The 19th Christmas

by James Patterson

  Jacobi had the receiver to his ear and was twisting the cord around his fingers, but he was still on hold, so I gave him the highlights of my research.

  I said, “From what I can tell, you don’t have to come through the skylight on a rope with suction cups and a glass cutter or crawl under laser beams. You want to rob a museum, go at night. No civilians, small security detail. Threaten and terrify the guards, bind them with duct tape, get the keys and codes, lift the loot that is hanging in plain sight, and get the hell out.

  “I wonder if that’s Loman’s plan. Do the hit not on Christmas Day, as we’ve been led to believe, but after museum hours on Christmas Eve. Not many security guards working then.”

  Jacobi said, “I like your thinking,” and turned his attention back to the phone. “James Karp? It’s Warren Jacobi. Yeah, I know, long time. Listen, Karp, I’m helping out at Southern Station on a tip we got that the de Young is going to be burglarized.”

  “Put him on speaker,” I said.

  Jacobi hit the button and introduced the security head, adding, “Boxer, Karp and I were patrolling a beat when you were in high school.”

  I laughed politely and said, “That can’t be right.” I cut to the chase, telling Karp about our unconfirmed lead pointing to a possible well-armed hit on the museum on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day.

  Our call was interrupted when Officer Bubbleen Waters texted me from the seventh-floor jail. Sgt. I got your prisoner in a box. Lambert, Julian.

  Jacobi told Karp he’d call him back and signed off.

  We went upstairs to the jail. I was ready and eager to talk to Julian Lambert. I had news for him about his friend Dietz.

  And we weren’t leaving Lambert until he had actionable news for us.

  Chapter 22

  Julian Lambert wore a day-old beard and the same odd expression I’d noticed when Conklin and I arrested him yesterday. He took a chair at the table in the jail’s small meeting room, seeming wan and pale, as if lockup was having a bad effect on his morale.

  “Sergeant Boxer, right?”

  “How’re you doing, Julian?”

  I saw that I was going to be the good cop; Jacobi’s age and interrogation style made him a natural heavy. I introduced him as Chief Jacobi, and we all sat at the table, which was twice the size of a luncheon tray.

  Would Lambert talk? Our deal with him was paying out tomorrow. He’d given us Dietz, and in exchange, when he went to arraignment court, the ADA bringing the assault and theft charges would drop them and he would be released.

  Julian had made good on his side of the deal. We had no leverage.

  I said, “We found Chris Dietz at the Anthony.”

  “Like I said. I hope you didn’t mention my name.”

  “We found him, Julian, but we didn’t talk to him. He pulled his weapon and fired on us. He was killed in the return fire.”

  “Oh, no. You killed him?” The jolly expression was gone.

  Jacobi jumped in, all business.

  “Mr. Lambert, we need some help. We’re getting miscellaneous tips about what Loman’s crew is up to.”

  Lambert said, “I can’t believe you killed Dietz. This is my fault. He’s dead because of me—because of what I told you.”

  I took temporary leave of my good-cop role. “He’s dead because he fired on police. He knew he was going to die.”

  Jacobi refused to be sidetracked. He said to Lambert, “The calls we’re getting say Loman’s going to hit a bank, a museum, or some other high-value target—”

  “Wow. Well, I’m not surprised. Loman has a rep for thinking big.”

  Jacobi said, “I’ve got some questions for you, Lambert, and here’s your incentive. Tell us what we want to know, or we’re going to hold you as a material witness until you give us what we need to close this deal down.”

  “No. Wait. I’m supposed to be released tomorrow.”

  Jacobi said, “How do we find Loman?”

  “I have no idea. He could live in outer space for all I know.”

  “I know this,” said Jacobi. “You’re keeping back information.”

  “Jezusss. I told the sergeant. I heard that Chris had a job working for Loman. I didn’t speak with Loman or with Chris. I guess it’s too late now.”

  Lambert seemed genuinely broken up. Jacobi didn’t care.

  I gave Jacobi a look and he pushed his chair back from the table. I said, “Julian, listen to me. More people could die. You want that on you?”

