The 19th Christmas (Women's Murder Club #19) - James Patterson Page 0,31

of the gallery, was a stunning fifty-something woman in black, buffed and polished to a high shine. She’d been showing off her knowledge of fifteenth-century strings to a rapt couple of richies.

She didn’t like the interruption. She scowled at her manager and then, even though I was a couple of inches taller than her, managed to look down on me as though I were tracking dog dirt onto her carpet.

I apologized, steered Ms. Fabiano to a dead spot in the gallery, and told her that we’d received a tip that her gallery was a target of an armed robbery.

For a moment I had her complete attention. She didn’t even give Conklin a glance. First time I could remember a female failing to take a long look at Inspector Hottie.

But her attention to me was fleeting. “Talk to Charles,” Fabiano said. “He knows all about our security systems.” Then she returned to her prospects.

The manager took his cue and led Conklin and me to his office just behind the gallery display space. After we all sat down, he said, “How do you know about this impending robbery?”

Conklin said, “Mr. Linden, how we know isn’t important. What we know is that the party who may be targeting this gallery is a pro. When he stages a hit, he gets what he came for. And he has a signature. He leaves dead bodies behind.”

CHAPTER 36

“WE HAVE AMAZING security,” Charles Linden told us. “Cameras at the exits, vibration sensors on paintings, and many of the sculptures and alarms are connected to a central station. Our employees have been vetted and their pass cards are registered.”

I said, “You’re not checking packages and bags at the door. You don’t have screening apparatus.”

Linden shrugged. “Our patrons wouldn’t stand for it. You can see that, can’t you?”

Conklin said, “I’d like to look at a list of your employees.”

“Why do you need that?”

“Often big-ticket robberies are inside jobs,” said Conklin. “I can’t force you, but you should let me have that list and the names of anyone who left your employ in the past year.”

Linden gave Conklin a cold look, then tapped on his keyboard. The printer on his credenza came to life.

I said, “What other security measures do you have, Mr. Linden? Saturation motion detectors?”

“Yes, in the main gallery, but not in the other wings. I don’t see how we could rewire the place every time we have a new exhibit.”

Conklin walked over to the printer. “Okay for me to take this?”

Linden said, “Be my guest.”

I thought, What a jerk, but didn’t say it.

Conklin took the list of employee names from the tray and said to me, “I’ll be back.”

While Conklin was running the list through our car’s computer, I told Linden, “Here’s what I think. You’ve got a good system, but it won’t withstand a serious professional assault. If I were you, I’d call your security company, have them place three or four guards on premises twenty-four/ seven for the next couple of days. And if they have canines, bring them in overnight.”

“Uh, I’ll talk to Renata.”

“Also, since you don’t know who is coming in or what they’re carrying, I’d close up shop now.”

“Our customers, clients, they’re making big purchases. We could sell more before Christmas than we will in the next six months.”

I wanted to get up, muss his hair, flip his tie, and tell him, What if someone brings in a smoke bomb? And automatic weapons? What if that person opens the back door for the rest of the crew?

But I didn’t do that.

I said, “Please pass our recommendations on to Ms. Fabiano. I’m putting them in my report.”

I got up from my seat feeling almost as tired as I had some months ago. Right before I was given doctor’s orders to take time off to rest. I needed to go home.

I returned to the main gallery just as Conklin came back in from the street. He signaled to me.

I said, “Whatcha got?”

He showed me his phone.

“I’ll take this,” I said.

I walked over to Ms. Fabiano, who was talking to another pair of 1 percenters, all three of them admiring a rare violin. I apologized for interrupting and said, “I need a moment.”

Again she looked at me like I’d crawled out of a storm drain, and I gave her a similar look—the homicide-inspector version.

“Are you still in touch with your ex-husband?” I asked.

“Royce? Occasionally. Why?”

“Did you know that three years ago he was arrested for robbing a jewelry store? He flipped on his partner and