The Two Minute Rule

14

FBI SPECIAL AGENT Katherine Pollard (retired) stood in the kitchen of her small tract home watching the clock above her sink. When she held her breath, a perfect silence filled the house. She watched the second hand sweep silently toward the twelve. The minute hand was poised at eleven thirty-two. The second hand touched the twelve. The minute hand released like a firing pin, jumping to eleven thirty-three-

TOCK!

The snap of passing time broke the silence.

Pollard wiped a ribbon of sweat from her face as she considered the debris that had accumulated in her kitchen: cups, grape juice cartons, open boxes of Cap’n Crunch and Sugar Smacks, and bowls showing the first stages of whole milk curdled by the heat. Pollard lived in the Simi Valley, where the temperature that day-twenty-seven minutes before noon-had already notched 104 degrees. Her air conditioner had been out for six days and wasn’t likely to be fixed any time soon-Katherine Pollard was broke. She was using the heat-stroked squalor to prepare herself for the inevitable and humiliating call to beg her mother for money.

Pollard had left the FBI eight years ago after she married a fellow agent named Marty Baum and became pregnant with their first child. She had left the job for all the right reasons: She had loved Marty, they both wanted her to be a full-time mom for their son (Pollard feeling the importance of full-time mom status maybe even more than Marty), and-with Marty’s salary-they had had enough money. But that was then. Two children, one legal separation, and-five years after the fact-Marty had dropped dead of a heart attack while scuba diving in Aruba with his then-girlfriend, a twenty-year-old waitress from Huntington Beach.

TOCK!

Pollard had been able to scrape by on Marty’s death benefits, but more and more she required help from her mother, which was humiliating and defeating, and now the AC had been out for almost a week. One hour and twenty-six minutes until her children, David and Lyle, seven and six, would arrive home from camp, dirty and filled with complaints about the heat. Pollard wiped more sweat from her face, scooped up her cordless phone, then brought it out to her car.

The nuclear crystal-sky heat pounded down on her like a blowtorch. Katherine opened her Subaru, started the engine, and immediately rolled down the windows. It had to be 150 degrees inside the car. She maxed out the AC until it blew cold, then rolled up the windows. She let the icy air blow hard on her face, then lifted her T-shirt to let it blow on her skin.

When she felt she was on the safe side of heatstroke, she turned on the phone and punched in her mother’s number. Her mother’s answering machine picked up, as Pollard expected. Her mother screened her calls while she played online poker.

“Mom, it’s me, pick up. Are you there?”

Her mother came on the line.

“Is everything all right?”

Which was the way her mother always came on the line, immediately putting Pollard on the defensive with the implication that her life was an endless series of emergencies and dramas. Pollard knew better than to make small talk. She steeled herself and immediately got to the point.

“Our air conditioner went out. They want twelve hundred dollars to fix it. I don’t have it, Mom.”

“Katherine, when are you going to find another man?”

“I need twelve hundred dollars, Mom, not another man.”

“Have I ever said no?”

“No.”

“Then you know I live to help you and those beautiful boys, but you have to help yourself, too, Katherine. Those boys are older now and you’re not getting any younger.”

Pollard lowered the phone. Her mother was still talking, but Pollard couldn’t understand what she was saying. Pollard saw the mail van approaching, then watched the postman shove the day’s ration of bills into her mailbox. The postman wore a pith helmet, dark glasses, and shorts, and looked as if he was on a safari. When he drove away, Pollard raised the phone again.

She said, “Mom, let me ask you something. If I went back to work, would you be willing to watch the boys?”

Her mother hesitated. Pollard didn’t like the silence. Her mother was never silent.

“Work doing what? Not with the FBI again.”

Pollard had been thinking about it. If she returned to the FBI a position in the Los Angeles field office was unlikely. L.A. was a hot posting that drew far more applicants than available duty assignments. Pollard would more likely find herself posted in the middle of nowhere, but she didn’t want to be just anywhere; Katherine Pollard had spent three years working on the FBI’s elite Bank Squad in the bank robbery capital of the world-Los Angeles. She missed the action. She missed the paycheck. She missed what felt like the best days of her life.

“I might be able to get on as a security consultant with one of the banking chains or a private firm like Kroll. I was good on the Feeb, Mom. I still have friends who remember.”

Her mother hesitated again and this time her voice was suspicious.

“How many hours are we talking about, me being with the boys?”

Pollard lowered the phone again, thinking wasn’t this just perfect? She watched the postman drive to the next house, then the next. When she lifted the phone again her mother was calling her.

“Katherine? Katherine, are you there? Did I lose you?”

“We need the money.”

“Of course I’ll fix your air conditioner. I can’t have my grandsons living in-”

“I’m talking about me going back to work. The only way I can go back to work is if you help me with the boys-”

“We can talk about it, Katherine. I like the idea of you going back to work. You might meet someone-”

“I have to call the repairman. I’ll talk to you later.”

Pollard hung up. She watched the postman work his way up the street, then went to retrieve her mail. She shuffled through the letters as she returned to her car, finding the predictable Visa and MasterCard bills along with something that surprised her-a brown manila envelope showing the FBI’s return address in Westwood, her old office. Katherine hadn’t received anything from the Westwood Feebs in years.

When she was safely back in her car, she tore open the envelope and found a white envelope inside. It had been opened and resealed, as was all mail that was forwarded to current or former agents by the FBI. A printed yellow slip accompanied the letter: THIS PARCEL HAS BEEN TESTED FOR TOXINS AND BIOHAZARDS, AND WAS DETERMINED SUITABLE FOR RE-MAILING. THANK YOU.

The second envelope was addressed to her care of the Westwood office. It bore a Culver City return address she did not recognize. She tore the end of the envelope, shook out a one-page handwritten letter folded around a newspaper clipping, and read:

Max Holman

Pacific Garden Motels Apartments

Culver City, CA 90232

She stopped when she saw the name and broke into a crooked smile, swept up in Bank Squad memories.

“Ohmigod! Max Holman!”

She read on-

Dear Special Agent Pollard,

I hope this letter finds you in good health. I hope you have not stopped reading after seeing my name. This is Max Holman. You arrested me for bank robbery. Please know I bear no grudge and still appreshiate that you spoke on my behalf to the federal prosecutor. I have sucsessfully completed my incarceration and am now on supervised release and am employed. Again, I thank you for your kind and supportive words, and hope you will remember them now.

Katherine remembered Holman and thought as well of him as a cop could think of a man who had robbed nine banks. She felt no warmth toward him for his robberies, but for how she bagged him on his ninth caper. Max Holman had been famous for the way he went down even among the jaded agents of the FBI’s Bank Squad.

She continued reading-

My son was Los Angeles Police Officer Richard Holman, which you can read about in the enclosed article. My son and three other officers were murdered. I am writing you now to ask your help and I hope you will hear me out.

Pollard unfolded the article. She immediately recognized it was a piece about the four officers who had been murdered in the downtown river basin while drinking. Pollard had seen coverage on the evening news.

She didn’t bother to read the clipping, but she looked at the pictures of the four deceased officers. The last photograph was identified as Officer Richard Holman. A circle had been drawn around his picture. Two words were written outside the circle: MY SON.

Pollard didn’t remember that Holman had a son, but she also couldn’t remember what Holman looked like. As she studied the picture her memories returned. Yeah, she could see it-the thin mouth and strong neck. Holman’s son looked like his father.

Pollard shook her head, thinking, jesus, the poor bastard gets out of prison and his son gets killed, couldn’t the man catch a break?

She read on with interest-

The police believe they have identified the murderer but I still have questions and cannot get answers. I believe the police hold my status as a convicted criminal against me and that is why they will not listen. As you are an FBI Special Agent I am hoping you will get these answers for me. That is all I want.

My son was a good man. Not like me. Please call me if you will help. You can also talk to my BOP release supervisor, who will vouch for me.

Sincerely yours,

Max Holman

Beneath his name, Holman had written his home phone, the phone number of the Pacific Gardens office, and his work number. Below his phone numbers he had written Gail Manelli’s name and number. Pollard glanced at the clipping again and flashed on her own boys, older, and hoped she would never get the news Max Holman had now gotten. It had been bad enough when she was informed about Marty, even though their marriage was over and they were well on their way to a divorce. In that singular moment, their bad times had vanished and she felt as if she had lost a piece of herself. For Holman, losing his son, it must have been worse.

Pollard suddenly felt a rush of irritation and pushed the letter and the clipping aside, her nostalgic feelings for Holman and the day she bagged him gone. Pollard believed what all cops eventually learned-criminals were degenerate assholes. You could bag them, house them, dope them, and counsel them, but criminals never changed, so it was almost certain that Holman was running some kind of scam and just as certain that Pollard had almost fallen for it.

