19th Christmas

by Patterson, James

  Finding David Bavar was critical and urgent. Getting Lomachenko’s confession to killing Richard Russell would hold him as we put the pieces of assorted murder and mayhem—Julian Lambert, deceased; Arnold Sloane, deceased; and the Keystone Cops caper at SFO this morning—into a believable whole.

  We didn’t yet have proof that Loman had murdered anyone or kidnapped Bavar, but we were prepared to work on him until the sun came up—or until he said, “Get me my lawyer.”

  Which wouldn’t be a good thing. With a good lawyer and a sympathetic judge, he might get bail. And then he might jump.

  I balled up my brown bag of sandwich crusts and dunked it into the trash can.

  Conklin said, “Ready?”

  “After I brush my teeth.”

  Minutes later we were in our chairs at the scarred gray metal table in Interview 1. With Loman facing the glass and the camera rolling, I took the lead.

  I asked our suspect nicely, “Mr. Lomachenko, we don’t get it. Why were you at BlackStar VR this afternoon?”

  “Tell ya the truth, I’m not entirely sure,” he said. “Dick Russell, friend of mine, asked me to come with him. I thought he just wanted company. Someone to talk to or hold his coat.”

  “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.

  “Mr. Lomachenko. Your friend is on the ME’s table now. Do you want to wait for us to have conclusive proof that you shot him? We don’t mind. Because once we have you sewn up for Richard Russell’s murder, we’re done with you. No bargaining. No deals for cooperation.”

  Loman stared at me for a long time and I stared back.

  He blinked now.

  “I shot him.”

  “You shot who?”

  “I shot Russell. It was self-defense. He was paranoid and going nuts. He said that I was on Bavar’s side, was waving his gun at me. Are you getting this down?”

  I pointed to the camera.

  “Good. Because this is the truth. He was waving the gun like this, fanning it back and forth between Bavar and me. I didn’t recognize him anymore. When he told me that he was going to kill me, I had to shoot him. Bavar opened the door and I ran inside. I wasn’t thinking about Bavar. I was thinking about hiding until the coast was clear.” He scanned our faces to see if we were buying it. “You can understand that, can’t you?” he said. “There’s a good chance I was going to come forward and tell the police, but first I had to get my head straight. I never shot a gun before. I never shot a person.”

  “I hear you,” said Conklin. “A gun pointed at you is a life-changing experience. I’m sure you’re very upset. But I just want to remind you that right now you’ve got some leverage. The DA may make some allowances when he charges you for shooting Russell. You know what I mean?”

  Lomachenko was silent.

  Conklin said, “Tell you the truth, Mr. Lomachenko, the best thing you can do for yourself i
s to tell us where to find Bavar.”

  Lomachenko looked my partner straight in the eye and said, “No offense, but I think the best thing I can do for myself is not say another word until I speak with my lawyer.”

  CHAPTER 89

  OUR SQUAD ROOM was empty, and not because the guys on the night shift had stayed home with their families.

  Every cop in the Hall of Justice, including the sheriff’s department and the motorcycle division, was at either SFO or BlackStar, mopping up after Loman.

  I called Brady and gave him the shorthand version of our four-hour interrogation.

  “He copped to shooting Russell in self-defense,” I said. I asked him again about obtaining security footage from Building 3. “Brady, the footage shot from the doorway could show us what happened to Bavar.”

  “Boxer, I’m dancin’ as fast as I can. We had to locate someone who could access the system. We’ve pulled the tapes, and we’re finding people to look at them. It’s late. We’ll have pictures from the side doorway as soon as humanly possible. If the camera was running. Go home. Now. That’s an order.”

  “I’m defying you,” I said. “I’m not done with Loman, not yet. I just had an idea.”

  Brady told me that he was going to crash his car if he didn’t get some sleep.

  I said, “Go home now. That’s an order.”

  He croaked out a laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”

  I texted Joe, told him I was alive but didn’t know when I would be home. I sent a long string of Xs and Os, and he texted back: I’m up. And awake. Julie’s asleep. Be safe.

  I went looking for Conklin. I found him in the break room.

  “Wut up, Linds.”

  He looked like he’d been run over by a garbage truck, and I was pretty sure he looked better than me.

  I had stashed a chocolate bar in the back of the silverware drawer. I sat down, offered to share my snack with Conklin.

  He said, “Thanks. But no.” I could feel it coming. In another minute he was going to tell me what time it was and put on his jacket.

  I said, “Just reviewing what we know.”

  He nodded.

  “We saw Bavar walking with Loman and Russell before they hooked a fast left to the side door of Building Three.”

  “Right,” said Richie.

  “So Loman shoots Russell. Maybe Bavar takes off?”

  “Possible. And as soon as he can get a phone or find a squad car in the parking lot, he tells the police.”

  “Or Loman points the gun at Bavar and orders him into the building.”

  “Let’s assume that,” said Conklin.

  “If that’s true, dead or alive, he’s in Building Three.”

  Conklin and I had gone all through that building, looking for the janitor and for Bavar. The ground floor had the reception area and a half a dozen conference rooms, all open spaces. The top three floors were filled with small offices. “Is David Bavar’s body lying behind a desk in one of the offices?” I wondered out loud.

  Conklin said, “Tac teams also went through those offices.”

  “Yep. But it was fast, a security sweep, looking for a shooter, a body, a person in distress. It will take days before they get maintenance and security people to take them through the building with blueprints. Dismantle it brick by brick.”

  Conklin nodded his agreement.

  I said, “We know one person who can tell us where to find Bavar.”

  “I’ll go up to the jail and tuck Loman in,” Conklin said. I washed the chocolate bar down with coffee, went back to my desk, then called Metro Hospital and said that I was Warren Jacobi’s sister and I wanted to talk to him.

