18th Abduction (Women's Murder Club) (29 page)

Our thanks to these experts who shared their time and knowledge with us during the writing of this book:

Captain Richard Conklin, BSI Commander, Stamford, Connecticut, Police Department; Phil Hoffman, attorney-at-law, partner, Pryor Cashman LLC, NYC; Michael A. Cizmar, former U.S. Marine and FBI agent, SME, CCE; Steven Cerutti, Homeland Security Investigator, New York, ret.; J. M. Sereno, investigator for the U.S. Attorney’s office, Connecticut; Lt. Patricia Correa, SFPD, ret.; and Lt. Lisa Frazer, SFPD, Airport Division.

We also wish to thank our fabulous researcher, Ingrid Taylar, West Coast, USA; John Duffy, passionate war historian; and Mary Jordan, who keeps the whole shebang in order and on time with some LOLs along the way.

Read on for a sneak preview of the next thrilling instalment in the Women’s Murder Club series

19TH CHRISTMAS

Coming October 2019

Julian Lambert was an ex-con in his mid-thirties, sweet faced, with thinning, light-colored hair, wearing a red down jacket.

As he sat on a bench in Union Square waiting for his phone call, he took in the view of the Christmas tree at the center of the square. The tree was really something: an eighty-three-foot-tall cone of green lights with a star on top, ringed by pots of pointy red flowers, surrounded by a red-painted picket fence.

That tree was
secure.
It wasn’t going anywhere.

It was lunchtime, and all around him consumers hurried out of stores weighed down with shopping bags, evidence of money pissed away in an orgy of spending. Julian wondered idly how these dummies were going to pay for their commercially fabricated gifting spree. Almost catching him by surprise, Julian’s phone vibrated.

He fished it out of his pocket, connected, and said his name, and Mr. Loman, the boss, said, “Hello.”

Julian knew that he was meant only to listen, and that was
fine with him. He felt both excited and soothed as Loman explained just enough of the plan to allow Julian to salivate at the possibilities.

A heist.

A huge one.

The plan had many moving parts, Loman said, but if it went off as designed, by this time next year Julian would be living in the Caribbean, or Medellín, or Saint-Tropez. He was picturing a life of blue skies and sunshine, with a side of leggy young things in string bikinis, when Loman asked if he had any questions.

“I’m good to go, boss.”

“Then get moving. No slipups.”

“You can bank on me,” said Julian, glad that Loman barked back, “Twenty-two fake dive, slot right long, on one.”

Julian cracked up. He had played ball in college, a very long time ago, but he still had moves. He clicked off the call, sized up the vehicular and foot traffic, and chose his route.

It was go time.

Julian saw his run as a punt return.

He charged into an elderly man in a shearling coat, sending the man sprawling. He snatched up the old guy’s shopping bag, saying, “Thanks very much, knucklehead.”

What counted was that he had the ball.

With the bag tucked under his arm, Julian ran across Geary, dodging and weaving through the crowd, heading toward the intersection at Stockton. He waited for a break in traffic at the red light, and when it came he sprinted across the street and charged along the broad, windowed side of Neiman Marcus. Revolving glass doors split a crowd of shoppers into long lines of colorful dots filing out onto the sidewalk accompanied by Christmas music: “I played my drum for him, pa-rum-pum-pum-pum.” It was all so crazy.

Julian was still running.

He yelled, “Coming through! No brakes!” He wove around the merry shoppers, sideswiped the UPS man loading his truck, and, with knees and elbows pumping, bag secured
under his arm, dashed up the Geary Street straightaway and veered left to cross again.

Another crowd of shoppers spilled out of Valentino, and Julian shot his left hand out to stiff-arm a young dude, who fell against a woman in a fur coat. Bags and packages clattered to the sidewalk. Julian high-stepped around and over the obstacles, then broke back again into a sprint, turning left on Grant Avenue.

Julian chortled as oncoming pedestrians scattered. Giving the finger to someone who yelled at him, knocking slowpokes out of his way, he shouted, “Merry fucking Christmas, everybody.”