Thoroughly pissed, she scooped up the phone and the bills, then shut down her car and stormed through the heat to her house. She had humiliated herself by asking her mother for the money, then humiliated herself a second time by falling for Holman’s sob story. Now she had to beg the snotty repairman to drag his ass out here to make her nightmare house livable. Pollard was all the way inside and dialing the repairman when she put down the phone, returned to her car, and retrieved Max Holman’s miserable, stupid-ass letter.

She called the repairman, but then she called Gail Manelli, Holman’s release supervisor.

15

HOLMAN FOUND Chee behind the counter in his East L.A. shop along with a pretty young girl who smiled shyly when Holman entered. Chee’s face split into a craggy smile, his teeth brown with the morning’s coffee.

Chee said, “Yo, homes. This is my youngest baby, Marisol. Sweetie, say hi to Mr. Holman.”

Marisol told Holman it was a pleasure to meet him.

Chee said, “Baby, have Raul come up here, would you? In my office. Here, bro, c’mon inside.”

Marisol used an intercom to summon Raul as Holman followed Chee into his office. Chee closed the door behind them, shutting her out.

Holman said, “Pretty girl, Chee. Congratulations.”

“What you smilin’ at, bro? You better not be thinking bad thoughts.”

“I’m smiling at the notorious Lil’ Chee calling his daughter ‘sweetie.’”

Chee went to a file drawer and pulled out a camera.

“Girl is my heart, bro, that one and the others. I thank God every day for the air she breathes and the ground beneath her feet. Here-stand right there and look at me.”

“You get me lined up with a ride?”

“Am I the Chee? Let’s get you squared up with this license.”

Chee positioned Holman before a dark blue wall, then lined up the camera.

“Digital, baby-state of the art. Goddamnit, Holman, this ain’t a mug shot-try not to look like you want to kill me.”

Holman smiled.

“Shit. You look like you’re passing a stone.”

The flash went off as someone knocked at the door. A short, hard-eyed young man stepped inside. His arms and face were streaked with grease from working in the body shop. Chee studied the digital image in the camera, then grudgingly decided it would do. He tossed the camera to the new guy.

“California DL, date of issue is today, no restrictions. You don’t wear glasses, do you, Holman, now you got some age?”

“No.”

“No restrictions.”

Raul glanced at Holman.

“Gonna need an address, his date of birth, the stats, and a signature.”

Chee took a pad and pen from his desk and handed them to Holman.

“Here. Put down your height and weight, too. Sign your name on a separate page.”

Holman did what he was told.

“How long before I get the license? I have an appointment.”

“Time you leave with the car, bro. It won’t take long.”

Chee had a brief conversation with Raul in Spanish, then Holman followed him out through the shop into a parking area where a row of cars was waiting. Chee eyeballed the beater.

“Man, no wonder you got pinched. That thing got ‘work release’ written all over it.”

“Can you have someone bring it back to the motel for me?”

“Yeah, no problem. Here’s what I got for you over here-a nice Ford Taurus or this brand-new Highlander, either one carry you in boring middle-class style. Both these vehicles are registered to a rental company I own without wants, warrants, or-unlike that piece of shit you driving now-traffic citations. You get stopped, I rented you the car. That’s it.”

Holman had never seen a Highlander before. It was black and shiny, and sat high on its big tires. He liked the idea of being able to see what was coming.

“The Highlander, I guess.”

“Sweet choice, bro-black, leather trim, a sunroof-you gonna look like a yuppie on your way to the Whole Foods. C’mon, get in. I got something else for you, too, make your life a little easier now you back in the world. Look in the console.”

Holman didn’t know what a Whole Foods was, but he was tired of looking like he had just spent ten years in the can and he was growing worried all of this was going to take too much time. He climbed into his new car and opened the console. Inside was a cell phone.

Chee beamed proudly.

“Got you a cell phone, bro. This ain’t ten years ago, stoppin’ at pay phones and digging for quarters-you got to stay on the grid twenty-four seven. Instruction book’s in there with your number in it. You plug that cord into the cigarette lighter to keep it charged up.”

Holman looked back at Chee.

He said, “Remember when you offered to front me some cash? I hate to do it, man, you being so nice with the car and this phone, but I gotta go back on what I said. I need a pack.”

A pack was a thousand dollars. When banks wrapped used twenties, they bundled fifty bills to a pack. A thousand dollars.

Chee didn’t bat an eye. He studied Holman, then touched his own nose.

“Whatever you want, homes, but I gotta ask-you back on the crank? I don’t want to help you fuck yourself up.”

“It’s nothing like that. I got someone to help me with this thing about Richie; a professional, bro-she really knows what she’s doing. I want to be ready in case there’s expenses.”

Holman had been both relieved and worried when Special Agent Pollard contacted him through Gail Manelli. He hadn’t held much hope he would hear from her, but he had. In typical paranoid FBI fashion, she had checked him out with both Manelli and Wally Figg at the CCC before calling him, and had refused to give him her phone number, but Holman wasn’t complaining-she had finally agreed to meet him at a Starbucks in Westwood to listen to his case. It wasn’t lost on Holman that she gave him a location near the FBI office.

Chee squinted at him.

“What do you mean, she? What kind of professional?”

“The Fed who arrested me.”

Chee’s eyes tightened even more and he waved his hands.

“Bro! Holman, you lost your fuckin’ mind, homes?”

“She treated me right, Chee. She went to bat for me with the AUSA, man. She helped me get a reduced charge.”

“That’s because you damn near gave yourself up, you dumb muthuhfuckuh! I remember that bitch runnin’ into the bank, Holman! She’s gonna set you up, homes! You even fart crooked this bitch gonna send you up!”

Holman decided not to mention that Pollard was no longer an agent. He had been disappointed when she told him, but he believed she would still have the connections and still be able to help him get answers.

He said, “Chee, listen, I gotta go. I have to meet her. You going to be able to help me with that money?”

Chee waved his hand again, axing away his disgust.

“Yeah, I’ll get you the money. Don’t mention my name to her, Holman. Do not let my name pass your lips in her presence, man. I don’t want her to know I’m alive.”

“I didn’t mention you ten years ago when they were sweating me, homes. Why would I mention you now?”

Chee looked embarrassed and waved his hand again as he left.

Holman familiarized himself with the Highlander and tried to figure out how to use the cell phone while he waited. When Chee returned, he handed Holman a plain white envelope and the driver’s license. Holman didn’t look in the envelope. He tucked it into the console, then looked at the license. It was a perfect California driver’s license, showing a seven-year expiration date and the state seal over Holman’s picture. A miniature version of his signature had been inserted beneath his address and description.

Holman said, “Damn, this looks real.”

“Is real, bro. That’s a legitimate Cal state driver’s license number straight up in the system. You get stopped, they run that license through DMV, it’s gonna show you at your address with a brand-new driving record as of today. The magnetic strip on back? It shows just what it’s supposed to show.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Give me the keys to that piece of shit you been driving. I’ll have a couple of boys bring it back.”

“Thanks, Chee. I really appreciate this.”

“Don’t mention my name to that cop, Holman. You keep me out of this.”

“You’re out of it, Chee. You were never in it.”

Chee put his hands on the Highlander’s door and leaned into the window, his eyes fierce.

“I’m just sayin’, is all. Don’t trust this woman, Holman. She put you in the joint once, bro. Don’t trust her.”

“I gotta go.”

Chee stepped back, watching Holman with disgusted eyes, and Holman heard him mutter.

“Hero Bandit, my goddamned ass.”

Holman pulled out into traffic, thinking he hadn’t been called the Hero Bandit in years.

16

HOLMAN ARRIVED fifteen minutes early and seated himself at a table with a clear view of the door. He wasn’t sure he would recognize Agent Pollard, but more importantly he wanted her to have an unobstructed view of him when she entered. He wanted her to feel safe.

The Starbucks was predictably crowded, but Holman knew this was one of her reasons for choosing it as their meeting place. She would feel safer with other people around and probably believed he would be intimidated by their proximity to the Federal Building.

Holman settled in, expecting her to be late. She would arrive late to establish her authority and to make sure he understood the power in this situation was hers. Holman didn’t mind. He had trimmed his hair that morning, shaved twice to get a close shave, and polished his shoes. He had handwashed his clothes the night before and rented Perry’s iron and ironing board for two dollars so he would appear as unthreatening as possible.

Holman was watching the entrance at twelve minutes after the hour when Agent Pollard finally entered. He wasn’t sure it was Pollard at first. The agent who arrested him had been bony and angular, with a thin face and light, short-cropped hair. This woman was heavier than he remembered, with dark hair to her shoulders. The longer hair was nice. She wore a straw-colored jacket over slacks and a dark shirt and sunglasses. Her expression gave her away. The serious game-face expression screamed FED. Holman wondered if she practiced it on the way over.

Holman placed his hands palms down on the table and waited for her to notice him. When she finally saw him Holman offered a smile, but she did not return it. She stepped between the people waiting for their lattes and approached the empty chair opposite him.

She said, “Mr. Holman.”

“Hi, Agent Pollard. Okay if I stand? It’d be polite, but I don’t want you to think I’m attacking you or anything. Could I get you a cup of coffee?”

