The 19th Christmas - James Patterson Page 0,15

find out what he had learned from Chris Dietz’s rented room. Julian Lambert was still in our custody, and Brady would interrogate him again. If Lambert was holding anything back, I was pretty sure he’d give it up to Brady.

Brady said, “Here’s what we know about this robbery scheme. Supposedly, a man named Loman is behind it, and supposedly, it’s going down on Christmas Day.”

He paused and everyone waited.

“That’s all I’ve got,” said Brady. “No idea what the target is, what part of town it’ll be in, who else is involved. Heck, Loman might have decided to pull the plug on this operation, given all the publicity on last night’s action.

“But let’s say he’s still going forward. If you hear something, say something.”

Feet shifted. A voice called out, “Over here, boss.”

“Bentley,” Brady said. “Whatcha got?”

Sergeant Roger Bentley was from the Robbery Division. I didn’t know much about him, but I knew he was well positioned to hear rumors about a heist.

Bentley said, “I’ve heard the name Loman. People are afraid of him, like he’s a drug lord or a capo. But nothing more than that. I’ve asked, and what comes back is ‘I don’t want to talk about him.’”

Another hand went up and Brady called on Anderson from the Criminal Investigations Unit upstairs.

Anderson said, “Rumor has it that Loman was behind that casino heist in Vegas. The one at the Black Diamond. Netted nine million. Almost got out clean, but three of his crew—the guys transporting the take—were killed when their getaway car was T-boned by a gas truck on the way out of town.”

We had all heard about that heist gone wrong—a TV movie had been based on it. As I remembered it, the gas-truck explosion was shown in slow motion and it had been a mesmerizing special effect. But I hadn’t known that the man behind the heist that went way wrong was named Loman.

“Let’s have some ideas on possible targets,” Brady said.

Hands went up around the room; people suggested banks, museums, jewelry stores. Opportunities for potentially big hauls, like the nine million taken from the Black Diamond Casino.

When the brainstorming was over, Brady asked those present to work their informants and uniforms in their divisions and forward all possible leads to him.

“Crime’s not going to take a holiday while we go after Loman. I’m calling people back from time off so we’re covered. One of those people is Chief Warren Jacobi, who has volunteered to step out of retirement and work out of this unit with Boxer and Conklin.”

Jacobi came through the doorway to a big round of applause from about sixty cops who knew that, even after retiring under a cloud, he was a helluva cop.

I was very glad to see my old partner, my old boss, my close friend. Conklin and I grinned at each other.

The gang was all here.

Chapter 18

I was still on adrenaline overload from last night’s shootout at the Anthony Hotel, and now Brady’s full-house staff meeting had tweaked me to a turn.

The clock on this mysterious big heist was running out and we needed answers—fast. Conklin parked our squad car in front of the Anthony Hotel behind three cruisers and the CSI van. I was glad to see that van. If anyone could read tea leaves in the dregs of this cesspool, it was Charlie Clapper and his team.

I zipped my Windbreaker over my vest and yanked up the chain holding my badge so that it hung outside my jacket. I got out of the car and took in the sights. Morning on Sixth Street looked like a flashback to the Great Depression. Clouds blocked the sun. Trash blew up the pavement and collected in the gutters. Pedestrians drifted purposelessly, and the thin traffic slowed when drivers saw the CSI van.

Uniformed officers leaned against their cruisers, protecting the perimeter. Others had door duty, barring the press and checking IDs of hotel residents. An old man vomited in the alley next to the liquor store.

My partner said, “Ready?”

“You bet. Can’t wait.”

We crossed the buckled sidewalk to the hotel entrance, entered the stinking lobby, and identified ourselves to the desk clerk, who was twenty years older than the clerk working the night shift. He had been informed, no doubt. He said, “Don’t mess up the place, okay?”

Conklin said, “Got it,” and we took the stairs, an obstacle course of discarded crack vials, condoms, Thunderbird empties. We exited through the fire door onto the sixth floor.

All but two of the doorways were taped off;