  Lambert said, “I’ve told you everything I know. Supposed to be a big heist on Christmas. Loman is the boss. I’ve never met him, thank God. Who do you think I am, CIA?”

  “Who’s your informant? Who told you that Dietz had a job with Loman and that there was going to be a heist?” I asked. “Give me a name, Julian.”

  “I can’t say. I can’t say. It wouldn’t do you any good if I did. I got it from a nobody who happened to overhear a phone call.”

  “Your story is changing, Julian. You overheard it? Or someone else overheard it? What’s the truth?”

  “It’s getting to where your guess is as good as mine. I’m not sleeping. I’m not eating. I can’t even think anymore.”

  Either Lambert was digging in or he really was empty.

  I stood up from the table, walked to the door, hit it with the flat of my hand, and called, “Guard.”

  Jacobi said to Lambert, “Be smart. Speak now, or we’ll hold you as a material witness. We don’t mind keeping you while we file additional charges. Obstruction of justice comes to mind.”

  Lambert appeared startled. He said, “Look, I can’t verify this.”

  The door opened and two guards came into the room.

  “Hang on a minute,” Jacobi said to the guards. Then, to Lambert, “We’re listening.”

  “What I heard was they were going to hit the mint.”

  “The San Francisco Mint? Who told you that?” I asked.

  He shook his head—no, no, no.

  “Give me a name.”

  “Marcus, okay? That’s all I know about him. Calls himself Marcus, no known address. He’s harmless, so try not to kill him, all right?”

  “What else?” I said. “Anything about a hit on a museum? Any targeted political figures?”

  “No,” said Lambert. “Marcus said the mint.”

  I didn’t think an army could get into the mint. The gray stone structure located on Hermann Street in the Lower Haight was completely closed to the public. Currency was no longer produced there, but the mint did strike commemoratives, special coins, and sets—it was a highly fortified fort full of gold and silver bars.

  “Don’t use my name,” Lambert pleaded. “Keep my name out of this.”

  Jacobi and I left Lambert with the guards and took the elevator down to the squad room.

  I said to Jacobi, “Could this be true? The mint is impenetrable. Guns and ski masks won’t cut it. What’s your bullshit detector tell you?”

  Jacobi said, “That it’s time to call the Secret Service.”

  Part Three

  December 23

  Chapter 23

  Julian Lambert left the jail in the Hall of Justice on Bryant Street with his backpack over his shoulder and wearing the red down jacket and dirty clothes he’d had on when he was arrested.

  He’d felt like a vagrant in court, but the cops had made good on their promise. The ADA had said, “We’re withdrawing the charges, Your Honor.”

  He was freed into a blustery morning. He walked northwest into a high, damp wind, trying to shake off the feeling of cuffs and bars, the omnipresent glare of fluorescent lights and psychopathic guards, the echoing shouts of prisoners.

  He’d spent only two nights in a cell, but it felt like a year. And now the rest of his life was ahead of him.

  With the wind blowing his hair around, Lambert adjusted his backpack and headed toward Victoria Manalo Draves Park, thinking of the job to come. He was sure that it would be a well-oiled process, and just as with a spy ce
ll, he wouldn’t know the others on the team and they wouldn’t know him.

  When the job was done, Loman would give him a passport, a new name and address, and a flush bank account in a city with a coastline. That was the deal. He was thinking he just might have some work done. Lose the bags under his eyes, shave down the nose. There was nothing he would miss about San Francisco, USA.

  He had just crossed Columbia Square when a car horn honked behind him. He turned and watched as the blue Ford sedan pulled alongside him and slowed to a stop.

  The car had one occupant, the driver, who buzzed down the passenger-side window and called out to him. “Lambert, right?”

  Lambert walked over to the car and peered in. “And you are?”

  “Dick Russell. Loman’s man.”

  Lambert said, “I thought Loman was coming.”

  “He wants to have lunch with you,” said Russell. “Get in.” Lambert got into the passenger seat and closed the door, and the car took off.