Holman kept his hands on the table, letting her see them, and smiled again. She still didn’t return the smile or offer her hand. She took her seat, brusque and all business.

“You don’t have to stand and I don’t have time for the coffee. I want to make sure you understand the ground rules here-I’m happy you completed your term and you’re set up with a job and all that-congratulations. I mean that, Holman-congratulations. But I want you to understand-even though Ms. Manelli and Mr. Figg vouched for you, I’m here out of respect for your son. If you abuse that respect in any way, I’m gone.”

“Yes, ma’am. If you want to pat me down or anything, it’s okay.”

“If I thought you would try something like that I wouldn’t have come. Again, I’m sorry about your son. That’s a terrible loss.”

Holman knew he wouldn’t have long to make his case. Pollard was already antsy, and probably not happy she had agreed to see him. Cops never had contact with the criminals they arrested. It just wasn’t done. Most criminals-even true mental defectives-knew better than to seek out the officers who had arrested them, and those few who did usually found themselves rearrested or dead. During their one and only phone conversation, Pollard had tried to reassure him that the murder scenario the police described and their conclusions regarding Warren Juarez were reasonable, but she had had only a passing familiarity with the case and hadn’t been able to answer his torrent of questions or see the evidence he had amassed. Reluctantly, she had finally agreed to familiarize herself with the news reports and let him present his case in person. Holman knew she hadn’t agreed to see him because she believed the police might be wrong; she was doing it to help a grieving father with the loss of his son. She probably felt he had earned the face time for the way he went down, but the face time would be the end of her consideration. Holman knew he only had one shot, so he had saved his best hook for last, the hook he hoped she could not resist.

He opened the envelope in which he kept his growing collection of clippings and documents, and shook out the thick sheaf of papers.

He said, “Did you have a chance to review what happened?”

“Yes, I did. I read everything that appeared in the Times. Can I speak bluntly?”

“That’s what I want-to get your opinion.”

She settled back and laced her fingers in her lap, her body language telling him she wanted to get through this as quickly as possible. Holman wished she would take off the sunglasses.

“All right. Let’s start with Juarez. You described your conversation with Maria Juarez and expressed your doubt that Juarez would have killed himself after the murders, correct?”

“That’s right. Here’s a guy with a wife and kid, why would he kill himself like that?”

“If I had to guess, which is all I’m doing here, I’d say Juarez was huffing, living on crank, probably smoking the rock. Guys like this always get loaded before they pull the trigger. The drugs would contribute to paranoia and possibly even a psychotic break, which would explain the suicide.”

Holman had already considered this.

“Would the autopsy report show all that?”

“Yes-”

“Could you get the autopsy report?”

Holman saw her mouth tighten. He warned himself not to interrupt her again.

“No, I can’t get the autopsy report. I’m just offering you a plausible explanation based on my experience. You were troubled by the suicide, so I’m explaining how it was possible.”

“Just so you know, I asked the police to let me talk to the coroner or somebody, but they said no.”

Her mouth remained firm, but now her laced fingers tightened.

“The police have legal issues, like the right to privacy. If they opened their files, they could be sued.”

Holman decided to move on and fingered through his papers until he found what he wanted. He turned it so she could see.

“The newspaper ran this diagram of the crime scene. See how they drew in the cars and the bodies? I went down there to see for myself-”

“You went down into the riverbed?”

“When I was stealing cars-that was before I got into banks-I spent time down in those flats. That’s what it is-flat. The bed on either side of the channel is an empty expanse of concrete like a parking lot. Only way you can get down there is by the service drive the maintenance people use.”

Pollard leaned forward to follow what he was saying on the map.

“All right. What’s your point?”

“The drive comes down the embankment right here in full view of where the officers were parked. See? The shooter had to come down this drive, but if he came down the drive, they would have been able to see him.”

“It was one in the morning. It was dark. Besides, that thing probably isn’t drawn to scale.”

Holman took out a second map, one he had made himself.

“No, it’s not, so I made this one myself. The service drive was way more visible from under the bridge than the newspaper drawing made it seem. And something else-there’s a gate here at the top of the drive, see? You have to either climb the fence or cut the lock. Either way would make a helluva lot of noise.”

Holman watched Pollard compare the two drawings. She appeared to be thinking about it, and thinking was a good thing. Thinking meant she was becoming involved. But finally she sat back again and shrugged.

“The officers left the gate open when they drove down.”

“I asked the cops how the gate was found, but they wouldn’t tell me. I don’t think Richie and those other officers would have left it open. If you leave the gate open, you take the chance a security patrol might see it and then you’re screwed. We always closed the gate and ran the chain back through, and I’ll bet that’s what Richie and those other guys did, too.”

Pollard sat back.

“When you were stealing cars.”

Holman was setting her up for the hook and he thought he was doing pretty well. She was following his logic train even though she didn’t know where he was going. He felt encouraged.

“If the gate was closed, the shooter had to open it or go over it, and that makes noise. I know those guys were drinking but they only had a six-pack. That’s four grown men and a six-pack-how drunk could they be? If Juarez was stoned like you suggested, how quiet could he be? Those officers would have heard something.”

“What are you saying, Holman? You think Juarez didn’t do it?”

“I’m saying it didn’t matter what the officers heard. I think they knew the shooter.”

Now Pollard crossed her arms, the ultimate signal she was walling him off. Holman knew he was losing her, but he was ready with his hook and she would either go for it or pass.

He said, “Have you heard of two bank hitters named Marchenko and Parsons?”

Holman watched her stiffen and knew she was finally interested. Now she wasn’t just being nice or killing time until she could jump up and run. She took off her sunglasses. He saw that the skin around her eyes had grown papery. She had changed a lot since he had last seen her, but something beyond her appearance was different that he couldn’t quite place.

She said, “I’ve heard of them. And?”

Holman placed the map Richie made showing Marchenko’s and Parsons’ robberies in front of her.

“My son did this. His wife, Liz, let me make a copy.”

“It’s a map of their robberies.”

“The night he died, Richie got a call from Fowler, and that’s when he left. He was going to meet Fowler to talk about Marchenko and Parsons.”

“Marchenko and Parsons are dead. That case would have closed three months ago.”

Holman peeled off copies of the articles and reports he found on Richie’s desk and put them in front of her.

“Richie told his wife they were working on the case. His desk at home, it was covered with stuff like this. I asked the police what Richie was doing. I tried to see the detectives who worked on Marchenko and Parsons, but no one would talk to me. They told me what you just told me, that the case was closed, but Richie told his wife he was going to see Fowler about it, and now he’s dead.”

Holman watched Pollard skim through the pages. He watched her mouth work, like maybe she was chewing the inside of her lip. She finally looked up, and he thought her eyes were webbed with way too many lines for such a young woman.

She said, “I’m not sure what you want from me.”

“I want to know why Richie was working on a dead case. I want to know how Juarez was connected to a couple of bank hitters. I want to know why my son and his friends let someone get close enough to kill them. I want to know who killed them.”

Pollard stared at him and Holman stared back. He did not let his eyes show hostility or rage. He kept that part hidden. She wet her lips.

“I guess I could make a couple of calls. I’d be willing to do that.”

Holman returned all his papers to the envelope, then wrote his new cell number on the cover.

“This is everything I found in the library on Marchenko and Parsons, and what was in the Times about Richie’s death and some of the stuff from his house. I made copies. That’s my new cell number, too. You should have it.”

She looked at the envelope without touching it. Holman sensed she was still struggling with the decision she had already made.

He said, “I don’t expect you to do this for free, Agent Pollard. I’ll pay you. I don’t have much, but we could work out a payment plan or something.”

She wet her lips again. Holman wondered at her hesitation, but then she shook her head.

“That won’t be necessary. It might take a few days, but I just have to make a few calls.”

Holman nodded. His heart was hammering, but he kept his excitement hidden along with the fear and the rage.

“Thanks, Agent Pollard. I really appreciate this.”

“You probably shouldn’t call me Agent Pollard. I’m not a Special Agent anymore.”

“What should I call you?”

“Katherine.”

“Okay, Katherine. I’m Max.”

Holman held out his hand, but Pollard did not accept it. She picked up the envelope instead.

“This doesn’t mean I’m your friend, Max. All it means is I think you deserve answers.”

Holman lowered his hand. He was hurt, but wouldn’t show it. He wondered why she had agreed to waste her time if she felt that way about him, but he kept these feelings hidden, also.

“Sure. I understand.”

“It’ll probably be a few days before you hear from me.”

“I understand.”

Holman watched her walk out of the Starbucks. She picked up speed as she passed through the crowd, then hurried away down the sidewalk. He was still watching her when he remembered the feeling that something was different about her and now he realized what-

Pollard seemed afraid. The young agent who arrested him ten years ago had been fearless, but now she had changed. Thinking these things made him wonder how much he had changed, too, and whether or not he still had what it took to see this thing through.

