The 19th Christmas - James Patterson Page 0,53
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