“It’s from Santa,” Julie said, deadpan.
Everyone laughed.
It was a perfect Christmas. Just perfect.
I had no sense of foreboding, no thoughts that I would be jumping into my car and heading toward trouble today.
And then, of course, my phone rang.
Chapter 62
Yuki woke up on Christmas morning, cocooned in soft cotton and pillows, grasping for the remains of a dissolving dream—then realized that she was alone.
Brady hadn’t come home.
Before she had a chance to get crazy-worried or mad, she heard the shower running in the bathroom. Good.
Yuki threw on a robe and made a dash for the kitchen, and by the time Brady came through the doorway, there was a gift on his plate, eggs by the stove ready for scrambling, and a smile on her face as she sat in her seat at the table. Still no tree.
Brady grabbed her up out of her chair and dipped her into a swooping romance-novel kiss.
“Hey,” she said breathlessly.
He kissed her again.
This time she took in that he was fully dressed and he was apparently kissing her good-bye.
“Were you working all night?” she asked.
“I slept right next to you, darlin’. You were out cold.”
“I don’t even remember falling asleep. Hey, how about some hot breakfast?”
“I only have time for coffee. Maybe toast.”
“Sit down,” Yuki said. “I’ll give you coffee, toast, and the thirty-second headline news of what happened in court yesterday. You should feel free to give me thirty seconds of your news, too.”
Her big, blond, handsome man grinned and said, “I love you, darlin’. Talk to me. But first…”
He took the little package off his plate and shook it.
Yuki said, “Merry Christmas, sweetie.”
She watched him open the box and take out her gift: a gold tie clip, a little grand for work, but she loved it. He turned it around and a beam of sunlight hit it.
“I love this, Yuki. What a major-league tie bob.”
He thanked her and fixed it to his tie. She expected him to tell her that he hadn’t had time to get her anything but he’d make it up to her. But he said, “I’m taking tonight off, no matter what. I booked us a room on the top floor of the Stanhope. How does that sound?”
Yuki shouted, “Woweeee,” and threw herself at Brady, who hugged her, kissed her to pieces, and said, “I’ll call you later.”
Wearing his gold tie clip but without having had eggs, toast, or coffee or hearing about Eduardo Varela, Lieutenant Jackson Brady was gone.
Chapter 63
Cindy had kicked the bedcovers to the floor.
Richie retrieved the blankets and her nightgown from the foot of the bed, tucked himself in, and opened his arms. Cindy, still mostly sleeping, burrowed against him.
He stroked her back, enjoying the little sounds she made as he bundled her up and squeezed her. He said, “Sleep. You don’t have to get up yet,” then he edged out of bed and headed to the kitchen.
He knew he’d be working the Loman today. He was worn out, angry at the amount of time and manpower that had been dedicated to go-nowhere leads interspersed with bloodshed.
He thought about Arnold Sloane, the man who’d been gagged and terrified and then shot to death.
Who had done that?
He thought again about the anonymous tip they’d gotten that Loman had been seen leaving Sloane’s place. Christ. A blind tip to a possible killer with a fake name. Loman. Whoever, whatever, wherever he was.
He remembered a play he’d read in school called Death of a Salesman. The main character was Willy Loman. Sloane had been a salesman before he became the manager of a high-end jewelry store. Was Sloane the dead salesman? Was Sloane’s safe Loman’s big heist?
The coffeemaker was prefilled with water and coffee, so Rich hit the switch, dropped a couple of frozen waffles into the toaster, and checked his phone.
First on the list was an email from Brady to the whole squad laying out today’s assignments. Brady’s email was followed by one from Lindsay: We’re on stakeout. C u @ 8.
And there was an email from Cindy with an attachment.
The subject heading was Cannot wait to tell you.
Rich opened the attachment. It was Cindy’s Christmas-for-immigrants story, now titled “God Was Always with Us.”
As his waffles toasted, he read the story, marveling at how close Cindy had gotten to these displaced families. She’d conveyed in a few inches of type their will to overcome hardship, to celebrate their holiday traditions thousands of miles from their homelands in San Francisco.
At the end of the article was a sidebar with the title “After Two Years in Prison, a Miracle Arrives with Bells On.”
Cindy had told Rich enough about Eduardo Varela to convince him that the guy had been framed, and Cindy had turned up an innocent man at San Bruno Prison.
Her story laid it all out.
First, Peter Bard, Varela’s lawyer, had failed to present crucial evidence to the DA that might have stopped the whole case against him cold. But there was more. Bard had been a drunk and a no-show for several clients, and after Varela had been locked up, awaiting trial, Bard had been disbarred for malfeasance.
Yesterday, Judge Innello had dismissed the case against Varela for lack of evidence and offered her apologies from the court. ICE had not detained him.
Cindy wrote:
Last night Eduardo and his family led the parade called Las Posadas, a celebration and reenactment of Mary and Joseph’s search for shelter that involves stopping at “the inns,” neighbors’ homes, for food and prayer. Piñatas were smashed. There was much laughter and happy tears.