Holman got up and stepped out into the bright Westwood sun, thinking it felt good to no longer be alone. He liked Pollard even if she seemed hesitant. He hoped she wouldn’t get hurt.

17

POLLARD WASN’T sure why she agreed to help Holman, but she was in no hurry to drive back to Simi Valley. Westwood was twenty degrees cooler and her mother would take care of the boys when they got home from camp, so it was like having a day off from the rest of her life. Pollard felt as if she had been paroled.

She walked to Stan’s Donuts and ordered one plain all-American round-with-a-hole glazed donut-no sprinkles, jelly, candy, or chocolate; nothing that would cut into the silky taste of melted sugar and warm grease. Pollard’s ass needed a donut like a goldfish needed a bowling ball, but she hadn’t been to Stan’s since she left the Bureau. When Pollard was working out of the Westwood office, she and another agent named April Sanders had snuck away to Stan’s at least twice a week. Taking their donut break, they called it.

The woman behind the counter offered a donut off the rack, but a fresh batch was coming out of the fryer, so Pollard opted to wait. She brought Holman’s file to one of the outside tables to read while she waited, but found herself thinking about Holman. Holman had always been a big guy, but the Holman she arrested had been thirty pounds thinner with shaggy hair, a deep tan, and the bad skin of a serious tweaker. He didn’t look like a criminal anymore. Now, he looked like a forty-something man who was down on his luck.

Pollard suspected the police had answered Holman’s questions as best they could, but he was reluctant to accept the facts. She had worked with grieving families during her time with the Feeb, and all of them had seen only questions in that terrible place of loss where no good answers exist. The working truth of every criminal investigation was that not all the questions could be answered; the most any cop hoped for was just enough answers to build a case.

Pollard finally turned to Holman’s envelope and read through the articles. Anton Marchenko and Jonathan Parsons, both thirty-two years old, were unemployed loners who met at a fitness center in West Hollywood. Neither was married nor had a significant other. Parsons was a Texan who had drifted to Los Angeles as a teenage runaway. Marchenko was survived by his widowed mother, a Ukrainian immigrant who, according to the paper, was both cooperating with the police and threatening to sue the city. At the time of their deaths, Marchenko and Parsons shared a small bungalow apartment in Hollywood’s Beachwood Canyon where police discovered twelve pistols, a cache of ammunition in excess of six thousand rounds, an extensive collection of martial arts videos, and nine hundred ten thousand dollars in cash.

Pollard had no longer been on the job when Marchenko and Parsons blazed their way through thirteen banks, but she had followed the news about them and grew jazzed reading about them now. Reading about their bank hits filled Pollard with the same edgy juice she had known on the job. Pollard felt real for the first time in years, and found herself thinking about Marty. Her life since his death had been a nonstop struggle between mounting bills and her desire to single-handedly raise her boys. Having lost their father, Pollard had promised herself they would not also lose their mother to day care and nannies. It was a commitment that had left her feeling powerless and vague, especially as the boys grew older and their expenses mounted, but just reading about Marchenko and Parsons revived her.

Marchenko and Parsons had committed thirteen robberies over a nine-month period, all with the same method of operation: They stormed into banks like an invading army, forced everyone onto the floor, then dumped the cash drawers from the teller stations. While one of them worked the tellers, the other forced the branch manager to open the vault.

The articles Holman had copied included blurry security stills of black-clad figures waving rifles, but witness descriptions of the two men had been sketchy and neither was identified until their deaths. It wasn’t until the eighth robbery that a witness described their getaway vehicle, a light blue foreign compact car. The car wasn’t described again until the tenth robbery, when it was confirmed as being a light blue Toyota Corolla. Pollard smiled when she saw this, knowing the Bank Squad would have been high-fiving each other in celebration. Professionals would have used a different car for each robbery; use of the same car indicated that these guys were lucky amateurs. Once you knew they were riding on luck, you knew their luck would run out.

“Donuts ready. Miss? Your donuts are ready.”

Pollard glanced up.

“What?”

“The hot donuts are ready.”

Pollard had been so involved in the articles she lost track of time. She went inside, collected her donut with a cup of black coffee, then went back to her table to resume reading.

Marchenko and Parsons ran out of luck on their thirteenth robbery.

When they entered the California Central Bank in Culver City to commit their thirteenth armed robbery, they did not know that LAPD Robbery Special detectives, Special Investigations officers, and patrol officers were surveilling a three-mile corridor stretching from downtown L.A. to the eastern edge of Santa Monica. When Marchenko and Parsons entered the bank, all five tellers tripped silent alarms. Though the news story did not contain the specifics, Pollard knew what happened from that point: The bank’s security contractor notified the LAPD, who in turn alerted the surveillance team. The team converged on the bank to take positions in the parking lot. Marchenko exited the bank first. In most such cases, the robber had three typical moves: He surrendered, he tried to escape, or he retreated into the bank, whereupon a negotiation ensued. Marchenko chose none of the above. He opened fire. The surveillance teams-armed with 5.56mm rifles-returned fire, killing Marchenko and Parsons at the scene.

Pollard finished the last article and realized her donut had grown cold. She took a bite. It was delicious even cold, but she paid little attention.

Pollard skimmed through the articles covering the murders of the four officers, then found what appeared to be several cover sheets from LAPD reports about Marchenko and Parsons. Pollard found this curious. Such reports were from the Detective Bureau, but Richard Holman had been a uniformed patrol officer. LAPD detectives used patrol officers to assist in searches and one-on-one street interviews after a robbery, but those jobs didn’t require access to reports or witness statements, and patrol officers rarely stayed involved after the first day or two following a robbery. Marchenko and Parsons had been dead for three months and their loot had been recovered. She wondered why LAPD was maintaining an investigation three months after the fact and why it included patrol officers, but she felt she could learn the answer easily enough. Pollard had gotten to know several LAPD Robbery detectives during her time on the squad. She decided to ask them.

Pollard spent a few minutes recalling their names, then phoned the LAPD’s information office for their current duty assignments. The first two detectives she asked for had retired, but the third, Bill Fitch, was currently assigned to Robbery Special, the elite robbery unit operating out of Parker Center.

When she got Fitch on the phone, he said, “Who is this?”

Fitch didn’t remember her.

“Katherine Pollard. I was on the Bank Squad with the FBI. We worked together a few years ago.”

She rattled off the names of several of the serial bandits they had worked: the Major League Bandit, the Dolly Parton Bandit, the Munchkin Bandits. Serial bandits were given names when they were unknown subjects because the names made them easier to talk about. The Major League Bandit had always worn a Dodgers cap; the Dolly Parton Bandit, one of only two female bank bandits Pollard had worked, had been an ex-stripper with huge breasts; and the Munchkin Bandits had been a takeover team of little people.

Fitch said, “Oh, sure, I remember you. I heard you quit the job.”

“That’s right. Listen, I have a question for you about Marchenko and Parsons. You got a minute?”

“They’re dead.”

“I know. Are you guys still running an open case?”

Fitch hesitated, and Pollard knew this to be a bad sign. Though the FBI and the LAPD bank teams enjoyed a great working relationship, the rules stated you didn’t share information with private citizens.

He said, “Are you back with the Feeb?”

“No. I’m making a personal inquiry.”

“What does that mean, personal inquiry? Who are you working for?”

“I’m not working for anyone-I’m making an inquiry for a friend. I want to find out if the four officers killed last week were working on Marchenko and Parsons.”

Pollard could almost see his eyes roll by the tone that came to his voice.

“Oh, now I get it. Holman’s father. That guy is being a real pain in the ass.”

“He lost his son.”

“Listen, how in hell did he get you involved in this?”

“I put him in prison.”

Fitch laughed, but then his laughter stopped as if he had flipped a switch.

“I don’t know what Holman is talking about and I can’t answer your questions. You’re a civilian.”

“Holman’s son told his wife he was working on something.”

“Marchenko and Parsons are dead. Don’t call me again, ex-Agent Pollard.”

The phone went dead in her ear.

Pollard sat with her dead phone and cold donut, reviewing their conversation. Fitch had repeatedly told her Marchenko and Parsons were dead, but he hadn’t denied that an investigation was ongoing. She wondered why and thought she might know how to find out. She opened her cell phone again and called April Sanders.

“Special Agent Sanders.”

“Guess where I am.”

Sanders lowered her voice. This had always been Sanders’ habit when taking a personal call. They hadn’t spoken since Marty’s death and Pollard was pleased to see that Sanders hadn’t changed.

“Oh my God-is that really you?”

“Are you in the office?”

“Yeah, but not much longer. Are you here?”

“I’m at Stan’s with your name on a dozen donuts. Send down a badge.”

The Federal Building in Westwood was headquarters for the eleven hundred FBI agents serving Los Angeles and the surrounding counties. It was a single steel-and-glass tower set amid acres of parking lots on some of the most expensive real estate in America. The agents often joked that the United States could retire its national debt by converting their offices to condos.