  The nurse on duty wasn’t forthcoming. “Says here his phone is off.”

  “What’s his condition?”

  “I don’t have that information,” she said.

  “Can you take a message?”

  “Sure.”

  “Please tell him that Lindsay called.”

  I hung up to see that Conklin was in his seat across from me.

  He said, “Loman says his lawyer isn’t around. He left an outgoing message: ‘Mr. Doheny is away from the office until January second and cannot be reached. He’ll get back to you when he returns.’ Words to that effect.”

  Good. This bought us some time.

  Conklin said, “He’s insisting on talking to his wife. Not that he has any right to.”

  I said, “You know what? We should go talk to her first.”

  CHAPTER 90

  LOMAN WAS LYING across the narrow bench in his brightly lit holding cell at an unpopulated end of the line.

  He jumped to his feet when we brought his wife, Imogene, into the jail. We set her up on a chair outside his cage.

  Loman grabbed the bars and greeted her sorrowfully. “Bunny, are you okay? Are you okay?”

  She, too, was wearing an orange jumpsuit. I’d woken Brady from REM sleep and filled him in in less than thirty seconds. What we were doing wasn’t illegal, but it was unorthodox. We needed our lieutenant/chief to help us make it happen. He had put in the call, and Mrs. Lomachenko had been transported pronto from the women’s jail a few blocks away.

  She looked her husband directly in the eye. She didn’t bother with pleasantries, just got right to it.

  “Willy, they said you killed Dick Russell. That’s a lie. That’s got to be a lie. You love him.”

  Loman’s eyes watered up. He looked past his wife and directed angry looks at me and Conklin.

  “Can we have some privacy?”

  My partner and I stepped ten feet away and turned our backs. Cameras monitored by techs lined the cell block and one was pointing at the Lomachenkos.

  Loman said, “I had to do it, Imogene. It was self-defense. He was going to shoot me.”

  She responded in a strong, unmodulated voice, “William. The police are charging me as your coconspirator. Your accomplice to a murder. I must be dreaming. I must be having a very bad dream.”

  “I’m sorry, Bunny,” he said. “Very sorry.”

  “Sorry for what, exactly, Willy? I don’t understand any of this. What did you do?”

  He told her a version of the story he’d told us, but this time it was a confession of involvement—and there was motive. It took all the restraint I had to keep my hands still and my eyes on the far end of the hallway.

  “I wanted us to have a better life,” Lomachenko told his wife. “There was going to be a huge payday and no one was going to get hurt. No one. Believe me, Imogene. Please. I did this for us. I had a private jet waiting. You and I were going to fly to Switzerland. I bought a place there for us and filled it with modern art. A beautiful high-rise condo, three bedrooms, overlooking Lake Geneva.”

  A mirror was angled at the juncture of two walls, giving a view of the block. I saw Mrs. Lomachenko shaking her head vigorously, displaying disbelief and anger.

  Her husband went on. “This was your birthday surprise. We were going to be rich and have nothing but the best for the rest of our lives. You can thank Dick for screwing it up.”

  “I don’t know you,” Imogene Lomachenko said. “Twenty years of marriage. A nice life. And you wanted to what? Take all of that away from me? You wanted me to live as a fugitive in a foreign country? Are you crazy?”

  Imogene Lomachenko’s fury and indignation reverberated throughout the cellblock. Other prisoners laughed. They jeered.

  Lomachenko’s head was down.

  Imogene went on.

  “And now what’s going to happen to me? I’m going to die in a high-rise cell in San Francisco with a view of a wall?”

  “It was an accident,” he said. “A terrible accident. If Dick had done his research, we’d have—”

  That was my cue.

  I said, “Mr. Lomachenko, this just came in.”

  I looked down at my phone and called up the video our computer specialist had just sent to me.

  I said, “There was a camera above the doorway to Building Three.”

  “
What … and so what? I don’t believe you. I didn’t see a camera.”

  I said, “It saw you.”

  CHAPTER 91

  I’D PREVIEWED THE video with Conklin a moment before, and now I held up the phone so that both Imogene and her husband could see the screen.

  The visual quality was exceptional. And now that I could hear the audio, it, too, was clear. What you’d expect from a cutting-edge technology company.

  Russell: “Willy, no, no, no.”

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

  Lomachenko was on his feet, shaking the bars. He yelled at me and Conklin, “Stop that. For God’s sake, stop the film.”

  The video continued running, and I made sure that Imogene could see every bit of it: Loman pointing the gun at Russell and firing once, then again. The same overhead view showed David Bavar cowering beside the side door and Lomachenko standing over the body of Russell.

  Imogene’s expression was of wide-eyed horror. She gasped loudly, then covered her mouth with her hands.

  We all heard Russell’s dying moans and the third shot, the coup de grâce, followed by Lomachenko’s voice saying to Bavar, “Look into the scanner.”

  We watched Lomachenko open the door, tell Bavar to get inside, then follow him in.

  I stopped the recording and addressed the man doubled over on his bench, his hands clasped across the top of his head. “Mr. Lomachenko, this is what we call irrefutable proof. Rock solid. We’ve got you.”

  When I was sure he’d absorbed that bombshell, I went on.

  “Here’s your Christmas gift from my partner and me. You tell us right now where we can find David Bavar. You confess in writing to all of it—Richard Russell, Julian Lambert, Arnold Sloane, the airport scam, and the kidnapping.

  “Do that, and when we have Mr. Bavar, I’ll call the DA and ask him to withdraw the charges against your wife. No promises, but I’ll call in favors, and he’s a friend.”

  Lomachenko didn’t move, just stayed in his crouch. What was he thinking?

  I said, “If you love your wife, Mr. Lomachenko, do the right thing. Let her go home.”