God, this was fun. He couldn’t see the goalposts, but he knew that he was scoring, big-time.

Julian ate up the pavement with his long strides as he listened for sirens. He glanced behind him and saw, finally, two people who looked like cops running up from behind him.

He was winded, but he didn’t stop.
Show me what you’ve got, suckers.
He put on another surge of speed as he headed toward Dragon’s Gate and the Chinatown district. He slowed only when a lady cop’s authoritative voice shouted, “Freeze or I’ll shoot.”

My partner, Inspector Rich Conklin, was running out of time, and he needed my help.

He said desperately, “Would be nice if she told you what she wants.”

“Where would be the fun in that?” I said, grinning. “You figuring it out is kind of the point.”

“I guess. Make our own history.”

“Sure. That’s an idea.”

We had slipped out of the Hall of Justice to do some lunchtime Christmas shopping in San Francisco’s Union Square because of its concentration of high-end shops. Richie wanted to get something special for Cindy.

Rich had wanted to marry Cindy from pretty much the moment he met her. And she loved him fiercely. But. There’s always a
but,
right?

Rich was from a big family, and while he was still in his thirties, he’d wanted kids. Lots of them. Cindy was an only child with a hot career—one that took her to murder scenes
in bad places in the dead of night. And Rich wasn’t the only crime fighter in the relationship; Cindy had solved more than one homicide, even shooting and being shot by a crafty female serial killer who became the subject of Cindy’s bestselling true-crime book.

All this to say, Cindy was in no hurry to have a family.

It was a conflict of desires that in the past had broken up my two great friends, and it was tremendous that they were back together now. But as far as I knew, the conflict remained unsolved.

Rich pointed out an emerald pendant around the neck of a mannequin in a shop window.

“Do you like that?”

I said, “Beautiful. And very Christmasy,” when I heard a scream behind us.

I turned to see a man in a red down jacket running past us, yelling, “Coming through! No brakes!” He nearly collided with a group of people coming out of Neiman’s, clipped a UPS man, and just kept going.

An elderly man in a shearling coat was hobbling down the street in pursuit, with blood streaming out of his nose. He cried out, “Stop, thief! Someone stop him!”

Rich and I are homicide cops, and this was no murder. But we were there. We took off behind the man in the red down jacket who was running with all the power and determination of a pro tailback.

I yelled, “Stop! Police!” But the runner kept going.

I didn’t trust myself to run full out. My doctor had recently benched me for two months owing to a bout of anemia. So I slowed to a walk and yelled to Rich, “You go. I’ll call it in.”

I got on my phone and summed up the situation for dispatch in a few words: There had been a robbery, a grab-and-dash. Conklin was pursuing the suspect on foot, running east on Geary Street turning north onto Grant Avenue.

“Suspect is wearing a red jacket, dark pants. We need backup and an ambulance,” I said, and gave my location.

I trotted back to the elderly man with the bloody nose who was now on his feet, panting and leaning against a building.

He said, “You’re a cop.”

“Yes. Tell me what happened,” I said.

He told me that he’d been minding his own business when “that guy” knocked him down and stole his shopping bag.

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Maury King.”

“Mr. King, an ambulance will be here in a minute.”

He shook himself off. “No, no. I’m okay. Don’t let that bastard get away.”

“We won’t. My partner is in pursuit. Stay right here,” I said. “I’ll be back.”

The man in the red jacket had cleared a wide path for Rich, as screaming shoppers threw themselves against parked cars and buildings. I took off again, jogging in their wake.

I could see up ahead that Rich was keeping up with the runner but not gaining ground. I was following behind them on the wide, shadowed corridor of Grant Avenue, close enough to see someone pop out of a doorway right in front of the runner.

The runner stumbled and almost went down. I saw him push off the pavement with his free hand; he regained his footing but had lost his momentum.

I yelled, “Freeze or I’ll shoot.”

Just then, fully extending himself, Rich lunged—and tackled the runner. They both went down.

Breathless and dizzy, I caught up in time to hold my gun on the runner as Rich shouted orders and patted him down.