Pollard parked in the civilian lot, then cleared the lobby security station to wait for her escort. It was no longer enough for someone to call down a pass. Pollard couldn’t just board an elevator and punch the button for any of the eight floors occupied by the FBI; visitors and agents had to swipe their security cards and enter a valid badge number before the elevator would move.

A few moments later an elevator opened and a civilian employee stepped out. He recognized Pollard by the box from Stan’s and held the door.

“Miss Pollard?”

“That’s me.”

“You going to Banks, right?”

“That’s right.”

Officially, it was known as the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Los Angeles Field Office, Bank Squad, but the agents who worked there called it Banks. Pollard’s escort showed her to the thirteenth floor, then let her through a code-locked door. Pollard hadn’t been through the door in eight years. She felt as if she had never left.

The Bank Squad occupied a large modern office space cut into spacious cubicles by sea-green partitions. The offices were neat, clean, and corporate, and might have belonged to an insurance firm or a FORTUNE 500 company except for the mug shots of L.A.’s ten most wanted bank robbers hanging on the wall. Pollard smiled when she saw the mug shots. Someone had stuck Post-it notes on the top three suspects, naming them Larry, Moe, and Curly.

Los Angeles and the surrounding seven counties were hit by an average of more than six hundred bank robberies every year-which meant three bank robberies each and every business day, five days per week, fifty-two weeks per year (bank robbers kicked back on Saturday and Sunday when most banks were closed). So many banks were being robbed that most of the ten elite Special Agents who worked Banks were always out in the field at any given time and today was no different. Pollard saw only three people when she entered. A bald, light-skinned African-American agent named Bill Cecil was locked in conversation with a young agent Pollard didn’t recognize. Cecil smiled when he saw her as April Sanders rushed forward.

Sanders, looking panicked, covered her mouth in case lip-readers were watching. Sanders was a profound paranoid. She believed her calls were monitored, her e-mails were read, and the women’s bathroom was bugged. She believed the men’s bathroom was bugged, too, but that didn’t concern her.

She whispered, “I should have warned you. Leeds is here.”

Christopher Leeds was the Bank Squad supervisor. He had run the squad with a brilliant hand for almost twenty years.

Pollard said, “You don’t have to whisper. I’m okay with Leeds.”

“Shh!”

“No one’s listening, April.”

They both glanced around to find Cecil and his partner cupping their ears, listening. Pollard laughed.

“Stop it, Big Bill.”

Big Bill Cecil slowly rose to his feet. Cecil was not a tall man; he was called Big Bill because he was wide. He had been on the Bank Squad longer than anyone except Leeds.

“Good to see you, lady. How are those babies?”

Cecil had always called her lady. When Pollard first joined the squad, Leeds-then as now-was as much a nightmare tyrant as he was brilliant. Cecil had taken her under his wing, counseled and consoled her, and taught her how to survive Leeds’ exacting demands. Cecil was one of the kindest men she had ever known.

“They’re good, Bill, thanks. You’re getting fat.”

Cecil eyed the donut box.

“I’m about to get fatter. One of those has my name on it, I hope.”

Pollard held the box for Cecil and his partner, who introduced himself as Kevin Delaney.

They were still chatting when Leeds came around the corner. Delaney immediately returned to his desk and Sanders went back to her cubicle. Cecil, who was ripe for his pension, turned his letterbox smile on his boss.

“Hey, Chris. Look who came to visit.”

Leeds was a tall humorless man known for immaculate suits and his brilliance in patterning serial bandits. Serial robbers were hunted in much the same way as serial killers. They were profiled to establish their patterns, and once their patterns were recognized, predictions were made as to when and where they would strike again. Leeds was a legendary profiler. Banks were his passion, and the agents who worked on the squad were his handpicked children. Everyone arrived before him; no one left until Leeds left. And Leeds rarely left. The workload was horrendous, but the FBI’s L.A. Bank Squad was the top of the game, and Leeds knew it. Working with the squad was an honor. When Pollard resigned, Leeds had taken it as a personal rejection. The day she cleared her desk, he refused to speak to her.

Now he studied her as if he couldn’t place her, but then he nodded.

“Hello, Katherine.”

“Hey, Chris. I stopped by to say hello. How’ve you been?”

“Busy.”

He glanced across the room at Sanders.

“I want you with Dugan in Montclair. He needs help with the one-on-ones. You should have left ten minutes ago.”

One-on-ones were the face-to-face interviews of possible witnesses. Local shopkeepers, workmen, and pedestrians were questioned in hopes they could provide a description of the suspects or their vehicle.

Sanders peeked over the top of her cubicle.

“On it, boss.”

He turned to Cecil and tapped his watch.

“Meeting. Let’s go.”

Cecil and Delaney hurried toward the door, but Leeds turned back to Pollard.

He said, “I appreciated the card. Thank you.”

“I was sorry when I heard.”

Leeds’ wife had died three years ago, almost two months exactly after Marty. When Pollard heard, she had written a short note. Leeds had never responded.

“It was good to see you, Katherine. I hope you still feel you made the right decision.”

Leeds didn’t wait for her to respond. He followed Cecil and Delaney out the door like a grave digger on his way to church.

Pollard brought the donuts to Sanders’ cubicle.

“Man, some things never change.”

Sanders reached for the box.

“I wish I could say the same about my ass.”

They laughed and enjoyed the moment, but then Sanders frowned.

“Shit, you heard what he said. I’m sorry, Kat, I gotta roll.”

“Listen, I didn’t stop by just to bring donuts. I need some information.”

Sanders looked suspicious, then lowered her voice again.

“We should eat. Eating will distort our voices.”

“Yeah, let’s eat.”

They fished out a couple of donuts.

Pollard said, “Did you guys close the Marchenko and Parsons case?”

Sanders spoke with her mouth full.

“They’re dead, man. Those guys were iced. Why you want to know about Marchenko and Parsons?”

Pollard knew Sanders would ask, and had worried over how she should answer. Sanders had been on the squad when they tracked and busted Holman. Even though Holman had earned their respect with how he went down, many of the agents had grown resentful because of the publicity he got when the Times dubbed him the Hero Bandit. Within the squad, Holman’s name had been the Beach Bum Bandit because of his dark tan, Tommy Bahama shirts, and shades. Bank robbers were not heroes.

She said, “I took a job. Raising two kids is expensive.”

Pollard didn’t want to lie, but she didn’t see any other way around it. And it wasn’t like it was totally a lie. It was almost the truth.

Sanders finished her first donut and started a second.

“So where are you working?”

“It’s a private job, banking security, that kind of thing.”

Sanders nodded. Retired agents often took jobs with security firms or the smaller banking chains.

Pollard said, “Anyway, I was told that LAPD was still running a case. You know anything about that?”

“No. Why would they?”

“That’s what I was hoping you could tell me.”

“We’re not. They’re not. It’s a done deal.”

“You sure?”

“Run a case for what? We bagged’m. Marchenko and Parsons had no accomplices inside or outside the banks. We ran this thing, man-I mean we ran it-so we know. We found no evidence of any other party being involved either before or after the fact, so there was no reason to continue the investigation. LAPD knows that.”

Pollard thought back over her conversation with Holman.

“Were Marchenko and Parsons plugged in with the Frogtown gang?”

“Nope. Never came up.”

“Any gangs other than Frogtown?”

Sanders pinched her donut between her thumb and forefinger, and ticked off the points she wanted to make on her remaining fingers.

“We questioned Marchenko’s mother, their landlord, their mailman, some dork at a video store they frequented, and the neighbors at their apartment house. These guys had no friends or associates. They didn’t tell anyone-not anyone-what they were doing, so they sure as hell had no accomplices. And, except for a somewhat cheesy collection of gold necklaces and a two-thousand-dollar Rolex, they sat on the money. No flashy cars, no diamond rings-they lived in a dump.”

“They must have spent something. You only recovered nine hundred K.”

Nine hundred thousand was a lot of cash, but Marchenko and Parsons had hit twelve vaults. Pollard had done the math when she read the articles at Stan’s. Teller drawers could yield a couple of thousand at most, but a vault could net two or three hundred thousand and sometimes more. If Marchenko and Parsons scored three hundred K from each of the twelve vaults, that was 3.6 million, which left two and half million missing. Pollard hadn’t found this unusual because she had once bagged a thief who spent twenty thousand a night on strippers and lap dances, and a South Central gang who had flown to Vegas after their scores for two-hundred-thousand-dollar orgies of chartered jets, crack, and Texas Hold’em. Pollard assumed that Marchenko and Parsons had blown the missing money.

Sanders finished her donut.

“No, they didn’t blow it. They hid it. That nine we got was a freak scene. Parsons made up a little bed with it. He liked to sleep on it and jerk off.”

“How much was their take?”

“Sixteen-point-two million, less the nine.”

Pollard whistled.

“Jesus Christ, that’s a lot. What did they do with it?”

Sanders eyed the remaining donuts, but finally closed the box.

