The 19th Christmas - James Patterson Page 0,28
he misjudged a drug lord, was ambushed in a firefight, underwent innumerable surgeries, endured six months of rehab, and suffered through a scorching murder trial. Last time Jacobi saw Swanson, he was being helped into a prison van, looking scrawny, beaten up and beaten down.
But a year at San Quentin in the seclusion of administrative segregation with few visitors, fewer privileges, and no hope of freedom had apparently been good for him. Swanson had bulked up and his face looked sculpted. He appeared fit, healthy, even respectable, for whatever that was worth.
Swanson grinned broadly and said, “My God, Chief Jacobi. So glad to see you, man.”
He held out his cuffed wrists so a guard could chain them to a hook in the table.
Jacobi said, “How you doing, Swanson? Accommodations agree with you?”
“Not bad, not bad. First time in my life I’ve had time to think. Of course, I don’t get a lot of visitors, so this meet with you makes my month. What brings you here, Chief?”
“I’m officially retired. Brady hired me to help with a case.”
“You’re retired? How’s that going?”
“As you said—first time in my life I have time to think.”
Swanson nodded appreciatively while Jacobi fought back the urge to punch him in the face. Again. And again. And again.
“So how can I help?” Swanson asked.
“It’s like this, Swanson. We’ve got some information about a job going down, but our informant had limited info and our next-best lead is dead.”
“You want me to help you?”
Jacobi nodded. “If you’re still connected.”
“And what do I get in return?” Swanson asked.
The bastard wanted a deal.
“How’d you like a conjugal visit?”
“Ha. Love it,” said Swanson. “But you’re gonna have to do a little more than twist my ex-wife’s arm. Oh, I see. You didn’t know Nancy divorced me.”
“So what do you want?” Jacobi asked. “A hooker? A generous deposit to your commissary account?”
“Here’s what. A ‘conjugal visit’ with a pen-pal girlfriend of mine. And I’ll take that deposit to the commissary. A hundred a month for a year sound okay?”
Jacobi nodded slowly, said, “I can do that.”
Swanson reached his hands out the length of his chain as if to shake on it.
Jacobi didn’t go for it. “Let’s see if you still have your chops. Ever heard of a guy named Loman?”
“He’s the one who’s doing this?”
“His name came up in the investigation,” said Jacobi.
“Look, I don’t know him, but I know a little about him. He supposedly knocked off an armored car and a bank, two-for-one heist in LA about five years ago.
“There were about five or six fatalities, if I remember correctly. LAPD got his name from one of his crew who was breathing his last. Then there was a casino job in Vegas a couple of years later that looked like Loman. Close to a nine-million-dollar haul.”
Jacobi said, “Black Diamond Casino, right?”
“Yeah, that’s it,” said Swanson. “Bodies were littering the pit. The robbery crew got out with their mega-score but then fate intervened. They were incinerated in a collision with a gas truck.”
Jacobi said, “What about Loman himself? Is that his name or an alias? Where does he live? Known associates?”
“What I heard is that he hires guys for a job or two. They’re dispensable. My guess, that’s how Loman stays invisible. And I’ll tell you something else. A hunch, really.”
“Go on.”
Swanson grinned. “He doesn’t make mistakes. Given the bodies he’s left behind, that’s almost impossible. Yet it’s apparently true.”
“Okay, Swanson. You’ve given me nothing I didn’t know.”
Jacobi got up, banged on the door, and called for the guard. Swanson swiveled in his seat and said, “What about our deal, Jacobi?”
Jacobi scoffed. “When you have something I can use, get in touch.”
Guards opened the door for Jacobi.
“Have a heart, Chief. Costs you nothing. Come on. Be a person.”
Jacobi’s mind filled with furious retorts concerning Swanson’s legendary crime spree, but he stifled them. He needed to get out of this prison and away from Swanson, the sick son of a bitch.
When he got outside, he called Boxer and then drove to the de Young Museum.
Chapter 33
William Lomachenko was washing his car in the driveway when his wife, Imogene, came to the front door and called out to him.
“Willy. Phone.”
“Who is it?”
“It’s Dick. Should I tell him you’ll call him back?”
“I’ll be right there.”
Lomachenko hosed the soap off the car, moved the bucket out of the way, dried his hands on his pants, and trotted up the steps to his brick two-story house on Avila Street.
Imogene handed him the phone, said, “Give me