Mayor Caputo had taken the informant’s tip about Loman’s threat on his life very seriously. He’d canceled the Toys for Tots Christmas gift giveaway because his presence would be putting citizens in danger. And then he’d gone to his office as Brady had requested and stayed on top of the rumored Christmas heist. He was angry that he could be manipulated, threatened, and he wasn’t going to accept anything less than “We locked the bastard up. He’s behind bars and under armed guard.”
Yes, sir. Brady wanted the same.
Whoever Loman was. Wherever he was. He had to be caught and held.
Every ambulatory cop in San Francisco was working to find Loman, prompting a new phrase for spinning your wheels. Now it was working a Loman.
Brady had just gotten off the phone with Lindsay when a shadow crossed his desk. He started, then saw that Sergeant Roger Bentley was standing in the doorway.
Brady snapped, “What is it, Bentley?”
Bentley was a solid cop but not a brilliant one. He lumbered into Brady’s office and dropped into a chair that hadn’t been built for a man of his size and weight.
Bentley said, “My kid is home for the holidays. He’s taking computer science at San Jose State.”
Brady said, “Uh-huh,” thinking, Oh, man, please. Not his kid’s theory of the phantom heist.
Bentley said, “Declan picked up some information in a…like, a virtual chat room.”
“Uh-huh.”
Brady’s head was spinning almost clear off his neck. He’d never heard of so many tips netting nothing. Meanwhile, three people had been shot in the past couple of hours, he had two possible accessories to a rumored upcoming armed robbery in holding, the mayor was panicking, and every cop in the city who hadn’t had the foresight to blow town for the holidays was on the Loman case.
The SFPD was seriously depleted—emotionally, psychologically, and physically—and they had nothing to show for it.
Brady said, “Bentley, cut to the chase, will you please?”
“Okay, okay. I hardly understand this virtual stuff, but Declan is aces at it. He says the heist has something to do with computer software, a new program or something, manufactured in top secret labs by a company called BlackStar.”
“Not exactly a rock-solid lead, Bentley, but thanks.”
Bentley said, “You said…never mind. Good night, Lieu.”
He took the four steps to the door, then spun around and said, “Lieu, Declan says a guy who is part of this heist is some kind of systems-analyst genius. He kills on the game boards. He calls himself the Low Man’s Brain.”
“I don’t get you, Bentley. I haven’t slept in three days.”
“The Low Man. Loman. Get it?”
“Okay. Now I get it. Go home, Bentley, and tell Declan I said thanks.”
Brady was out of gas. He remembered there was a day-old steak sandwich in the fridge with his name on the wrapper.
He made the trek to the break room, found the sandwich and an unopened bottle of near beer—thank you, Jesus—and brought it all back to his desk.
Maybe it was the protein or the carbs, but when he was halfway through the sandwich, the name BlackStar started ringing a tinny and distant bell. Brady sat upright in his chair, took his mouse in hand, and called up the computer files from the crime scene at the Anthony Hotel.
The photos were numerous, organized chronologically, starting in the hallway. First shots were of the blood spatter, the markers, the bullet holes, the dead man lying in his blood, and the door to 6F hanging by one hinge. The next photos were of Chris Dietz’s body from several angles and then the inside of Dietz’s rented crib.
Brady impatiently clicked through the photos of the half-eaten food, the open closet, the electronics lined up on the coffee table.
He didn’t know enough about electronics to understand the functions of the assortment of small black boxes, but he could read the logo imprinted on two of them. The corporate name had been unfamiliar to him—until Declan’s dad spoke the words five minutes ago.
The gadgets were made by BlackStar VR.
Did that mean something? BlackStar. The Low Man’s Brain. He was at a loss. What would Jacobi do?
Well. He’d just have to ask him.
Chapter 52
Jacobi had his key in the ignition of his car and was thinking about home, bed, and blessed sleep when Brady called and asked him to work a new angle on the Loman case.
If Brady was working, how could Jacobi say no?