“We found no evidence of purchases, deposits, fund transfers, gifts-nothing; no receipts, no conspicuous consumption. We ran their phone calls for the entire year, investigating everyone they called-nothing. We worked that old lady-Marchenko’s mother, man, what a nasty bitch she is, a Ukrainian? Leeds thought for sure she knew what was up, but you know what? At the end of the day we cleared her. She couldn’t even afford to buy medicine. We don’t know what they did with the money. It’s probably sitting in a storage shed somewhere.”

“So you let it drop?”

“Sure. We did what we could.”

The squad’s job was to bust bank robbers. Once the perpetrators of a particular crime were caught, the squad would attempt to recover any missing funds but ultimately its attention was turned to the other fifty or sixty crooks still robbing banks. Unless new evidence surfaced to indicate an at-large accomplice, Pollard knew the recovery of missing funds would be left to banking insurers.

Pollard said, “Maybe LAPD is still running the case.”

“Nah, we were in with Robbery Special every step of the way so we both hit the wall at the same time. That case is closed. The banks might have pooled to run a contract investigation, but I don’t know. I could find out if you want.”

“Yeah. That would be great.”

Pollard considered her options. If Sanders said the case was closed, then it was closed, but Holman’s son told his wife he was working it. Pollard wondered if LAPD had developed a lead to the missing money.

“Listen, could you get a copy of the LAPD file on this?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“I’d like to see their witness lists. I’d like to see yours, too. I might have to talk to those people.”

Sanders hesitated, then suddenly stood to make sure the office was empty. She glanced at her watch.

“Leeds is going to kill me. I have to get going.”

“How about the list?”

“You’d better not let it get back to Leeds. He’ll have my ass.”

“You know better than that.”

“I’ll have to fax it to you.”

Pollard left the building with Sanders, then went to her car. It was one forty-five. Her mother would be hammering the boys to clean their room and the day was still young. Pollard had an idea how she could find out what she wanted to know, but she would need Holman’s help. She found his cell number on the envelope and placed the call.

18

AFTER HOLMAN left Agent Pollard he returned to his Highlander and called Perry to let him know what was happening with the Mercury.

“A couple of guys are bringing back your car. They’ll put it in the alley.”

“Waitaminute. You let some other asshole drive my car? Where you get off doing something like that?”

“I got a new set of wheels, Perry. How else could I get your car back?”

“That bastard better not pick up a ticket or I’m making you pay.”

“I got a cell phone, too. Let me give you the number.”

“Why? In case I gotta call to say your fuckin’ friends have stolen my car?”

Holman gave him the number, then got off the line. Perry was wearing him out.

Holman walked around Westwood looking for a place to have lunch. Most of the restaurants he passed looked too dressy. Holman was feeling self-conscious about his appearance since meeting with Agent Pollard. Even though he had ironed his clothes, he knew they looked cheap. They were prison clothes, bought from secondhand shops with prison money, ten years behind the style. Holman stopped outside a Gap and watched the kids going in and out with big Gap bags. He could probably set himself up with a new pair of jeans and a couple of shirts, but spending Chee’s money on clothes bothered him, so he talked himself out of it. A block later he bought a pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarers from a street vendor for nine dollars. He liked the way he looked in them, but didn’t realize until he was two blocks away that they were the same style glasses he wore when he was robbing banks.

Holman found a Burger King across the street from the UCLA main gate, settled in with a Whopper and fries and the instruction manual for his new cell phone. He set up his voice mail and was programming the list of numbers he’d been keeping in his wallet into the phone’s memory when the phone made a chiming sound. Holman thought he had caused the chime by pressing the wrong button, then realized he was getting a call. It took him a moment to remember to answer by pressing the Send key.

He said, “Hello?”

“Holman, it’s Katherine Pollard. I have a question for you.”

Holman wondered if anything was wrong. She had left him only an hour ago.

“Okay. Sure.”

“Have you met or spoken with Fowler’s widow?”

“Yeah. I met her at the memorial.”

“Good. We’re going to go see her.”

“Right now?”

“Yeah. I have the free time now, so now would be good. I want you to meet me back in Westwood. There’s a mystery bookstore on Broxton just south of Weyburn with a parking structure next door. Park in the structure and meet me outside the bookstore. I’ll do the driving.”

“Okay, sure, but why are we going to see her? Did you find out something?”

“I’ve asked two people if LAPD was running an investigation and they both denied it, but I think it’s possible something was going on. She might be able to tell us.”

“Why do you think Fowler’s wife knows?”

“Your son told his wife, didn’t he?”

The simplicity of that notion impressed Holman.

“Should we call her or something? What if she isn’t home?”

“You never call them, Holman. When you call, they always say no. We’ll take our chances. How long before you can get back to Westwood?”

“I’m already there.”

“Then I’ll see you in five.”

Holman hung up, regretting that he hadn’t bought new clothes at the Gap.

When Holman stepped out of the parking structure, Pollard was waiting in front of the bookstore in a blue Subaru with the windows raised and the engine running. It was several years old and needed a wash. He climbed into the passenger side and pulled the door closed.

He said, “Man, you got back to me really fast.”

She tore away from the curb.

“Yeah, thanks, now listen-we have three things to cover with this woman: Was her husband participating in some kind of investigation involving Marchenko and Parsons? Did he tell her why he left the house to meet your son and the others that night, and what they were going to do? And, in either of the above conversations or at any other time, did he mention Marchenko and Parsons being connected with Frogtown or any other gang? Got it? That should tell us what you need to know.”

Holman stared at her.

“Is this what it was like when you were on the Feeb?”

“Don’t call it the Feeb, Holman. I can call it the Feeb, but I don’t want to hear that kind of disrespect from you.”

Holman turned to stare out the window. He felt like a child whose hand had been slapped for chewing with his mouth open.

She said, “No sulking. Please don’t sulk, Holman. I’m hitting this fast because we have a lot of ground to cover and I don’t have much time. You came to me, remember?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Okay. She lives up in Canoga Park. Take us about twenty minutes if we stay ahead of the traffic.”

Holman was irritated, but he liked that she had taken the lead and was pushing forward. He took it as a sign of her experience and professionalism.

“So why do you think something is going on even though your friends said the case was closed?”

Pollard swiveled her head like a fighter pilot on patrol, then gunned the Subaru onto the 405, heading north. Holman held on, wondering if she always drove like this.

She said, “They never recovered the money.”

“The papers said they got nine hundred thousand in Marchenko’s apartment.”

“Chump change. Those guys netted over sixteen mil in their heists. It’s missing.”

Holman stared at her.

“That’s a lot of money.”

“Yeah.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“What happened to it?”

“No one knows.”

They climbed the 405 out of Westwood toward the Sepulveda Pass. Holman turned in his seat to look out at the city. The city stretched away from him as far as he could see.

He said, “All that money is just…out there?”

“Don’t mention the money to this woman, okay, Holman? If she mentions it, fine, then we’ve learned something, but the idea here is that we want to find out what she knows. We don’t want to put ideas in her head. That’s called witness contamination.”

Holman was still thinking about the sixteen million dollars. His biggest single take had been three thousand, one hundred, and twenty-seven dollars. The combined take from all nine of his robberies had been eighteen thousand, nine hundred, and forty-two dollars.

“You think they were trying to find the money?”

“Finding money isn’t the LAPD’s job. But if they had a lead to someone who had knowingly received stolen money or was holding it for Marchenko and Parsons or was in possession of the stolen cash, then, yeah, it would be their job to conduct an investigation.”

They were steaming north out of the mountains and across the Ventura Interchange. The San Fernando Valley spread out before them to the east and west, and north to the Santa Susana Mountains, a great flat valley filled with buildings and people. Holman kept thinking about the money. He couldn’t get the sixteen million out of his head. It might be anywhere.

Holman said, “They were trying to find the money. You can’t let that much money just go.”

Pollard laughed.

“Holman, you wouldn’t believe how much dough we lose. Not with guys like you who we bag alive-you bag a guy, he’ll give it up if he has any left, trying to cut a deal-but the takeover guys like Marchenko and Parsons who get killed? One-point-two here, five hundred thousand there, just gone, and no one ever finds it. No one who reports it, anyway.”

Holman glanced over at her. She was smiling.

“That’s wild. I never thought about it.”

“The banks don’t want losses like that in the papers. It would only encourage more assholes to rob banks. Anyway, listen-a friend of mine is pulling the LAPD file on this thing. As soon as we have it, we’ll know what’s what or we’ll know who to ask, so don’t worry about it. In the meantime, we’ll see what we get from this woman. For all we know, Fowler told her everything.”

Holman nodded but did not answer. He watched the valley roll past: a pelt of houses and buildings covering the earth that reached to the mountains, cut by remote canyons and shadows. Some men would do anything for sixteen million dollars. Murdering four cops was nothing.

