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.
While Brady watched over the de Young operation, he was in contact with five other commanders who, like him, had eyes on possible heist targets. SFPD tactical teams and dozens of security companies stood by, braced for a Loman attack, whatever the hell that would look like.
Brady couldn’t imagine Loman and his crew getting away with an armed robbery in daylight under the watch of so many cops. Just couldn’t happen.
Calls came in from all points, and Brady took them, noting the reports of nothing stirring, not even a mouse. And then a face appeared on-screen. It was Lindsay Boxer, holding her badge up to the camera, Rich Conklin standing behind her inside the surveillance van on Geary at Stockton.
“Boxer. What’s up?” Brady said into the webcam.
“Do you know about the body just pulled out of a car trunk?”
“No, I don’t. What’s this about?”
She held up a morgue photo on her phone. He recognized Julian Lambert.
“Lambert, huh? What does the ME say?”
“Homicide. Cause of death was two rounds, one to the back of the neck, one to a vertebra. The bullets are the same caliber as the ones taken from Sloane’s body.”
“Please tell me that the gun is in the system.”
“Sorry. No.”
“And the car?”
“VIN was traced to a junkyard in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, in ’05. That’s all I’ve got, Lieu.”
Brady told Boxer he’d call forensics in a little bit, then said grimly, “I’m not surprised that guy turned up dead. While we’re chasing our tails, Loman has a game plan. I think he just rubbed out the only known witness against him.”