The 19th Christmas - James Patterson Page 0,30

the hell he is.”

As Conklin, Jacobi, and I knew, Swanson’s own six-month-long robbery spree had left eighteen dead, so his opinion actually had weight. I touched my gun belt reflexively, hoping to hell I could finish my shift without firing a shot.

Jacobi offered to stay with Karp and drill the security team that would be working in the museum overnight. Conklin and I left them to it.

On the way out to the car, I asked Rich what he thought of the museum’s security.

“Better than I expected.”

“Agreed,” I said. “If a gang of robbers come to the door with cop badges and duct tape, they won’t get in. But…”

“But what if Loman has a bigger idea?”

“Explosives,” I said. “There’s so much glass.”

“Helicopter,” Conklin said. He was exploring that idea out loud, how explosives could be dropped, men coming down ropes, when my phone buzzed.

Brady said, “Boxer, two things. A wallet with Julian Lambert’s ID was found on China Beach near the Golden Gate.”

“What? Just his wallet? No body?”

“No body. Just the wallet with his driver license, some receipts, and a few business cards. Your card was in there. That’s how this piece of news got to us.”

I thought about the lightweight thief in the red puffy coat who had led us on a chase that ended with the firefight at the Anthony Hotel.

“Are people searching the area?”

“He could have lost the wallet, Boxer, or it could have been stolen or thrown there to make us think that Lambert was dead.”

“Or he was murdered and his body is out there somewhere.”

“I sent out a notification request,” Brady said. “If a body shows up that matches his photo, we’ll hear about it. We don’t have anyone to go on a body search right now.”

“What’s thing two?” I asked.

“An anonymous tip came in that a gallery in Nob Hill is the target,” the good lieutenant told me. He gave me the name and address.

It was almost six. I wanted to go home. Into the yawning silence of my hesitation, Brady said, “I’d go, but I’m with the mayor. He wants personal protection. There’s no one else I can send.”

“No problem,” I said. “We’ll check it out.”

I clicked off and said to Conklin, “A wallet with Lambert’s ID was found on China Beach. No body.”

Conklin said, “Lambert throwing down a fake clue?”

“Could be,” I said. “I can think of a few other possibilities.”

It isn’t scientific, but detectives solve cases with hunches. My hunch was that Lambert was dead.

Chapter 35

The banner in the long plate-glass window of the Soigne Gallery announced a special Christmas exhibition and sale of an anonymous collector’s rare musical instruments.

I didn’t get it.

Armored trucks, casinos, banks, and even museums made sense, but if this tip was for real, how would Loman turn musical instruments into big piles of cash?

Conklin and I entered the gallery through the main door and walked into an event in progress. Servers with trays of champagne and canapés skirted around the displays and drifted between the well-dressed prospective customers. The air was perfumed, and the honeyed sounds of a string quartet playing classic carols came from the mezzanine, setting a soothing and spendy mood.

My partner and I, wearing our SFPD Windbreakers over chinos, stood out like soccer players who’d blundered onto the stage at an opera. We ignored the hard stares of the patrons and took in the scene. The gallery was half a city block long with plate-glass windows fronting the street. I counted six exits, a camera over each, and small motion detectors beaming lasers onto the exhibits, set to chirp if someone got too close.

My attention was drawn to a harpsichord in the window. It was a meticulously crafted piece, with a mosaic of inlaid wood. How much was this doggy, anyway?

I stepped in and read the card on a pedestal beside it. I learned that it had been made by an unknown Italian artist in the mid-fifteenth century; the red dot beside the two-million-dollar price tag told me that it had been sold.

I shifted my eyes to other instruments displayed around the large, open room, each presented like one of the queen’s crown jewels. Red dots marked many of the cards, telling me that the money was flowing along with the champagne.

I was beginning to understand. Compared with armored trucks and banks, compared even with the de Young Museum, the Soigne Gallery was vulnerable and as sweet a hit as a chocolate cake with icing roses.

All Loman would need was a half a dozen