The Fowlers had a small tract home in a development of similar homes, all with the stucco sides, composite roofs, and tiny yards typical of the post-World War II construction boom. Ancient orange trees decorated most of the yards, so old that their trunks were black and gnarled. Holman guessed the development had once been an orange grove. The trees were older than the houses.

The woman who answered the door was Jacki Fowler, but she seemed like a coarse version of the woman Holman met at the memorial. Without makeup, her wide face was loose and blotchy, and her eyes were hard. She stared at him without recognition in a way that made Holman uncomfortable. He wished they had called.

“I’m Max Holman, Mrs. Fowler, Richard Holman’s father. We met at the memorial.”

Pollard held out a small bouquet of daisies. She had swung into a Vons Market to pick up the flowers when they reached Canoga Park.

“My name is Katherine Pollard, Mrs. Fowler. I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

Jacki Fowler took the flowers without comprehension, then looked at Holman.

“Oh, that’s right. You lost your son.”

Pollard said, “Would you mind if we come in for a few minutes, Mrs. Fowler? We’d like to pay our respects, and Max would like to talk about his son if you have the time.”

Holman admired Pollard. In the time it took them to walk from the car to the door, the fast-talking frenetic driver had been replaced by a reassuring woman with a gentle voice and kind eyes. Holman was glad she was with him. He wouldn’t have known what to say.

Mrs. Fowler showed them into a clean, well-kept living room. Holman saw an open bottle of red wine on a little table at the end of the couch, but no glass. He glanced at Pollard for some direction, but Pollard was still with Mrs. Fowler.

Pollard said, “This must be really hard for you right now. Are you doing all right? Do you need anything?”

“I have four sons, you know. The oldest, now he’s talking the big talk about going on the police. I told him, are you out of your mind?”

“Tell him to be a lawyer. Lawyers make all the money.”

“Do you have children?”

“Two boys.”

“Then you know. This is going to sound terrible, but you know what I used to say? If he’s going to get killed, then please God let him get T-boned by some drunk-driving movie star with millions of dollars. At least I could sue the sonofabitch. But no-he has to get killed by some piece of shit cholo without a pot to piss in.”

She glanced at Holman.

“We should still look into that-me, you, and the other families. They say you can’t get blood from a stone, but who’s to know? Would you like a glass of wine? I was just about to have one, first of the day.”

“No, thanks, but you help yourself.”

Pollard said, “I’ll have one.”

Mrs. Fowler told them to take a seat, then continued out to her dining room. A second bottle of wine was open on the table. She poured two glasses, then returned, offering one of the glasses to Pollard. Holman realized it was a long way from being the first of her day.

As Jacki Fowler took a seat, she asked, “Did you know Mike? Is that why you’re here?”

“No, ma’am. I didn’t know my son very well, either. That’s more why I’m here, about my son. My daughter-in-law-Richie’s wife-she told me that your husband was my son’s training officer. I guess they were good friends.”

“I wouldn’t know. It’s like we lived two lives in this house. Are you a policeman, too?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Are you the one was in prison? Someone at the funeral said there was a convict.”

Holman felt himself flush and glanced at Pollard, but Pollard wasn’t looking at him.

“Yes, ma’am. That’s me. Officer Holman’s father.”

“Jesus, that must have been something. What did you do?”

“I robbed a bank.”

Pollard said, “I used to be a police officer, Mrs. Fowler. I don’t know about you, but these murders have left Max with a lot of questions, like why his son went out in the middle of the night. Did Mike tell you anything about that?”

Mrs. Fowler sipped her wine, then made a dismissive wave with the glass.

“Mike went out in the middle of the night all the damned time. He was hardly ever home.”

Pollard glanced at Holman, nodding that it was his turn to say something.

“Max, why don’t you tell Jacki what your daughter-in-law said? About the call he got that night.”

“My daughter-in-law told me your husband called. Richie was at home, but he got a call from your husband and went out to meet him and the other guys.”

She snorted.

“Well, Mike sure as hell didn’t call me. He was working that night. He had the dog shift. The way it was around here, he came home when he came home. He never showed me the courtesy to call.”

“I got the idea they were working on something.”

She grunted again and had more of the wine.

“They were drinking. Mike was a drunkard. You know the other two-Mellon and Ash? Mike had been their T.O., also.”

Now Pollard stared at Holman, and Holman shrugged.

“I didn’t know that.”

Pollard said, “Why don’t you show her the phone bills?”

Holman unfolded his copy of Richie’s phone bill.

Mrs. Fowler said, “What’s this?”

“My son’s phone bills for the past couple of months. You see the little red dots?”

“That’s Mike’s phone.”

“Yes, ma’am. Ash is the yellow dots and Mellon the green. Richie was calling your husband two or three times a day almost every day. He hardly ever called Ash or Mellon, but he talked to Mike a lot.”

She studied the bill as if reading the fine print in a lifetime contract, then pushed to her feet.

“I want to show you something. Just wait here. You sure you don’t want any wine?”

“Thanks, Mrs. Fowler, but I’ve been sober for ten years. I was a drunkard along with being a bank robber.”

She grunted again and walked away as if that had made no more impression on her than knowing he had been in prison.

Pollard said, “You’re doing fine.”

“I didn’t know about the training officer business.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re doing fine.”

Mrs. Fowler came back shuffling through several papers and returned to her spot on the couch.

“Isn’t it strange you checked your son’s phone records? So did I. Not your son’s, I mean, but Mike’s.”

Pollard put down her wine. Holman saw that it was untouched.

Pollard said, “Had Mike said anything to make you suspicious?”

“It was the not saying anything that made me suspicious. He’d get these calls, not on the house line, but on his cell. He carried those damned cell phones all the time. The damn thing would ring and he’d leave-”

“What would he say?”

“He was going out. That’s all he would say, I’m going out. What was I to think? What would anyone think?”

Pollard leaned forward quietly.

“He was having an affair.”

“Fucking some whore is what I thought, pardon my French, so I decided to see who he was calling and who was calling him. See, here-on his cell phone bill-”

She finally found what she wanted and bent forward to show Holman the pages. Pollard came over and sat beside Holman to see. Holman recognized Richie’s home and cell phone numbers.

Mrs. Fowler said, “I didn’t recognize any of the numbers, so you know what I did?”

Pollard said, “You called the numbers?”

“That’s right. I thought he was calling women, but it was your son and Ash and Mellon. I wish I had thought of the little dots. I asked him what are you doing with these guys, fruiting off? I didn’t mean anything by that, Mr. Holman, I was just trying to be mean. You know what he said? He told me to mind my own business.”

Holman ignored her comment. Richie had been calling Fowler every day, but Fowler had also been calling Richie, Ash, and Mellon. It was clear they were doing more than lining up beer parties.

Mrs. Fowler was back in the anger of that moment and rolling on.

“I didn’t know what in hell they were doing. It made me angry, but I didn’t say much until I had to clean up after him, then I had had enough. He came home in the middle of the night tracking dirt all over the house. I didn’t find it until the next day and I was so mad. He didn’t even care enough to clean up after himself. That’s how little consideration he showed.”

Holman had no idea what she was talking about, so he asked her, wondering if it had anything to do with Richie.

Mrs. Fowler pushed to her feet again, but this time it took more of an effort.

“Come here. I’ll show you.”

They followed her out through the kitchen onto a small covered patio in the backyard. A dusty Weber grill was parked at the edge of the patio with a pair of Wolverine work boots on the ground beside it, caked with dirt and weeds. She pointed at them.

“Here-he clopped through the house in the middle of the night with these things. When I saw the mess I said, Have you lost your mind? I threw them out here and told him he could clean them himself. You should have seen the mess.”

Pollard stooped to look at the boots more closely.

“What night was that?”

She hesitated, frowning.

“I guess it was Thursday-two Thursdays ago.”

Five days before they were murdered. Holman wondered if Richie, Mellon, and Ash had also gone out that night. He told himself to ask Liz.

Pollard, reading his mind, stood.

“Was that a night when he went out with the others?”

“I didn’t ask and I don’t know. I told him if he hated being here so much he should get the hell out. I was fed up with the rudeness. I had had enough with the discourtesy, coming into my house like this and not even cleaning up after himself. We had a terrible fight and I don’t regret one word of it, not even now with him being dead.”

Then Pollard surprised him.

She said, “Did Mike ever mention the names Marchenko and Parsons?”

“No. Are they on the police?”

Pollard seemed to study her for a moment, then made the gentle smile.

“Just people Mike used to know. I thought he might have mentioned them.”

“Michael never told me a goddamned thing. It was like I didn’t exist.”

Pollard glanced back at Holman, then nodded toward the house, the gentle smile deadened by sadness.

“We should be going, Max.”

When they reached the front door, Jacki Fowler took Holman’s hand and held it an uncomfortably long time.

She said, “There’s more than one kind of prison, you know.”

Holman said, “Yes, ma’am. I’ve been there, too.”

