The 19th Christmas (Women's Murder Club #19)(6)

LAMBERT GAVE A long, reluctant sigh, clasped his cuffed hands in front of him on the table, and said, “This is going to blow your minds.”

He paused for effect, and when he got no reaction, he said, “I heard that something big is going down in a couple of days. I promise this is worth more to you than this little bust for stealing what I thought was a fruitcake and then bowling with pedestrians.”

Conklin said, “Get serious, Lambert. You scared a lot of people, and Mr. King is looking to press charges. What’s this ‘big’ something? Be specific.”

“There’s going to be a heist on Christmas Day,” said Lambert.

“A heist?” Conklin said. “An armed robbery?”

“Yeah. Maybe the biggest one in the history of this town.”

I thought, Yeah, sure.

But movies with big heists flashed through my mind. Heat, Ocean’s Eleven through Thirteen, Diamonds Are Forever, and Goldfinger. And my favorite, the Pink Panther movies. My sister and I still found them hilarious and watched one whenever we spent time together.

I said to the dasher, “So you’re talking about a bank robbery? Underground tunnels, things like that?”

“I overheard this conversation in a bar, so I don’t have all the pieces.”

“How about some pieces?” I said. “Do you have some?”

Crickets.

I turned to Conklin and said, “Mr. Lambert is just making stuff up. It’s been a long day already, and I’ve had enough. Time to send him up to his cell and move on.”

Lambert said to Conklin, “A little patience, please, Officer. I’m getting to it. It’s dangerous for me to talk to you, understand?”

Conklin shrugged, stood up, pushed his chair in, and said, “Sergeant Boxer is the boss. She says we’re done, we’re done.”

“Okay. Listen,” said Lambert. “I’ve got the crew chief’s name. Loman. You’ll have something on him in your database.”

I asked, “Like the off-price clothing chain? L-o-e-hm-a-n-n?”

“No idea. I’ve never seen his name in writing.”

“Mr. Loman’s first name?”

“Mister. Look, he just calls himself Mr. Loman. That’s all I know.”

“Wait here. I’ll be right back,” I said.

I went to my desk, said hey to a couple of colleagues, then brought my computer to life.

I ran the names Loehmann, Lowman, and Loman through all available databases. Too many hits came up, dozens in San Francisco. I’d need more information about who we were looking for to do anything with this tip, and the first name “Mister” wasn’t cutting it. My fingers were warmed up, so I ran Julian Lambert’s name again. As he’d said, he’d served short time and was currently on probation for shoplifting. But now that he’d claimed knowledge of a huge heist, I punched his name into the FBI database. I found zip, zero, nada. And Lambert had no known associates named Loman on record.

Our runner looked to be a liar, a nobody, and an utter waste of time.





CHAPTER 8





I RETURNED TO Interview 2 with two guards from our jail on the seventh floor.

I said, “Stand up, Mr. Lambert. Your escorts will take you to your cell. You should consider using your phone call to get a lawyer.”

“Wait. Wait a minute, will you?”

“I don’t have time for bull, Mr. Lambert. Tell your story to the judge.”

Lambert asked, “What? You found nothing on Loman?”

“I found a lot of names like that with many different spellings, dozens in Northern California, dozens in town. Without a first name and a location, your hot tip isn’t worth jack.”

“I have more information,” he said.

Our petty-thief runner was sounding desperate and no longer looked as happy to see me as he was when we arrested him.

Conklin said, “I’ve worked with Sergeant Boxer for a long time, Mr. Lambert. I know when she’s ready to lock up for the night.”

“Okay, I hear you,” he said. “Just—I need to tell you about this heist. Alone.”

I asked the guards to step outside, but I didn’t sit down.

“Speak,” I said to Lambert.

“I know one of the crew. I’ve got his name and address and I know that he’s the kind of guy who is always heavily armed.”

I sat down.

“His name is Chris Dietz. I know there will be a lot of people by that name. But that’s his real name.”

“What does he have to do with this heist?”

“He’s a hitter. Psycho variety. Loman hired him for this job. I met Dietz here, in the seventh-floor jail, about three years ago. It was memorable.”

I said, “I’ll pull Dietz’s sheet, but save me some time. What was he in for?”

“He was charged with holding up an armored car. Witness disappeared and the charges didn’t stick.”

“Okay, Mr. Lambert. Let’s have his address.”

After Lambert gave me the name of a cheap hotel located squarely in the pit of hell, I stood up, opened the door, and asked the guards to come in again.

“Please take Mr. Lambert up to seven.”

“Hey, I cooperated,” Lambert protested.