The 19th Christmas - James Patterson Page 0,56
a latte and did some people-watching,” Willy said.
Both men were dressed in casual business attire, sports jackets and ties. Willy had on wraparound sunglasses and a billed cap, Dick a toupee and a fake mustache, items that were good enough to thwart facial-recognition software if the security footage was scrutinized.
But the airport was teeming with travelers taking the last possible flights to their family Christmases. No one was watching them. They wouldn’t stand out on video.
Dick said to Willy, “Let’s take another spin around the terminal. We still have plenty of time.”
Willy said, “Sure. Let’s go.”
He buckled his seat belt, then tapped a number into his burner phone. A sweet young voice said, “Hi there, Mr. Loman.”
“Hi, Cheryl. How’d it go?”
“In my humble opinion, I think I was very good. Even I started to believe it. Poor me, losing Julian like that. I felt sorry for myself.”
She laughed, and Willy said, “I’m sure he would have liked you. Now tell me everything.”
Cheryl described it all, how she’d called the hotline, spoken to Sergeant Boxer, one of the cops who had arrested Julian. She told Mr. Loman about being interviewed in the Homicide interrogation room and how she’d cried over her dead boyfriend.
“I let them drag the airport job out of me,” she said. “They totally bought it, Mr. L.”
“And why do you think they believed you?”
“Because they didn’t grill me. They didn’t hold me. They didn’t give me a polygraph. They gave me green tea and a cab ride home. Oh, and they’ll keep me posted on how the case goes.”
“Very good, Cheryl. Proud of you.”
He told the girl where to find the key to the box at Mailbox Inc. that held her packet of cash, and he thanked her.
“Be safe, Mr. Loman,” she said. “Call if you need anything.”
“Will do.”
He would never see her or talk to her again. Twenty-four hours from now he and Imogene, using the names he’d bought and paid for, would be flying out of San Rafael Airport. No wait times, runway lit and open twenty-four hours; their private jet would take them to New York, and from there, they’d go to Zurich.
But they weren’t in the air yet.
Willy was satisfied that the planning stage was over. Everything on the list was checked off and now they were counting down to the execution phase, which was complicated and risky.
He and Dick still had a lot of work to do.
Chapter 70
I called Brady and heard police radios squawking in the background as I filled him in on our interview with Cheryl Sandler. He was irritated by this vague new lead about an upcoming hit at the airport, and I understood.
He snapped, “Can you confirm this goddamned tip?”
“No, but we checked Cheryl out, and she is who she says she is,” I told him. “She has two priors for petty theft. She is, in fact, a seamstress, and as she said, she does live on Waller Street. With a little prompting, she named Loman. I gotta say, she seemed pretty damned terrified.”
Brady didn’t speak.
“Brady? You still there?”
He said, “I’ll make calls. You’ll have contacts by the time you get out to SFO.”
“Okay. We’re on our way.”
Until a few years ago I’d been the Homicide squad’s commanding officer. The job had come with a title of lieutenant, an office the size of a bread box, and a hotline to the mayor, but it had made me feel older and crankier. It took me away from what I wanted to do—catch bad guys and have time at home with my family.
I’d stepped aside and Brady got the job. Good for him. Good for me. He was a first-class boss—honest, admirable, brave. I had no regrets.
Right now he was in a surveillance van handling the current shit-storm, and soon he’d call Mayor Caputo, brief him on the latest unconfirmed Loman tip, and ask him to release funds and send help quick.
The mayor would give Brady what he wanted, of course.
Way before my partner and I reached SFO, the SFPD Airport Bureau, Homeland Security, and International Arrivals and US Customs would be on high alert.
The SFO security command center would have cameras on every individual on-site, and agents manning the operation would relay information on any suspicious persons to undercovers throughout the airport.
All Conklin and I had to do was find and contain Loman, a man we had never seen and wouldn’t be able to identify because we had no idea what he looked like. “As they say, they don’t pay