The 19th Christmas - James Patterson Page 0,21

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