“He’s not packing,” Rich told me.

“Good.”

I unhooked my cuffs and, with shaking hands, linked the runner’s wrists behind his back. A cruiser pulled up to the curb.

I asked the runner for his name as I closed the cuffs.

“Julian Lambert. Still smokin’ after all these years,” he said, sounding far too pleased with himself.

I arrested Lambert for battery, theft, and disorderly conduct.
Conklin read him his rights and stuffed him into the back seat of the cruiser.

After my partner slapped the flank of the departing cruiser, I said to him, “Did you notice? That dude actually looked glad to see us.”

That day Yuki was in sentencing court, standing before the bar.

Across the aisle, defense counsel Allison Junker stood with her client, Sandra McDowell. McDowell was a fifty-three-year-old woman who had lost control of her car two weeks before and plowed into a gang of kids exiting a sports bar on Fillmore Street.

There had thankfully been no fatalities, but three of the boys she’d hit had been hospitalized with an assortment of injuries to heads and limbs. McDowell had been driving while intoxicated and made an illegal turn. She had pled guilty, been remanded to the court without bail, and been in jail since her arraignment. Yuki expected the sentencing hearing to be swift, smooth, and punishing.

Judge Bella Walters was on the bench, presiding over a full courtroom. It wasn’t yet the end of the day, and she’d sentenced over two hundred people since breakfast. A small green pin shaped like a wreath sparkled on her collar.

The judge said, “Ms. Castellano. Talk to me.”

Yuki said, “Your Honor, Mrs. McDowell drove her car into a crowd, injuring three young college students, one of whom is a rising football star. First officer on the scene gave Mrs. McDowell a Breathalyzer test. Her blood alcohol was 0.15. She was severely impaired.”

The judge flipped through papers in front of her and asked, “She called the police?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” said defense counsel Junker.

“And she pled guilty?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Yuki said, “Your Honor, this is not Mrs. McDowell’s first DUI. We’re asking for a sentence of three to five years, time commensurate with the pain and suffering of her victims. It’s too soon to tell, but some of their injuries may be permanent.”

The defendant was now weeping into her hands.

The judge addressed the defendant. “Mrs. McDowell, it says here that you’re a pharmacist, married, two children in college. And this prior DUI was a one-car accident?”

“Yes, Your Honor. I hit a tree.”

The judge said, “Don’t you just hate those jaywalking trees?”

“Your Honor,” said Ms. Junker, “Mrs. McDowell is a good citizen. Her entire family is dependent on her income, including her husband, who has MS and is confined to a wheelchair. She has accepted responsibility for this accident from the time it happened and is unbelievably sorry. She intends to join AA upon her release. We urge the court to show leniency.”

Judge Walters wrinkled her brow and looked up as a scuffle broke out at the back of the room. She banged her gavel and demanded silence in the court, even as Sandra McDowell continued to cry.

Yuki would be happy with a three-year sentence, she thought. It would get McDowell off the street, and during that time, she was hoping that those three boys could recover from their injuries, get PT, and return to the lives they’d had planned before McDowell ran into them with her Buick.

Judge Walters said, “Mrs. McDowell, before I impose a sentence, do you have anything to say?”

Mrs. McDowell dabbed at her face with a tissue.

“Yes, Your Honor. I’m very sorry. I’m only grateful that I didn’t kill anyone, but what I did was inexcusable. Whatever sentence you think fair is okay with me.”

Judge Walters said, “Mrs. McDowell, I’m revoking your driver’s license and giving you a year of probation, including eight months of community service, twenty hours a week. Do not drive. If one year from now your parole officer reports to me that you’ve attended AA and completed your community service and automotive abstinence, this court will be done with you.

“I’m releasing you today for time served. Next time there will be no leniency, do you understand me?”

“Yes, Your Honor. Thank you very much.”

“Thank my Christmas spirit. That’s all. Next?”

Allison Junker smirked over her client’s shoulder, and Yuki gave her a
Drop dead
look before leaving the courtroom, feeling like she’d been punched in the face by Santa Claus.

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