  Loman’s man looked nothing like a criminal. He wore old-man clothes, a cap with a button-snap brim, a khaki Windbreaker, and perforated leather driving gloves. His face was unlined and ink-free, and he was carrying a spare tire around his waist. To Lambert’s eyes, Russell looked like an accountant.

  “Lunch, huh?” Lambert said. “Mind driving by my crib so I can change? I’d rather not smell this bad, you know?”

  Russell said, “We don’t have time, and besides, it’s not necessary. Loman is very impressed. Tell me how you got yourself arrested, if you don’t mind.”

  Lambert relaxed. A light rain pattered on the windshield, and the wiper blades smoothed it away. He was thrilled to be able to tell the story to someone, and Dick Russell was a very eager audience.

  Lambert began, “It was Mr. Loman’s inspiration.”

  Then he gave Russell the play-by-play, how he’d planned his moves as he ran, knocking down the old man and grabbing the bag, feinting, dodging, slowing so the cop could lunge and catch him.

  Russell cracked up at the punch lines, then asked him what happened once the cops had him in the box.

  Lambert told him about giving up Dietz as instructed. “The cops just told me about Dietz getting killed. Did you know?”

  Russell nodded, slowed for the light on Howard Street. “I heard. Did you know he had cancer?”

  “No. I didn’t know him very well.”

  “It was sad. Terminal. In his brain. Dietz didn’t want to die in a cell with his mind turning to mush, so he decided to go out in a blaze of glory.”

  “No shit.”

  Russell continued, explaining that Dietz’s cut of the take was going to his daughter in Newark. “We’re funneling the money into her bank account.”

  “Nice,” said Lambert. “The cops bit on the map of the park Dietz left on his phone—I take it that was part of the plan?”

  “Absolutely,” said Russell. “So, Julian, where did you leave things with the cops?”

  Lambert told Loman’s man the whole story of the second interrogation—the threats, the pressure, how the two major-league cops finally dragged “the truth” out of him.

  Lambert said, “I told them I heard Loman’s crew was going to hit the mint.”

  “You’re kidding,” Russell said, turning to grin at Lambert. “That’s brilliant. Protecting the mint will drain their resources. What made you think of that?”

  Lambert was laughing now, enjoying the ride and the company. He said, “I always wanted to hit the mint. Must be pallets of gold bars and vaults full of coins in there. I’m a pretty good safecracker. But wait—that isn’t the target, is it?” he asked. “I didn’t accidentally give it away?”

  Russell said, “Not at all. Make sure to tell Loman all about this; he’s going to love it. He’ll be meeting us in about five minutes. He’s never late.”

  Chapter 24

  There was a lull in the conversation between Lambert and Russell as Russell negotiated the traffic in the rain, looking at his watch every few minutes. Lambert didn’t want to interrupt Russell’s thoughts, so he tuned in to his own.

  He thought again about Dietz. He didn’t know much about the guy, but he’d gleaned that Dietz was a sports fisherman, owned a boat called the Mai Tai he talked about a lot, and had a seventeen-year-old daughter named Debbie. When he’d known Dietz, he hadn’t yet been diagnosed with cancer. Shit. He’d been only about forty.

  Lambert tried to picture what the cops had told him about Dietz firing on armed SWAT like he wanted to die. They didn’t know that Dietz and Loman had planned this “blaze of glory” in exchange for a payout to Dietz’s daughter. Generous of Loman to spring for it. But then, Dietz had come through for Loman even in death.

  Lambert appreciated Loman’s game plan, throwing down fake clues like spike strips in the path of the police, distracting them from the real plan and, at the same time, scaring the citizens with random chaotic events. It took tremendous skill and confidence to do that.

  Lambert’s own strength was that he was a complete athlete, almost a player-coach. The coach had foresight; he could diagram plays and knew when to call them. The player saw the whole field, anticipated events and knew what to do in the moment. His movements were quick and instinctive. He executed.

  Lambert had used these skills in football and in life, and they had never failed him.

