The 19th Christmas - James Patterson Page 0,73

sake, stop the film.”

The video continued running, and I made sure that Imogene could see every bit of it: Loman pointing the gun at Russell and firing once, then again. The same overhead view showed David Bavar cowering beside the side door and Lomachenko standing over the body of Russell.

Imogene’s expression was of wide-eyed horror. She gasped loudly, then covered her mouth with her hands.

We all heard Russell’s dying moans and the third shot, the coup de grâce, followed by Lomachenko’s voice saying to Bavar, “Look into the scanner.”

We watched Lomachenko open the door, tell Bavar to get inside, then follow him in.

I stopped the recording and addressed the man doubled over on his bench, his hands clasped across the top of his head. “Mr. Lomachenko, this is what we call irrefutable proof. Rock solid. We’ve got you.”

When I was sure he’d absorbed that bombshell, I went on.

“Here’s your Christmas gift from my partner and me. You tell us right now where we can find David Bavar. You confess in writing to all of it—Richard Russell, Julian Lambert, Arnold Sloane, the airport scam, and the kidnapping.

“Do that, and when we have Mr. Bavar, I’ll call the DA and ask him to withdraw the charges against your wife. No promises, but I’ll call in favors, and he’s a friend.”

Lomachenko didn’t move, just stayed in his crouch. What was he thinking?

I said, “If you love your wife, Mr. Lomachenko, do the right thing. Let her go home.”

Part Six

December 31

Chapter 92

The horns, kazoos, and steel drums playing a jazzy version of “Yellow Bird” could be heard halfway down the street from Susie’s Café.

It was New Year’s Eve.

Cindy, Yuki, and I, along with our spouses and significant others, had commandeered the Women’s Murder Club’s favorite booth in the back room. Another table had been pushed up for Claire and Edmund Washburn, who were on their way.

Cindy leaned across the table and asked me to pass the bread, her new emerald pendant sparkling.

I asked, “What bread?”

Cindy cracked up. “I said, ‘You look good in red.’”

I fell apart laughing and Joe joined in, saying, “I keep telling her that a blonde in red is what used to be called a hot tomato.”

Now we were all laughing, Yuki spitting tequila, and I didn’t think it was because of my sweater or because I looked like a vegetable or because the joke was so funny.

It was just fantastic relief. Tonight the beer pitcher was bottomless, the spicy food had never been better, and everyone at the table had much to celebrate.

We were all finally off duty. Mayor Caputo had commended Conklin, Brady, and me for going above and beyond the call with Lomachenko and for locating Bavar, whom Lomachenko had bound with duct tape and then stashed in an air-conditioning closet on the main floor.

Bavar had been unharmed and had since made a sizable gift to the San Francisco Police Officers Association, turning a horrible week into Yahoos going into the next year.

Only one thing nagged at me on this happiest of evenings.

I hadn’t spoken to Jacobi since he was shot in the thigh almost a week ago. We’d exchanged texts, and he’d sent me a cheery message saying, Boxer, I’m fine. I’m comfortable in my own bed. Have a drink for me, but I still hadn’t heard his voice.

Joe squeezed my shoulder and said, “Check it out.”

I looked up and saw Claire and Edmund cha-cha-ing down the narrow hallway from the bar to the back room. She was wearing a sparkly, low-cut black dress, and they were both glowing from their week in San Diego.

Once they were seated, my closest friend and I got caught up. I told her what she had missed—the hairy, scary tightrope-walking Lomachenko interviews and his complete and somewhat unexpected capitulation.

“We have him on suicide watch,” I told her.

“That depressed, huh?”

“Yes. And in Miller’s play Death of a Salesman, Willy Loman kills himself.”

“But the one in the play does it by crashing his car, right?”

I laughed. “Loman is pretty creative. He might go tried-and-true with strips of bedsheet. We don’t want that.”

I poured a beer for Claire, and she told me about the go-get-’em students in her extra-credit Christmas-break class.

“Some of those kids moved me to tears,” she said. “I know at least three of them are going to make stellar pathologists. Two of them are going to be better than me, if you can believe it.”

I looked up from her grin to see another friend headed our way—the lovely Miranda Spencer, a