The 19th Christmas (Women's Murder Club #19) - James Patterson Page 0,51

63

CINDY HAD KICKED the bedcovers to the floor.

Richie retrieved the blankets and her nightgown from the foot of the bed, tucked himself in, and opened his arms. Cindy, still mostly sleeping, burrowed against him.

He stroked her back, enjoying the little sounds she made as he bundled her up and squeezed her. He said, “Sleep. You don’t have to get up yet,” then he edged out of bed and headed to the kitchen.

He knew he’d be working the Loman today. He was worn out, angry at the amount of time and manpower that had been dedicated to go-nowhere leads interspersed with bloodshed.

He thought about Arnold Sloane, the man who’d been gagged and terrified and then shot to death.

Who had done that?

He thought again about the anonymous tip they’d gotten that Loman had been seen leaving Sloane’s place. Christ. A blind tip to a possible killer with a fake name. Loman. Whoever, whatever, wherever he was.

He remembered a play he’d read in school called Death of a Salesman. The main character was Willy Loman. Sloane had been a salesman before he became the manager of a high-end jewelry store. Was Sloane the dead salesman? Was Sloane’s safe Loman’s big heist?

The coffeemaker was prefilled with water and coffee, so Rich hit the switch, dropped a couple of frozen waffles into the toaster, and checked his phone.

First on the list was an email from Brady to the whole squad laying out today’s assignments. Brady’s email was followed by one from Lindsay: We’re on stakeout. C u 8.

And there was an email from Cindy with an attachment.

The subject heading was Cannot wait to tell you.

Rich opened the attachment. It was Cindy’s Christmasfor-immigrants story, now titled “God Was Always with Us.”

As his waffles toasted, he read the story, marveling at how close Cindy had gotten to these displaced families. She’d conveyed in a few inches of type their will to overcome hardship, to celebrate their holiday traditions thousands of miles from their homelands in San Francisco.

At the end of the article was a sidebar with the title “After Two Years in Prison, a Miracle Arrives with Bells On.”

Cindy had told Rich enough about Eduardo Varela to convince him that the guy had been framed, and Cindy had turned up an innocent man at San Bruno Prison.

Her story laid it all out.

First, Peter Bard, Varela’s lawyer, had failed to present crucial evidence to the DA that might have stopped the whole case against him cold. But there was more. Bard had been a drunk and a no-show for several clients, and after Varela had been locked up, awaiting trial, Bard had been disbarred for malfeasance.

Yesterday, Judge Innello had dismissed the case against Varela for lack of evidence and offered her apologies from the court. ICE had not detained him.

Cindy wrote:

Last night Eduardo and his family led the parade called Las Posadas, a celebration and reenactment of Mary and Joseph’s search for shelter that involves stopping at “the inns,” neighbors’ homes, for food and prayer. Piñatas were smashed. There was much laughter and happy tears.

For the past two years Eduardo sat alone in his cell twenty-three hours a day. On Monday he plans to go to each of his three former employers and ask for his job back. He has much he wants to do to secure a future for the ones he loves.

There was a photo of the Varela family after Eduardo’s release. Cindy was at the center of an ecstatic group hug.

Rich had to take a moment.

He wiped his eyes with the backs of his hands and sent Cindy a note: Great job, Girl Reporter. I’m so proud of you. And I love you. So. Much. Richie.

He dressed and headed out to his assigned stakeout on Geary Street, where he and Lindsay would be working the Loman. Again.

CHAPTER 64

IMOGENE LOMACHENKO WAS a Christmas baby. Today was her day.

Willy, Imogene, Imogene’s brother, Stan, his wife, Gina, and their two kids watched Goldfinger on the wide-screen TV over the gas fireplace. Stockings were hung. The tree glinted with lights and was draped with a garland of birthday cards.

The stove’s timer pinged. Imogene jumped up from her cozy chair and said, “I sure hope that big Butterball is done. It had better be.”

Then the doorbell rang. Ten-year-old Gordo ran to the door and shouted, “It’s Dr. Gadgets. Wow, oh, wow!”

Dick Russell, wearing a Santa hat and gripping two large boxes, entered the room with a big “Ho-ho-ho.” The kids hustled him over to the tree, where Willy relieved