“Tell me about it,” he said to Brady.
Brady filled him in on the BlackStar lead and invited Jacobi to work from his comfortable former office on the fifth floor. Jacobi got out of his car and set the alarm. He said, “I’ll use Boxer’s desk. She won’t mind.”
The Homicide bullpen was grim in the daytime, but right now, the flickering fluorescent lights reminded Jacobi of hundreds of late nights working murder cases in this room.
Even after Brady told him all that he knew on this new tip, Jacobi still didn’t get it. Sergeant Bentley’s kid had turned up a possible lead in a chat room—a video gamer with a screen name sounding like Loman hinted that he was part of a crew targeting a computer company. To Jacobi, following up on an anonymous internet tip was like feeling for your glasses under the bed in the dark after a night of drinking.
The odds of finding the glasses were better.
Jacobi adjusted Boxer’s chair, typed her password into her cranky old Dell, and brought up BlackStar Virtual Reality’s website.
He quickly gathered that BlackStar was privately held, had its corporate headquarters in San Francisco, and employed a couple of thousand employees on a modern campus in the Presidio. The company also had dozens of manufacturing plants and offices worldwide. As Jacobi clicked around the site, he learned that BSVR specialized in sophisticated computer games, corporate intelligence, and cybersecurity and that NASA and the US military were major clients.
That was interesting.
Jacobi pulled the desk phone toward him and dialed Bentley’s son at the number Brady had given him. Declan Bentley was a nineteen-year-old college freshman and video gamer. According to his father, he was also conversant in various technical areas Jacobi lumped together under the heading of computer stuff.
Jacobi had taught himself to text and program his GPS and play around with some apps on his phone, but he was far from tech-smart. He was a member of the AARP . That’s just the way it was.
He figured Declan would be awake, and in fact, the kid answered his phone on the second ring, said, “Talk to me.”
“Declan, it’s Warren Jacobi. Maybe your father told you I was going to call.”
“Oh, right. I’d be happy to help.”
“Excellent. Thanks, Declan. Appreciate it.”
Jacobi wrote the kid’s name and the time and date on one of the yellow pads Brady left all over the squad room.
“Here’s the deal, Declan. Your chat-room conversation with the Low Man’s Brain. Tell me everything you remember.”
Part Four
December 24
Chapter 53
Jacobi looked at his watch—early in the morning on December 24. Officially Christmas Eve, and all over the city, cops of all levels and from all departments were staked out at plum targets, watching for a job to begin.
Nothing was off the table.
If the Low Man’s Brain was part of Loman’s crew, if he had leaked something useful to Declan Bentley, Jacobi had to extract that information PDQ.
He asked the kid, “This guy actually said he was part of a plan to hit BlackStar VR? You believed him?”
Declan said, “Yeah, I did believe him. The Brain says he’s a systems analyst. He’s online a lot, and he’s a killer gamer, so over time he’s earned some cred with me.”
“What word did he use, Declan? Hit? Rob? Attack? ”
“He said, ‘Put a world of hurt on BlackStar.’”
“Did you save a copy of the chat, Declan?”
“
I didn’t even think to do that.”
Jacobi pressed on. “Did you ask him what he meant by putting ‘a world of hurt’ on a company?”
“Sure. I said, ‘Dude. What the hell?’ He just laughed and then said something like, ‘You’ll read about it,’ and then he said he was going to put the hurt on me in Lord of Klandar—that’s a game—and he left the room. If Dad hadn’t mentioned that he was working the Loman case, I wouldn’t have even put those two names together.”
“So help me understand, Declan,” Jacobi said. “This Low Man’s Brain. That’s a screen name, right? He says he’s involved in a criminal enterprise, he admits that he’s a criminal, and he’s confident no one can figure out who he is?”
“No one can,” said Declan. “No way, not possible. I don’t know if the Brain is a he or a cyborg or a five-year-old girl genius in the Netherlands.”
