19th Christmas

by Patterson, James

  He paid for the gifts in cash, thanked the girl, and headed to the men’s room. Inside a stall, Loman opened his overnight bag and removed a pair of gray slacks, a plain navy-blue cotton pullover, a black ball cap, and a pair of glasses with red frames.

  He stripped off the fake facial hair, changed his clothes, packed up the ones he’d worn to the airport, and slipped the small gifts inside the bag. Then he left the men’s room and exited the terminal, going through the revolving doors and out to the passenger-drop-off lanes.

  A Salvation Army Santa was right outside on the sidewalk, ringing his bell. Loman took his wallet out of his bag, peeled off a single, and dropped it into the kettle. Santa thanked him, and Loman touched the brim of his cap, then crossed the road to the median strip.

  A seven-year-old gray Prius pulled up and Loman got into the passenger seat.

  “Everything okay, Willy?” Russell asked.

  “Perfect. I’ve got it all in here,” Loman said, tapping the side of his head. “I think Santa is going to be very good to us. In fact, I know he will.”

  Part Five

  * * *

  DECEMBER 25

  CHAPTER 61

  THE CHRISTMAS TREE looked beautiful.

  It was only seven in the morning, but I’d gotten eight solid hours of sleep in my husband’s arms. We were both scrubbed and dressed, tree-side with mugs of hot cocoa in hand, when Julie came out of her room, rubbing her sleepy eyes.

  “Was Santa here?”

  “Of course he was,” Joe said.

  I was so relieved that our daughter still believed in the kindly gent from the North Pole. We didn’t have to have that talk this morning.

  Julie climbed onto a chair to check the plate of cookies we’d left for Mr. Claus. She didn’t have to know that Joe and I had scarfed them down only minutes ago.

  Joe winked at me. I grinned back at him, then I scooped Julie up and brought her back to the tree. Joe had done a pretty good job of last-minute shopping. He’d filled a photo album for Julie with photos of everyone in our circle of family and friends, including Joe’s family in New York and my sister, Julie’s aunt Cat, and her girls, who lived up the coast in Half Moon Bay.

  Martha got a new bowl with her name on it from Julie, and Joe got a cappuccino machine from me. He and I exchanged small treats and new pj’s from Santa. Santa had brought toys and outfits for Julie—thank you, internet shopping—and I had a special gift for her.

  She opened the small, heavy box, peeled back the tissue, and took out the little globe that my mother had given to me many years ago.

  Julie said, “For me?”

  “It belonged to Grandma Boxer, then me, and it’s yours now, honey. See, this is how it works.”

  It was a West Coast version of a snow globe and featured a beautiful starfish surrounded by drifts of glittering sand and tiny shells.

  I said, “I used to keep this by my bed, and every morning when I woke up, I’d tip it and shake it, and that was the way I started a new day.”

  Julie looked at her starfish globe with reverence. She tipped it and shook it, and sand fell like snow.

  “I love it, Mommy.”

  She climbed into my lap and hugged me and kissed me, and I did my very best not to cry.

  Joe took a picture of us and I took one of him and Julie for her new photo album. The bell rang and we all opened the front door to see our beloved friend, neighbor, and nanny, Gloria Rose. She was on her feet. She was grinning.

  I almost shouted, “You can’t be out of the hospital. We’re coming to see you there.”

  “It was only a TIA,” she said. “I’m cleared, checked out, and good to go.” She threw her arms into the air and twirled in the doorway.

  I knew about TIAs, transient ischemic attacks. They were like mini-strokes, episodes of oxygen deprivation in parts of the brain. Patients recovered quickly, often within twenty-four hours, and a TIA usually left no permanent damage. But it was a warning. Another stroke, a serious one, could be in her future. I pulled Gloria into the apartment and into my arms.

  “So good to see you,” I said.

  “All I wanted was another year as good as this past one,” she said. “And now it seems that I’m getting my wish.” She wiped her glistening eyes. “Becky will be here in a minute. She’s parking the car.”

  Becky arrived a moment later, holding a shopping bag. “I bought out the hospital bake sale,” she told us.

  She had. Suddenly we had enough cake for all twelve days of Christmas.

  Joe settled Gloria into his big chair, and I produced hot cocoa, and then Julie couldn’t wait any longer. She handed Mrs. Rose our last-minute gift, wrapped with too much wrapping paper and tape. Mrs. Rose pulled the paper apart and gasped with pleasure, then shook out the fluffy blanket and buried her face in the folds. She said, “You’re the sweetest, Julie-Bug. Just what I wanted.”

  “It’s from Santa,” Julie said, deadpan.

  Everyone laughed.

  It was a perfect Christmas. Just perfect.

  I had no sense of foreboding, no thoughts that I would be jumping into my car and heading toward trouble today.

  And then, of course, my phone rang.

  CHAPTER 62

  YUKI WOKE UP on Christmas morning, cocooned in soft cotton and pillows, grasping for the remains of a dissolving dream—then realized that she was alone.

  Brady hadn’t come home.