For the past two years Eduardo sat alone in his cell twenty-three hours a day. On Monday he plans to go to each of his three former employers and ask for his job back. He has much he wants to do to secure a future for the ones he loves.
There was a photo of the Varela family after Eduardo’s release. Cindy was at the center of an ecstatic group hug.
Rich had to take a moment.
He wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands and sent Cindy a note: Great job, Girl Reporter. I’m so proud of you. And I love you. So. Much. Richie.
He dressed and headed out to his assigned stakeout on Geary Street, where he and Lindsay would be working the Loman. Again.
Chapter 64
Imogene Lomachenko was a Christmas baby. Today was her day.
Willy, Imogene, Imogene’s brother, Stan, his wife, Gina, and their two kids watched Goldfinger on the wide-screen TV over the gas fireplace. Stockings were hung. The tree glinted with lights and was draped with a garland of birthday cards.
The stove’s timer pinged. Imogene jumped up from her cozy chair and said, “I sure hope that big Butterball is done. It had better be.”
Then the doorbell rang. Ten-year-old Gordo ran to the door and shouted, “It’s Dr. Gadgets. Wow, oh, wow!”
Dick Russell, wearing a Santa hat and gripping two large boxes, entered the room with a big “Ho-ho-ho.” The kids hustled him over to the tree, where Willy relieved Dick of his gifts and Imogene brought him a hot drink with a candy cane stirrer. After small talk with Willy’s in-laws, Santa told the kids, “On your marks, get set…go. Open your presents.”
The boys lunged for the gifts, ripped off the paper, and screamed when they saw the pictures on the boxes.
“Drones! We’ve got drones!”
After the women dressed the children in coats and scarves and Dick shepherded them outside with their new toys, Willy went upstairs to the spare bedroom he used as his den. While keeping an eye on the football game, he polished the plan for the first day of the rest of his life.
Willy had not yet told Imogene that this would be the Lomachenkos’ last Christmas on Avila Street. He was protecting them both, and he certainly didn’t want to give her anything to worry about while the job was in progress.
> Tomorrow at this time he’d call and say that they were off on a surprise birthday vacation and she should meet him at the airport. She’d say, We can’t afford a vacation, Willy.
He’d tell her, Yes, we can, honey. Do not worry. You have to leave now. I’ve got your passport. Bring a couple pieces of jewelry. Your favorite ones.
He would tell her how important it was that she pack only an overnight bag and a sweater for the plane. She couldn’t say anything to anyone. That meant she couldn’t tell Valerie next door, Carmen, who did her hair, or, especially, her sister-in-law, Gina.
Imogene was a good wife and partner. He planned to tell her on the airplane how much he loved her and how grateful he was for her loyalty and trust all these years that he’d been lugging around his sample case, making just enough to get by.
He’d tell her that he’d been making plans for their golden years all along. That she should trust him now. That this was a critical juncture, a turning point in their lives.
She would panic, of course, and maybe get mad when she realized that they were leaving San Francisco for good. There was a chance she’d threaten to get on a return flight as soon as the plane landed, but she wouldn’t make a scene in first class. Willy would have about eight hours to paint a picture of upcoming sunny skies forever.
Or maybe he’d tell her the whole truth—that if he didn’t leave now, he would get caught, convicted, and sentenced to life without parole. If she saw him again, it would be through a sheet of Plexiglas, and it would be that way until death did them part.
If telling her that didn’t work, well, he sincerely hoped he wouldn’t have to hurt her.
Willy banished these thoughts and calmed his mind. He’d been smart and careful and thorough. It was all going to be good.
He stood up from the worn brown sofa and looked out the window to the backyard, where Dick was getting the swing and the bird feeders out of the way of the drones. His nephews and his partner in crime were having an unforgettable Christmas.
He took a mental picture.
Then he got ready to go.
Chapter 65
Willy took their wedding picture off the wall and opened the safe.
He removed a short tube of ten Krugerrands and the packet of forged documents they’d need at the airport. He put the papers and the coins inside his bag next to the cash from Sloane’s safe. He added a rolled-up pair of trousers and a long-sleeved shirt, some underwear, and his toiletry kit, then zipped up the bag.
He went back to his father’s desk and ran his fingers across the top of it, tracing where he’d carved his initials, for which he’d gotten a pretty good beating. The right-hand file drawer held a box of notes and cards and memorabilia. He flipped through it, memorizing the contents, then took out a spare pair of eyeglasses and closed the drawer.
He’d mailed the thumb drive of family photos and passwords to his banker in Zurich. His attorney had his will and Imogene’s, dated two years ago, leaving everything to her brother and his family. He’d told his attorney that in some underground circles, he was a wanted man.
That he could be made to disappear without a trace.
You know what I mean, Phil? Take care of my family.
Having buttoned up the past, Willy turned his mind to the next twenty-four hours.
He and Dick had been planning the upcoming job for months. Over the past week they’d flooded the tip lines with a shit-storm of fake clues, exhausted the police department with isolated violent events and rumors of worse to come. They had drilled down on the knowns and unknowns. They had baked flexibility into their calculated terror attack so that they could manage mavericks, the unexpected accidents and incidents, and score as big as their dreams.