Jacobi said, “Okay, okay. You have any idea why BlackStar would be the target of this hit?”
Declan said, “BSVR is big, man, and profitable. Privately held. They’re like the new Intel. Maybe they have a weaponized program that could penetrate any kind of system. That’s possible. Their games are all about war. Or maybe the Brain is just full of crap.”
“Okay, Declan, I’m drowning in maybes and I need a definite something. BlackStar’s founder is a man named David Bavar. Apparently, he’s your typical tech genius, very rich, keeps to himself. Do you know anything about him that I don’t know?”
“Well, right now he’s in Davos. Switzerland.”
“How do you know that?” Jacobi asked.
“He’s been streaming his ski trip in the Alps. He’s pretty good. Want me to show you how you can be, like, sitting on his shoulders going down a black-diamond slope?”
Jacobi said, “Some other time.” He thanked the kid and wished him a merry Christmas before he hung up.
Was anything he’d just learned useful?
Loman, whoever he was, did big stickup jobs, or so the story went. As Jacobi understood it, stealing a program wouldn’t require a crew with guns and masks. Digital theft would be done over the internet. Wouldn’t it?
Jacobi went back to the keyboard with his stiff old fingers and looked up BlackStar’s CEO on all available databases. He found him in a court document related to a lawsuit against BSVR for patent infringement. BlackStar had beaten that rap.
Noting that it was around midmorning in Davos, Jacobi made the call. He listened to the phone ring and had just about decided that Bavar must already be out on the slopes when someone answered the phone.
Chapter 54
Jacobi pressed the phone to his ear and introduced himself to David Bavar as chief of police, retired, on special assignment.
He gave the tech billionaire Boxer’s extension and the phone number of the department so that he could call back on a line that would be answered “SFPD, Homicide.” Jacobi drummed his fingers on the desk, got a cup of mud from the break room, and returned to Boxer’s desk just as the phone rang.
“Chief Jacobi,” he said.
“Ah, this is David Bavar. Now, tell me again what this is about.”
Jacobi explained that a criminal with a rumored history of big, bloody robberies on an epic scale was reportedly targeting BlackStar, and possibly this hit would come tonight.
When Bavar laughed, Jacobi felt ridiculous. That pissed him off.
He took a breath and realized that most people would be skeptical if they got a call like this from a stranger. Still. He was trying to help the guy. When Bavar asked him the source of his information, Jacobi took the easy way out.
“I can’t discuss this while our investigation is in progress.”
Bavar said, “So what is it you think I should do? I’m at the airport in Zurich and will be out of touch for about eight hours. After that, I can be reached at this number. My offices are officially closed until New Year’s. We’re in the cybersecurity business, Chief, uh, Jacobi, and I guarantee you that no one is hacking into our systems. If we had a vulnerability, I would know about it.”
“Say that that’s true, Mr. Bavar. Do you have any enemies who might want to do harm to your company?”
“Hundreds. No one likes an overnight success.”
“Does the name Loman mean anything to you?”
“I don’t think so,” said Bavar. “Who or what is Loman?”
Jacobi reluctantly crossed that avenue off his list and moved on.
“Mr. Bavar, do you have any objects of value that a professional criminal with a history of armored-car and casino heists would find worth his time?”
“Like what?”
“You tell me, Mr. Bavar. This isn’t my field. Do you have some kind of cutting-edge gizmo or stealth hacking program or top secret government plans, anything like that?”
“Nothing that could be found, recognized, and stolen in some kind of break-in. It just doesn’t work that way, but if you want to drive out to our corporate headquarters in the Presidio—what time is it there, midnight?”
“A little later.”
“If you want to take a look around, go ahead.”
David Bavar gave Jacobi the name and number of his head of security, then told him he had to board his plane.
Chapter 55
Jacobi called the security guy, Ronald Wilkins, rousing him from bed. Jacobi apologized, then used the magic words “David Bavar asked me to call you.”
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 wak
e 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.
The 19th Christmas Page 12
