19th Christmas

by Patterson, James

  Wilkins said, “What do you need?”

  “A look around your headquarters. A chat with you and your night security guy.”

  Wilkins said, “I’d better talk to Mr. Bavar. I’ll call you back.”

  “Do it quick. His flight is taking off.”

  Jacobi leaned back in his chair and drifted off. Soon he was woken up by a ringing phone. He picked up. The voice said, “It’s Wilkins. Send me a photo of you.”

  Jacobi said okay. He took a selfie against the backdrop of the squad room and looked at it. Highly unflattering, but he forwarded it to Wilkins, waited a few seconds, then asked, “Get it?”

  “It’s out of focus,” Wilkins said.

  “Jesus,” said Jacobi. “I’m white, have gray hair. I weigh two hundred pounds and look like I’ve been a cop for forty years. I’ll have ID to show you. All right?”

  “I can meet you at BlackStar, east parking lot. Give me an hour.”

  Jacobi said, “Make it thirty minutes. Tell your security guy not to let anyone into the building but you. No one but you. You understand me? Call him now. I’ll be driving an unmarked car. Gray Chevy sedan.”

  Wilkins said, “Righto,” and Jacobi said, “See you in the parking lot.”

  Jacobi called Brady, who, despite the late hour, was working in his cubicle at the back of the squad room. Jacobi remembered when he’d hired Jackson Brady a few years back, right out of Miami PD. First time out, Brady took a stance in front of a car with a kidnapped kid inside that was coming straight at him. Brady kept firing until the driver was dead. He was a winner. A great hire. Jacobi had recommended Brady to replace him as police chief. Brady hadn’t yet said he would take the job.

  Brady picked up his phone, and he and Jacobi looked at each other across the room as they spoke.

  Brady said, “Whatcha got?”

  Jacobi said, “I want to check out BlackStar’s corporate offices. I need a partner with some years in grade and a backup team.”

  Brady said, “I’ve got only one live body for you, Chief.”

  “Ah, don’t call Boxer. She’s done.”

  “Not Boxer,” Brady said. “I mean me.”

  CHAPTER 56

  CONKLIN STEPPED INTO the apartment he shared with Cindy and switched on the living-room lights.

  He hung his gun belt over the back of a chair, sat down, took off his shoes, and massaged his feet. Then he walked quietly down the hallway and into the bedroom, where Cindy was sleeping like an angel, her arms spread out like wings, her blond curls framing her adorable face.

  He didn’t want to wake her up. But he needed to sleep.

  He returned to the living room, took the spare blanket and pillow out of the coat closet, stripped down, and got comfortable on the couch. He blinked in the dark, listened to traffic and a couple of drunk guys singing “Silent Night.”

  He sighed deeply and counseled himself to turn off his thoughts. The way he understood it, your brain had to be bored in order for it to go to sleep. His brain couldn’t be more agitated.

  He pictured himself standing in Sloane’s foyer with Jacobi, Lindsay, and Hallows, all of them staring at an older man duct-taped to a chair and shot dead.

  The front door behind them had been unlocked by someone with a key, or, more likely, it had been opened from the inside by Sloane himself. He had known his killers. Or he had trusted them. They had asked Sloane to let them in and he had. Why?

  Sloane’s safe had been open, and according to the handheld print reader, the only prints on the safe were Sloane’s. Had he opened the safe for his killers?

  Conklin could see a shadow standing behind Sloane, holding a gun to his neck.

  The safe had been cleaned out. If Sloane had a phone and a laptop, they’d been stolen. Shell casings had been retrieved by the shooter. CSI picked up a few prints not belonging to the victim and ran them at the scene, but there were no matches in the criminal database.

  The killer or killers had worn gloves.

  So. A couple of questions: Was this a robbery, and the homicide sprang from that? Or was this a homicide and the robbery staged?

  And here were some more questions: Were the robber-killers Loman and an associate? Or was the anonymous tip that Loman had been seen exiting Sloane’s place a deliberate misdirection?