  Before she had a chance to get crazy-worried or mad, she heard the shower running in the bathroom. Good.

  Yuki threw on a robe and made a dash for the kitchen, and by the time Brady came through the doorway, there was a gift on his plate, eggs by the stove ready for scrambling, and a smile on her face as she sat in her seat at the table. Still no tree.

  Brady grabbed her up out of her chair and dipped her into a swooping romance-novel kiss.

  “Hey,” she said breathlessly.

  He kissed her again.

  This time she took in that he was fully dressed and he was apparently kissing her good-bye.

  “Were you working all night?” she asked.

  “I slept right next to you, darlin’. You were out cold.”

  “I don’t even remember falling asleep. Hey, how about some hot breakfast?”

  “I only have time for coffee. Maybe toast.”

  “Sit down,” Yuki said. “I’ll give you coffee, toast, and the thirty-second headline news of what happened in court yesterday. You should feel free to give me thirty seconds of your news, too.”

  Her big, blond, handsome man grinned and said, “I love you, darlin’. Talk to me. But first …”

  He took the little package off his plate and shook it.

  Yuki said, “Merry Christmas, sweetie.”

  She watched him open the box and take out her gift: a gold tie clip, a little grand for work, but she loved it. He turned it around and a beam of sunlight hit it.

  “I love this, Yuki. What a major-league tie bob.”

  He thanked her and fixed it to his tie. She expected him to tell her that he hadn’t had time to get her anything but he’d make it up to her. But he said, “I’m taking tonight off, no matter what. I booked us a room on the top floor of the Stanhope. How does that sound?”

  Yuki shouted, “Woweeee,” and threw herself at Brady, who hugged her, kissed her to pieces, and said, “I’ll call you later.”

  Wearing his gold tie clip but without having had eggs, toast, or coffee or hearing about Eduardo Varela, Lieutenant Jackson Brady was gone.

  CHAPTER 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 th
e 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 Dick of his gifts and Imogene brought him a hot drink with a candy cane stirrer. After small talk with Willy’s in-laws, Santa told the kids, “On your marks, get set … go. Open your presents.”

  The boys lunged for the gifts, ripped off the paper, and screamed when they saw the pictures on the boxes.

  “Drones! We’ve got drones!”

  After the women dressed the children in coats and scarves and Dick shepherded them outside with their new toys, Willy went upstairs to the spare bedroom he used as his den. While keeping an eye on the football game, he polished the plan for the first day of the rest of his life.

  Willy had not yet told Imogene that this would be the Lomachenkos’ last Christmas on Avila Street. He was protecting them both, and he certainly didn’t want to give her anything to worry about while the job was in progress.

  Tomorrow at this time he’d call and say that they were off on a surprise birthday vacation and she should meet him at the airport. She’d say, We can’t afford a vacation, Willy.

  He’d tell her, Yes, we can, honey. Do not worry. You have to leave now. I’ve got your passport. Bring a couple pieces of jewelry. Your favorite ones.

  He would tell her how important it was that she pack only an overnight bag and a sweater for the plane. She couldn’t say anything to anyone. That meant she couldn’t tell Valerie next door, Carmen, who did her hair, or, especially, her sister-in-law, Gina.

  Imogene was a good wife and partner. He planned to tell her on the airplane how much he loved her and how grateful he was for her loyalty and trust all these years that he’d been lugging around his sample case, making just enough to get by.

  He’d tell her that he’d been making plans for their golden years all along. That she should trust him now. That this was a critical juncture, a turning point in their lives.

  She would panic, of course, and maybe get mad when she realized that they were leaving San Francisco for good. There was a chance she’d threaten to get on a return flight as soon as the plane landed, but she wouldn’t make a scene in first class. Willy would have about eight hours to paint a picture of upcoming sunny skies forever.

  Or maybe he’d tell her the whole truth—that if he didn’t leave now, he would get caught, convicted, and sentenced to life without parole. If she saw him again, it would be through a sheet of Plexiglas, and it would be that way until death did them part.

  If telling her that didn’t work, well, he sincerely hoped he wouldn’t have to hurt her.

  Willy banished these thoughts and calmed his mind. He’d been smart and careful and thorough. It was all going to be good.

  He stood up from the worn brown sofa and looked out the window to the backyard, where Dick was getting the swing and the bird feeders out of the way of the drones. His nephews and his partner in crime were having an unforgettable Christmas.

  He took a mental picture.

  Then he got ready to go.

  CHAPTER 65

  WILLY TOOK THEIR wedding picture off the wall and opened the safe.

  He removed a short tube of ten Krugerrands and the packet of forged documents they’d need at the airport. He put the papers and the coins inside his bag next to the cash from Sloane’s safe. He added a rolled-up pair of trousers and a long-sleeved shirt, some underwear, and his toiletry kit, then zipped up the bag.

  He went back to his father’s desk and ran his fingers across the top of it, tracing where he’d carved his initials, for which he’d gotten a pretty good beating. The right-hand file drawer held a box of notes and cards and memorabilia. He flipped through it, memorizing the contents, then took 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 mad
e 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.