Today was their day.
Loman was checking the scoreboard at the start of the third quarter when the program was interrupted by local news. A cop was telling the windblown woman with the microphone that a body had been discovered in a car parked near the bay off Fort Point.
The cop said, “He’s a white male in his forties, medium weight and height, medium-length dark-blond hair. This man has been dead for three or four days, approximately. There was no ID on him. He was wearing jeans, a blue plaid shirt, and a red down jacket.
“If any of your viewers have knowledge of a missing person fitting this description, please call our tip line. That’s all I can say at this point.”
Loman clicked off the TV. It was about time the dead man made his curtain call. Not a problem. Julian had completed his mission. Loman took another look at the drone airfield in the patch of yard below, watched Dick teaching the kids about the electronic controls and aerodynamics.
Then he went downstairs to help the women and carve the bird.
Chapter 66
Brady sat inside the surveillance van parked on the verge of JFK Drive northeast of the de Young Museum.
The interior of his command post was lined with video screens, and he had three computer specialists with him monitoring live feeds from dash-cams in patrol cars in and around the target.
While Brady watched over the de Young operation, he was in contact with five other commanders who, like him, had eyes on possible heist targets. SFPD tactical teams and dozens of security companies stood by, braced for a Loman attack, whatever the hell that would look like.
Brady couldn’t imagine Loman and his crew getting away with an armed robbery in daylight under the watch of so many cops. Just couldn’t happen.
Calls came in from all points, and Brady took them, noting the reports of nothing stirring, not even a mouse. And then a face appeared on-screen. It was Lindsay Boxer, holding her badge up to the camera, Rich Conklin standing behind her inside the surveillance van on Geary at Stockton.
“Boxer. What’s up?” Brady said into the webcam.
“Do you know about the body just pulled out of a car trunk?”
“No, I don’t. What’s this about?”
She held up a morgue photo on her phone. He recognized Julian Lambert.
“Lambert, huh? What does the ME say?”
“Homicide. Cause of death was two rounds, one to the back of the neck, one to a vertebra. The bullets are the same caliber as the ones taken from Sloane’s body.”
“Please tell me that the gun is in the system.”
“Sorry. No.”
“And the car?”
“VIN was traced to a junkyard in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, in ’05. That’s all I’ve got, Lieu.”
Brady told Boxer he’d call forensics in a little bit, then said grimly, “I’m not surprised that guy turned up dead. While we’re chasing our tails, Loman has a game plan. I think he just rubbed out the only known witness against him.”
Chapter 67
Conklin and I stared out the windshield of our unmarked car, parked near the spot where Julian Lambert had bowled over an old gent holding a bag of belts and ties.
That was the beginning of the Loman affair as we knew it.
Lambert had told us he had overheard a street person named Marcus saying that a guy named Loman—first name, last name, fake name, he didn’t know—was planning a big heist on Christmas.
His unconfirmed tip had led us to Dietz, and after two nights in holding, Lambert had been released and then, shortly thereafter, professionally executed.
The morgue photos of Lambert’s body showed lividity from lying in a fetal position in the trunk of a car. The shot to the back of his neck, fired at close range, suggested that he’d trusted his killer enough to turn his back to him.
I remembered everything about Julian Lambert, the way he’d spoken, what he had said, what he’d looked like—vibrantly alive.
Conklin noticed that I’d gone quiet.
“You okay, Linds?”
I shook my head, trying to understand my own mood. I said, “It’s weird, but I felt like I knew him. I mean, he was a small-time thief. He was something of a charmer. The lead he gave us to Chris Dietz was the only real lead we’ve had. Did talking to us
put Lambert on Loman’s hit list? Is he dead because he talked to us? I think so.”
“Lindsay, we didn’t kill the guy. Please. Don’t torture yourself.”
I needed to talk. We kept our eyes on the street, the thickening traffic, the pedestrians with coats and hats going in and out of hotels, going to and from the skating rink in Union Square, near the soaring artificial tree.
I said, “Rich, what are we looking for? We have a bunch of pieces and parts that add up to a big fat pile of nothing.”
He agreed, and while watching the scenery, we tried to connect the dots yet again, going from Lambert to Dietz with the circled map to the de Young Museum and Dietz’s girlfriend, Dancy, who’d confirmed the name Loman.
Then the mayor was threatened, and informants all over the city gave tips to cops they knew. This bank, that art gallery, the San Francisco Mint—all were named as possible targets.
We took down two nickel-bag drug dealers, dupes or extras who didn’t actually know anything about Loman or the job. And then, of course, there was the savage murder of a jewelry-store manager and a reported anonymous tip that Loman had been seen leaving the premises.
That brought us to last night, when a cop’s son who had picked up some chat-room braggadocio told Jacobi about a possible plan to hit a big computer company. Rich and I sat in the car overlooking Union Square and chewed on that bit of chatter. We concluded that unless Loman had an army and air cover, hitting BlackStar VR made no sense.
It was Christmas Day. Like almost all businesses, the offices would be closed.
Was the crime teed up and ready to go? Had it already been committed?
The 19th Christmas Page 14