  If the tip was a misdirection, someone who knew Loman or worked for Loman, or possibly even Loman himself, had called it in.

  Why?

  To keep the cops busy while they did their big heist.

  Conklin rolled over to face the back of the couch, punched the pillow, and again tried to empty his mind. A minute later he threw off the blanket, got a beer from the fridge, and stood in the bedroom doorway watching Cindy sleep.

  She had been working flat-out on her story about Eduardo Varela. Her drop-dead deadline was tomorrow, the day before Christmas. He looked at his watch. It was five after two, so actually, it was due today. He hadn’t been able to talk to her about the piece or read a draft of that one or the Christmas-for-immigrants story. He always read her stuff before she sent it in.

  He missed the hell out of her, and she was right here.

  Rich slugged down his beer, grabbed his phone, and texted Jacobi.

  What are you doing?

  Chkg out BlkStar w/ Brady.

  Find anything? Conklin texted.

  Is a dead end anything? Get some sleep. C u in the a.m.

  Conklin went back to the couch and turned the case over in his mind again. If the Sloane hit was a ruse, what was the real deal? If Sloane was the real deal, then he’d been killed for what had been in his safe. Would the canvass of Sloane’s friends and neighbors turn up a lead or a window into the hit?

  What would CSI have to report and how long would he have to wait?

  Was there a thread that tied Julian Lambert, the de Young Museum, two druggies in the van in Hunters Point, BlackStarVR, and Arnold Sloane together?

  Conklin didn’t see it. After a while his brain got tired of cycling through unanswerable questions, and he fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 57

  YUKI WAS PROPPED up in bed with her laptop. It was just past midnight, which meant Christmas Eve was tonight. She was wearing one of Brady’s shirts as a nightgown and was aggravated that he wasn’t home.

  They’d made no plans for Christmas, not for dinner in or out with friends. Unopened cards and wrapped gifts were on the coffee table, but there was still no tree.

  Brady had warned her that his life would belong to the Job if he took over for Jacobi as chief of police and kept doing his other work as well. The situation was meant to be temporary, and she’d encouraged him to see if being the top cop agreed with him. She hadn’t realized that he’d be working all the damned time.

  Yuki was also mad at herself because she’d fallen for the latest of Cindy’s crusades, this one to get Eduardo Varela out of jail. As if that weren’t bad enough, she had inveigled her friend Zac Jordan into taking Varela’s case. Pressure and more pressure.

  When Varela was arrested twelve hours after the murder, the police had administered a gunshot residue—GSR—test. If gunpowder was present, it would prove that he had fired a gun.

  Now Yuki knew the results of that test.

  No GSR had been found on Eduardo’s hands or sleeves. No gun had been found on his person, and the murder weapon had not been recovered at all.

  Only the witness statements of three neighborhood boys, gang members with arrest records, tied Eduardo to the murder. Eduardo believed that one of them had actually done the murder. She believed Eduardo.

  Why hadn’t Peter Bard, Eduardo’s attorney, presented the GSR test results to the judge at his arraignment?

  Why hadn’t Bard discredited the so-called witnesses and pointed the finger at them?

  Now they had something to go on. Despite his busy schedule, Zac had gotten Varela a pretrial hearing at nine a.m. But Yuki wanted to talk to Eduardo’s original lawyer, Peter Bard.

  That was turning out to be im
possible. The last place Bard had worked had gone out of business. He didn’t answer his phone. Her email to him had bounced back. During the past two years, he could have moved to Fiji. For all she knew, he had died there.

  Why didn’t he answer his damned phone?

  Yuki texted both Zac and Cindy to let them know about what might be exculpatory evidence.

  GSR test was negative and never mentioned at arraignment.

  She put her phone down on the night table, and when it buzzed, Yuki glanced at the screen. Brady.

  He had promised to be home hours ago. She didn’t want to break her concentration and get into a long talk with him now on his drive home.

  She had her stiff I’m busy voice on when she answered the phone.

  “Are you sleeping?” Brady asked.

  “Working,” she said.