  For this job, he would work with Loman’s playbook and carefully script out his plays. He had a nose for the goal line—in this case, the money. And he’d know how to make it to the end zone.

  Right now Lambert was seeing himself at a nice restaurant at a table with a view, having a three-course lunch, Loman telling him what he expected from him in the upcoming heist of the century.

  Russell made a turn onto the Great Highway, followed the signs toward Lands End. There was a good restaurant out there, the Cliff House, where on a clear day you could see 180 degrees of ocean beyond the rocky bluff.

  “What we’re going to do,” Russell said, “is stop at the Lands End Lookout off El Camino del Mar. Loman is going to meet us there, and you’ll go in his car with him. I’ll drive around for a little while, make sure I wasn’t followed, and then I’ll meet you at the restaurant. There’s our turnoff.”

  Russell turned left and drove toward a paved parking area flanked by trees and, ahead, the USS San Francisco Memorial. On the left was a breathtaking view of the Pacific, to the right, the Golden Gate Bridge.

  “I need a little help,” Russell said. He angled the car and backed it up so that the rear was against the parking barrier and the front was pointed toward the road. Lambert noticed that the weather had kept the tourists inside. The parking lot, usually busy, was empty.

  “Sure, Dick. What do you need?” Lambert asked.

  And now he noticed that Russell seemed edgy.

  “Everything okay?” Lambert asked.

  “I’ve got a ton of weapons in the trunk. They’re in duffel bags, so no worries. We’ll transfer them to Loman’s car, but let’s get them out now.”

  Russell pulled up on the trunk release and got out. Lambert climbed out of the passenger seat and, walking straight into the wind, reached the back of the car before the older man. He pulled up on the latch. The trunk lid sprang up.

  The cargo space was carpeted in black. Lambert saw a duffel bag, but it was flat; it didn’t seem like it held “a ton of weapons.” He leaned in and patted it.

  The bag was empty. Was he missing the obvious, or had Russell exaggerated?

  Lambert was straightening up to ask when he felt a jolt of fear.

  It was animal instinct, a realization that he’d read this game all wrong.

  Chapter 25

  The man who had said that his name was Dick Russell fired a round into the back of Lambert’s neck.

  Lambert was dead when Russell pushed him into the open trunk. The gunman didn’t look it, but he was strong enough to easily fold Lambert’s body into the rear compartment without getting any blood on himself.


  He frisked the dead man for his wallet, took it from his back pocket, closed the trunk, then went through Lambert’s backpack, still in the front seat. Finding no other ID, he left the backpack and locked up the car. By now it would have been reported stolen, but it would be days before a car left here would be called in or even noticed.

  Standing at the rear of the Ford, the man in the old-geezer clothes tossed the car keys, the wallet, and the unregistered gun over the cliff, one after the other, and watched each one bounce down over the sharp rocks and land.

  Then he made a call with his burner phone.

  “Dick, where are you?…Good. I’m leaving the parking area now. I hope you brought my clothes. All right. See you soon.”

  The phone followed the wallet, gun, and keys over the edge almost two hundred feet down to the rocks above the crashing waves. After double-checking that no one was around the parking area, Loman started walking along the verge of El Camino del Mar.

  Only a few minutes had passed before a horn blew behind him and his black Escalade stopped. Russell reached across the front seat and opened the door for him.

  Loman got in.

  “Man, I’m wet. And hungry,” Loman said to his number two.

  “Clothes are in the back seat and I’ve got reservations,” Russell said. “Table with a hazy view.”

  “How’s it going from your end?” Loman asked.

  “Like clockwork,” said Russell.

  “That’s what I like to hear,” said Loman.

  He grinned at Russell, who grinned back and stepped on the gas.

  Chapter 26

  Cindy was already hard at work in her home office at dawn, polishing the article about Christmas in San Francisco’s barrios.

  Her interviews with undocumented immigrants had left her feeling sad. There was nothing uplifting about people celebrating Christmas in the darkness, wondering if a slipup or a traffic stop could turn into a deportation. Was it even possible to keep cultural tradition alive when living in shadows that could stretch for decades?