach another one of Dick’s gizmos to his spanking-new burner phone. It would disguise both his voice and the pings to the cell tower. He’d call in a tip to the police about hearing shots fired at this address.
By then he and Russell would be on to the real deal, the job he’d been planning for the past seven years of his life.
CHAPTER 48
LOMAN LEANED BACK on the sofa and told Russell, “Go ahead, my friend. Enjoy.”
Russell smiled. He was better at construction than destruction, but he was open to the experience. He took a folding knife out of his pocket and went to work.
First, he slashed a few abstract paintings and opened up the love-seat upholstery, then he gathered up some art glass vases and dropped them one at a time onto the stone hearth. Made a nice mess of it. Mess wasn’t his favorite thing, but this was fun.
Next, he walked down the hallway to the master bedroom, opened all of the drawers, and tossed some things on the floor. Then he shredded Sloane’s nice suits and ties, knocked the TV off the dresser. It would look to the police like a home invasion with motive.
Loman had turned up the music and was looking out at the deck garden through the sliders.
“Willy. What next?”
Loman turned to face him. He was holding a .45 in his hand.
His boss was pointing a gun at him.
Russell froze, paralyzed with shock. He imagined the shot going through his head, pictured himself falling to the floor, becoming part of another of Loman’s violent tableaux.
This is not fucking happening.
Russell knew that he was useful until he wasn’t needed anymore. But Loman still needed him. Didn’t he?
He shouted, “What are you doing? No kidding, Willy. Don’t be crazy.”
He watched Loman’s expression. Reversing course was in character for Loman. Loman repositioned the gun and presented it butt-first to Russell.
“How could you think such a thing, Dick? You hurt my feelings. Now take the gun.”
Ten feet away, Sloane lunged against the duct tape, rocking the armchair forward and back, whimpering through his gag.
Loman said to Russell again, “Take it.”
Russell refocused, moving from seeing himself as a bloody corpse to trying to process what Loman wanted him to do. He had never agreed to shoot anyone—but clearly, this was what Loman had in mind.
He understood that if he didn’t finish the job, Loman would shoot him, put Sloane away, and walk out the door. Russell’s best chance of surviving the night, of cashing in and disappearing on his own terms, depended on his following this order.
Loman asked nicely, “Got a problem, Dick?”
Russell said, “Our deal, Willy. We have an agreement. I’m Mr. Inside, remember?”
“You’re as far inside as you can be without being up Arnie’s ass. Dick. Think about it. This is the only way I can trust you.”
Russell didn’t have to think hard.
He saw himself taking the gun and shooting Loman, but he doused the thought. Loman was his ticket to happily-ever-after. Without Loman, he was a man without a plan.
Fucking Loman. Russell reached out and took the gun, got a two-handed grip on it, and aimed at Sloane’s chest. Sloane yelled wordlessly through the gag.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!”
Russell fired.
Sloane bucked, almost knocking over the chair, a forceful reaction in contrast to the soft puff of the suppressed gunshot. Russell fired again and Sloane’s body jerked. He was dead when the third round went into his torso. He didn’t twitch.
Russell stared, briefly mesmerized by the growing bloodstains around the bullet holes in Sloane’s shirt.
He’d done that. He was a murderer.
Loman said, “Good job, Dick. But you got some blood on you. Go put on one of Arnie’s shirts and be sure to take yours with us. Make it snappy, eh, buddy? We gotta go.”
Loman was satisfied. By killing Sloane, Russell was all in. Loman clapped his hands together sharply, getting his partner’s attention.
“Wake up, Dick. The job of the century is waiting.”
CHAPTER 49
CONKLIN AND I followed Jacobi to Caselli Avenue and parked behind him in front of number 22.
The curb was already jammed with CSI and medical examiner vans and a herd of black-and-whites. Cherry lights strobed, and the crackle of car radios sounded like a hissing crowd at Candlestick.
I got out of the car and looked up.
At eleven whatever p.m., the clouds had blocked out the moon and stars, leaving a fathomless black sky. Up and down the curving, tree-lined block, reindeer lawn vignettes and roof decor twinkled.
By contrast, every window in number 22 Caselli blazed with halogen lights from our crime scene unit.
The uniformed officer standing outside the door was David Thompsett, a bright kid hoping to get into Homicide one day. He reminded me of Conklin when I first met him.
Thompsett looked at me
and did a double take.
“Sergeant. You okay?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Uh, honestly? You look like you’ve been sleeping in the trunk of your car.”
I laughed, sounding slightly hysterical to my own ears.
“I wish,” I told him. “Sleep is a distant memory. What have we got here, Officer?”
Thompsett ran the scene for Jacobi, Conklin, and me.
“The vic is a white man in his sixties, duct-taped to a chair. Three shots to the chest. He’s still there.”
“Who called this in?” Conklin asked him.
“Anonymous tipster called 911, said that he heard gunshots and saw the shooter flee on foot. Said he recognized him as Mr. Loman.
“I knew the name from the APB,” Thompsett said. “My partner and I responded and found the front door closed but unlocked. We called for backup and went in. Hogan and I took a quick look around, checked to make sure the victim was dead. CSI got here an hour ago.”
Thompsett handed the sign-in log to Jacobi, said, “Nice to see you, Chief. How’re you doing?”
“Fired up. Ready to go.”
I worked out the timeline while Jacobi signed us in. Dispatch had forwarded the 911 call to Homicide. Jacobi had picked up the call while Conklin and I were interviewing Rafferty and Briggs.
How had the caller recognized Loman?
Who was Loman to the victim?
Thompsett said, “Let me get Lieutenant Hallows for you.”
He phoned CSI’s night-shift supervisor, Lieutenant Gene Hallows, who came out to the front step to meet us. He cautioned us to follow directly behind him. “It’s a bloody mess in there. Watch your feet. Don’t sneeze,” he said, handing out the shoe-cover booties and latex gloves.
I got it. Don’t corrupt his crime scene.
CHAPTER 50
WE THREE COPS stood in the foyer as CSI’s Lieutenant Hallows filled us in on the fresh new crime scene.
19th Christmas Page 11