  “Okay. Me, too. Jacobi and I are patrolling the Presidio. Should be home soon.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said.

  She heard the dispatcher’s staticky voice coming over Brady’s car radio.

  “I’ll let you go,” Yuki said to her husband.

  “See you in a bit,” he said. “We’ll go get that tree in the morning.”

  “Be safe,” she said.

  She hung up before any phone kisses could clear the air and got back into the dubious case against Eduardo Varela.

  CHAPTER 58

  YUKI HAD TURNED out the lights at two, and when she woke up at seven fifteen, she heard and felt Brady sleeping heavily on his side of the bed.

  Before she’d conked out last night, she’d uncovered a bombshell that might give Eduardo a get-out-of-jail-free card. But she hadn’t had a chance to give this discovery a shakedown cruise. If her reasoning was flawed, it would blow up on Team Eduardo.

  Yuki wanted to talk to Brady but didn’t have it in her to wake him. As she showered, she reviewed the bombshell, thinking how Zac would present the argument.

  Now, only an hour before court convened, she was starting to doubt herself. Judge Lauren Innello was hard-core law-and-order. That could work for or against them. If what she’d found was true, would it be enough to convince the judge to overturn the state’s case against Varela?

  At twenty to nine Yuki was behind the wheel of her car, navigating the pre-Christmas traffic crush resulting from people doing their last-minute shopping. She was a good driver and managed a faster-than-moderate speed while thinking through the best way to approach the judge.

  The prosecuting attorney was Anna Palermo. Yuki knew her only slightly. If Anna was reasonable, if she saw what Yuki saw, maybe she could be persuaded to join with Yuki in taking an official position for the district attorney and withdraw the charges.

  If Anna agreed, the judge would go along with them.

  The lot across from the Hall of Justice was full, and there were no empty spots on either side of Bryant Street. Yuki circled the Hall, and when she saw nothing, she ranged farther away, eventually finding one-hour metered parking outside a camera shop on Ninth.

  She would get a ticket, but it couldn’t be helped.

  She grabbed her computer case from the seat beside her, fought to release her seat belt, and locked up her car. Then, dodging pedestrians and ignoring red lights, she turned left on Bryant, dashed two and a half blocks northeast, and still had enough wind to sprint up the courthouse steps.

  The security guard just inside the courthouse gave her a look—well, Yuki did look frazzled—but after checking her ID and running her bag and laptop through the magnetometer, he let her through.

  “You really shouldn’t run in heels,” he called out. “My wife …”

  She was out of range before he finished his sentence.

  The elevator door opened on two, and Yuki forced herself to wait for the frail elderly man standing in front of her to exit the car.

  Then she flew down the marble hallway with her ID in hand. The large wooden doors to courtroom 21 were closed, but when the court officer saw the look on Yuki’s face, he was persuaded to let her in.

  Judge Innello’s court was in session.

  CHAPTER 59

  CINDY WAS SITTING in the back row of courtroom 21, writing the opening to the Varela story in her head.

  She would first set the scene.

  Eduardo Varela, exhausted from his day at the auto shop, has come home for a hot dinner with his wife and kids. He changes into his uniform, his name stitched over the breast pocket of his pressed white shirt. But he’s early for his night shift at the convenience store. Getting behind the wheel of his car, parked along Bartlett Street, he reclines the seat and naps until he is startled awake. He’s scared. Gunshots have been fired, and by someone close by.

  Okay. That would work. But Cindy was sweating it.

  She was an investigative crime reporter. Her work read like fiction, but it was solidly based on journalistic ethics and principles. Professional. Unbiased. Facts only. Facts checked.

  Cindy wanted a good outcome for Eduardo, but if it went badly for him today, Cindy was going to have to write a Christmas tragedy.

  Earlier, as the gallery filled, Cindy had made her way down to the front row of the courtroom and met Eduardo for the first time. She’d seen many photos of him as a free man, and she was shocked by how shrunken and pale he was now, how much older he looked than his forty years.

  When she told Eduardo who she was, he teared up.