19

HOLMAN WAS ANGRY and unsettled when they left. He had wanted to find a grieving widow with straightforward answers to explain his son’s death, but now he pictured Mike Fowler having secretive phone calls with his hand cupped over his mouth. He saw Fowler slipping from his home too early for the neighbors to see, then returning under cover of darkness. What were you doing, honey? Nothing. Where did you go? Nowhere. Holman had spent most of his life doing crime. Whatever had happened in the Fowler house felt like a crime in progress.

Pollard gunned her Subaru up the freeway on-ramp into the thickening traffic. The drive back would be ugly, but when Holman glanced at her, she was glowing as if a light had been turned on inside her.

Holman said, “What do you think?”

“Talk to your daughter-in-law. Ask if Richard went out the Thursday before they were shot and if she knows anything about where they went or what they did. Ask about the Frogtown connection, too. Don’t forget that.”

Holman was thinking he wanted to drop the whole thing.

“I wasn’t asking about that. You said it wasn’t up to the police to look for missing money.”

She jacked the Subaru between two tractor-trailers, diving for the diamond lane.

“It’s up to them, but recovering loot isn’t a front-burner priority. No one has time for that, Holman-we’re too busy trying to stop new crimes from happening.”

“If someone found it, though-would they get a reward? A legal reward?”

“The banks award a recovery fee, yes, but policemen aren’t eligible.”

“Well, if they were doing it on their own time-”

She interrupted him.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. Deal with what you know, and right now all we know is Fowler tracked dirt in the house on Thursday night and didn’t give a shit what his wife thought about it. That’s all we know.”

“But I checked the call dates when she showed us her phone bills. All of the calling started on the eighth day after Marchenko and Parsons died, just like on Richie’s bill. Fowler called Richie and Mellon and Ash, one right after another. Like he was saying, hey, let’s go find some money.”

She straightened behind the wheel, crisp and sharp.

“Holman, listen-we’ve had exactly one interview with a woman who had a bad marriage. We don’t know what they were doing or why.”

“It feels like they were up to something. This isn’t what I wanted in my head.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

Holman glanced at her and saw her frowning. She swerved out of the diamond lane to zoom around two women in a sedan, then cut them off when she dived back into the diamond lane ahead of them. Holman had never driven this fast unless he was high.

She said, “We don’t know enough for you to think any differently about your son, so stop it. You heard this depressed woman with her husband sneaking around and you know the money’s missing, so you’ve jumped to this conclusion. Maybe they just liked to hang out. Maybe this fascination with Marchenko and Parsons was just a hobby.”

Holman didn’t believe it and felt irritated that she was trying to cheer him up.

“That’s bullshit.”

“You’ve heard of the Black Dahlia? The unsolved homicide case?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“That case has become a hobby for a lot of detectives. So many LAPD dicks are into that case they got together and formed a club to talk over their theories.”

“I still think it’s bullshit.”

“Okay, forget it. But just because they were sneaking around doesn’t mean they were doing anything illegal. I can think of plenty of ways we might be able to tie what they were doing with Marchenko and Parsons and Juarez.”

Holman glanced at her, doubtful.

“How?”

“Did you read the obituaries for Fowler, Ash, and Mellon?”

“Just Richie’s.”

“If you had read Fowler’s, you’d know he spent two years on the CRASH unit-that’s Community Reaction Against Street Hoodlums, what the LAPD named their anti-gang unit. I’m going to call a friend of mine who used to run CRASH. I’ll ask him what kind of exposure Fowler had with Frogtown.”

“Fowler killed Juarez’s brother. Juarez and his brother were both in Frogtown.”

“Right, but maybe there’s a deeper connection. Remember when we talked about a possible insider connection to Marchenko and Parsons?”

“Yeah.”

“The real money is in the vault, but the amount of money in the vault varies during the week. People come in, cash their paychecks, and take the money away, right?”

“I know that. I used to rob banks, remember?”

“So once or twice a week, banks receive a shipment of new cash so they’ll have enough to meet the customer draw. You said you didn’t see how a couple of takeover hitters like Marchenko and Parsons could have an inside accomplice, but all it takes is someone who knows when the area branches are scheduled to receive their shipments-a secretary, somebody’s assistant, a Frogtown homegirl, say, and her boyfriend passes it along to Marchenko and Parsons to get cut in on the split.”

“But they hit different banks.”

“It only takes one inside job to have an insider, and then the Feeb and the cops are all over it. I’m just theorizing here, Holman, not jumping at conclusions. LAPD learns of a Frogtown connection, so they turn to the cops with Frogtown experience to develop or follow up leads-i.e., Fowler. That could explain how your son leaving his house to discuss Marchenko and Parsons with Fowler led to Warren Juarez.”

Holman felt a flicker of hope.

“You think?”

“No, I don’t think, but I want you to understand how little we know. When you’re asking your daughter-in-law about Thursday night, pick up the case reports your son had-the stuff he got from the Detective Bureau. You gave me the cover sheets, but I want to see what was in the reports. That should tell us what he was interested in.”

“Okay.”

“We’ll know more tomorrow when I start talking to people and read those reports. I could wrap this thing up with a couple more calls.”

Holman was surprised.

“You think that’s all it’ll take?”

“No, but it seemed like a good thing to say.”

Holman stared at her, then burst out laughing.

They came down through the Sepulveda Pass and into the darkening city. Holman watched Pollard maneuvering her car through the traffic.

He said, “Why do you drive so fast?”

“I have two little boys waiting for me at home. They’re with my mother, the poor kids.”

“What about your husband?”

“Let’s keep the personal stuff out of this, Max.”

Holman went back to watching the passing cars.

“One more thing-I know you said you didn’t want me to pay you, but my offer is still there. I never expected you to go to all this trouble.”

“If I asked you to pay, I’d be scared you would have to rob another bank.”

“I’d find another way. I’ll never rob another bank.”

Pollard glanced at him and Holman shrugged.

She said, “Can I ask you a question?”

“So long as it isn’t personal.”

Now Pollard laughed, but then her laugh faded.

“I put you away for ten years. How come you’re not pissed off at me?”

Holman thought about it.

“You gave me a chance to change.”

They rode in silence after that. The lights in the shadows were just beginning to twinkle.

20

PERRY WAS STILL at his desk when Holman let himself into the lobby. The old man’s leathery face twitched and trembled, so Holman read that something was wrong.

Perry said, “Hey, I want to talk to you.”

“You get your car back okay?”

Perry leaned forward, lacing and unlacing his fingers. His eyes were watery and nervous.

“Here’s the money I charged you, the sixty bucks, those three days for the car. Here it is right here.”

As Holman reached his desk, he saw the three twenties laid out face up, waiting for him. Perry unlaced his fingers and pushed the three bills toward him.

Holman said, “What’s this?”

“The sixty you paid for my car. You can have it back.”

Holman wondered what in hell Perry was doing with the money laid out like that, the three Jacksons staring up at him.

“You’re giving back the money?”

“Yeah. Here it is. Take the goddamned money back.”

Holman still didn’t move for the money. He looked at Perry. The old man looked worried, but angry, too.

Holman said, “Why are you giving this back?”

“Those wetbacks said to give it back, so you tell’m I did.”

“The guys who brought back your car?”

“When they come in here to give me the keys, those gangbanging motherfuckers. I was doing you a favor, man, renting out that car, I wasn’t trying to rip you off. Those bastards said I should give back your cash else they’d fuck me up good, so here, you take it.”

Holman stared at the money but didn’t touch it.

“We had a deal, fair and square. You keep it.”

“No, uh-uh, you gotta take it back. I don’t want that kind of trouble in my house.”

“That’s your money, Perry. I’ll straighten it out with those guys.”

He would have to talk to Chee in the morning.

“I don’t appreciate two hoodlums comin’ in here like that.”

“I didn’t have anything to do with it. We had a deal, fair and square. I wouldn’t send two goons to shake you down for sixty bucks.”

“Well, I don’t appreciate it, is all. I’m just telling you. If you thought I was ripping you off, you should’ve said so.”

Holman knew the harm had been done. Perry didn’t believe him and probably would always be afraid of him.

“Keep the money, Perry. I’m sorry this happened.”

Holman left the sixty dollars on Perry’s desk and went up to his room. The clunky old window unit had the place like a deep freeze. He looked at Richie’s picture on the bureau, eight years old and smiling. He still had a bad feeling in his stomach that Pollard’s pep talk hadn’t been able to shake.

He turned off the air conditioner, then went downstairs again, hoping to catch Perry still at his desk.

Perry was locking the front door, but stopped when he saw Holman.

Perry said, “That sixty is still on the desk.”

“Then put it in your goddamned pocket. I wouldn’t have you shaken down. My son was a police officer. What would he think if I did something like that?”

“I guess he’d think it was pretty damned low.”

“I guess he would. You keep that sixty. It’s yours.”

Holman went back upstairs and climbed into bed, telling himself that Richie sure as hell would think it was low, shaking an old man for sixty damned dollars.

But saying it didn’t make it so, and sleep did not come.