  Cindy hugged him, then reached over the seat and hugged his dear wife, Maria, and their three teenage children, sitting behind their father. And she shook Zac Jordan’s hand, wishing him the best of luck.

  After returning to her seat in the back row, she texted Henry Tyler, the newspaper’s editor in chief, to say that she was on the job and would alert him as soon as the case had been dismissed.

  Tyler texted back, Always the optimist.

  She replied with a smiley face.

  Tyler was supportive and he trusted her. Good outcome for Eduardo or bad, she must write this story as if her job depended on it.

  Today, Judge Lauren Innello would hear dozens of case summaries presented in brief by both the prosecution and the defense counsel. She would weigh mitigating or aggravating circumstances and negotiate sentences or pleas for those defendants who wanted to avoid going to trial.

  Would Eduardo get a break? Would he go home or would he go back to jail to keep waiting for trial?

  Cindy was jolted out of her thoughts by someone shaking her shoulder.

  “Yuki!” Cindy said. “What’s wrong?”

  Normally, Yuki was immaculately put together, but right now she looked as though she’d taken a few spins inside a clothes dryer. She put her finger to her lips and indicated to Cindy that she needed to speak with her outside the courtroom, then she went to grab Zac.

  Cindy left her jacket on her seat and waited for Yuki and Zac outside the courtroom.

  What had happened?

  Her thoughts went directly to the worst thing she could imagine: that the murder weapon had been recovered, that it was registered to Eduardo, and that his prints were on the gun.

  When Cindy, Zac, and Yuki were all gathered in a corner of the teeming corridor outside the courtroom, Yuki said, “I found this.”

  She pulled a document out of her handbag and showed it to Zac. After he’d read it, Yuki asked, “What do you think?”

  “We need to get Palermo in on this,” Zac said, referring to the ADA who had brought the homicide charges against Eduardo. “And we have to meet with Judge Innello in chambers.”

  CHAPTER 60

  AT JUST BEFORE six on Christmas Eve, William Lomachenko strolled through the International Terminal at San Francisco International Airport. He wore a loud Christmas sweater—red and green with a big Christmas tree on the chest—jeans, and running shoes, and he had a carry-on bag with the strap slung over his shoulder.

  Loman was bareheaded, which felt odd to him. He’d worn a cap almost constantly since he’d started to lose his hair, around age twenty-five. Like ma
ny bald men, he sported a full beard and mustache.

  There were cameras throughout the terminal, and Loman was counting on that. He glanced at the one inside the entrance as he gazed up at the elongated skylights with structures hanging from the ceiling, then moved on. There was another art installation near the Virgin Atlantic check-in counter, a very grounded sculpture called Stacking Stones.

  The cameras would show that the man in the garish Christmas sweater took a deep breath of ionized air and continued his self-guided tour. He moved at an unhurried pace, checking out exits, escalators, bathrooms, rental-car booths, the left-luggage section, appearing to be just another traveler killing time.

  Eventually he headed toward the shops, most of them with their lights on to capture desperate last-minute shoppers, Christmas music still pouring from the open doors, tinsel and glass ornaments arranged invitingly around merchandise in the plate-glass windows.

  Loman checked the time and pulled what appeared to be a boarding pass from a side pouch of his bag. He peered at it, then looked up at the arrival/departure board as if double-checking the time and the gate number.

  He still had some time.

  Loman scoped out the row of retail stores—the bookstore, the souvenir shop, the candy store, the art gallery, the high-priced toiletries boutique, and Tech4U, an electronic gadgets wonderland.

  That was the one.

  Tech4U was narrow and deep and lined with shrink-wrapped camera, phone, and computer accessories. The blond, tattooed young woman behind the counter was bored enough to listen as he told her about his nephews and asked her advice on what to get them.

  Together they picked out some device chargers and games, and Loman waited as the girl gift-wrapped them. She seemed to enjoy making the square corners, tucking them in, taping them down.

  “Will there be anything else?”

  “Nope, I’m good,” said Loman.