The Two Minute Rule

21

POLLARD HAD NEVER been good in the morning. Every morning for as long as she could remember-months, maybe years-she woke feeling depleted, and dreading the pain of beginning her day. She drank two cups of black coffee just to give herself a pulse.

But when Pollard woke that morning, she jumped her alarm by more than an hour and immediately went to the little desk she had shared with Marty. She had stayed up the night before until almost two, comparing numbers and call times between Fowler’s and Richard Holman’s phone bills, and searching the Internet for information about Marchenko and Parsons. She had reread and organized the material Holman had given her, but was frustrated by not having the complete LAPD reports. She hoped Holman would get them from his daughter-in-law soon. Pollard admired Holman’s commitment to his son. She felt a sudden sense of satisfaction that she had spoken on his behalf to the Assistant U.S. Attorney all those years ago. Leeds had been pissed for a month and a couple of the more cynical agents had told her she was an asshole, but Pollard thought the guy had earned a break, and she felt even more strongly about it now. Holman had been a career criminal, but the evidence suggested he was basically a decent guy.

Pollard reviewed her notes from the night before, then set about drawing up a work plan for the day. She was still working on it when her oldest son, David, pushed at her arm. David was seven and looked like a miniature version of Marty.

“Mom! We’re gonna be late for camp!”

Pollard glanced at her watch. It was ten before eight. The camp bus arrived at eight. She hadn’t even made coffee or felt the time pass, and she had been working for more than an hour.

“Is your brother dressed?”

“He won’t come out of the bathroom.”

“Lyle! Get him dressed, David.”

She pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, then slammed together two bologna sandwiches.

“David, is Lyle ready?”

“He won’t get dressed!”

Lyle, who was six, shouted over his brother.

“I hate camp! They stick us with pins!”

Pollard heard the fax phone ring as she was packing the sandwiches into lunch-size paper bags. She ran back to the office bedroom to see the first page emerging. She smiled when she saw the FBI emblem cover page-April was delivering the goods.

Pollard ran back to the kitchen, topped off the sandwiches with two containers of fruit cocktail, two bags of Cheetos, and a couple of boxes of juice.

David pounded breathlessly in from the living room.

“Mom! I can hear the bus! They’re gonna leave us!”

Everything had to be a drama.

Pollard sent David out to stop the bus, then forced a T-shirt over Lyle’s head. She had Lyle and the lunches through the front door just as the bus rumbled to a stop.

Lyle said, “I miss Daddy.”

Pollard looked down at him, all hurt eyes and knotted frown, then squatted so they would be the same height. She touched his cheek, and thought it was as soft as when he was newborn. Where David looked like his father, Lyle looked like her.

“I know you do, baby.”

“I dreamed he got eaten by a monster.”

“That must have been very scary. You should have come into bed with me.”

“You kick and toss.”

The bus driver beeped his horn. He had a schedule to keep.

Pollard said, “I miss him, too, little man. What are we going to do about that?”

It was a script they had played before.

“Keep him in our hearts?”

Pollard smiled and touched her youngest son’s chest.

“Yeah. He’s right here in your heart. Now let’s get you on the bus.”

The pebbles and grit on the driveway hurt Pollard’s bare feet as she walked Lyle to the bus. She kissed her boys, saw them away, then hurried back to the house. She went directly back to work and skimmed through the fax. April had sent sixteen pages, including a witness list, interview summaries, and a case summation. The witness list contained names, addresses, and phone numbers, which was what Pollard wanted. Pollard was going to compare the numbers against the calls that appeared on Richard Holman’s and Mike Fowler’s phone bills. If Holman or Fowler were running their own investigation into Marchenko and Parsons, they would have called the witnesses. If so, Pollard would ask the witness what they talked about, and then Pollard would know.

She called her mother and arranged for her to stay with the boys when they got home from camp.

Her mother said, “Why are you spending so much time in the city all of a sudden? Did you take a job?”

She had always resented her mother’s questions. Thirty-six years old, and her mother still questioned her.

“I have things to do. I’m busy.”

“Doing what? Are you seeing a man?”

“You’ll be here at one, right? You’ll stay with the boys?”

“I hope you’re seeing a man. You have to think of those boys.”

“Goodbye, Mom.”

“Go easy on the desserts, Katherine. Your bottom isn’t as small as it used to be.”

Pollard hung up and went back to her desk. She still hadn’t made coffee, but she didn’t take the time to make it now. She didn’t need the coffee.

She sat down with her case plan, then paged through all the documents she had read and reread the night before. She studied the map of the crime scene that Holman had sketched, then compared it with the drawing that had appeared in the Times. The Feeb had taught her that all investigations begin at the crime scene, so she knew she would have to make the drive. She would have to see for herself. Alone there in her little house in the Simi Valley, Pollard broke into a smile.

She felt as if she was in the game again.

She was back in the hunt.

22

PERRY WASN’T at his desk when Holman came downstairs that morning. Holman was relieved. He wanted to pick up the reports from Liz before she left for class and didn’t want to get bogged down in another argument with Perry.

But when Holman stepped outside to go to his car, Perry was hosing off the sidewalk.

Perry said, “You got a call yesterday I forgot to tell you about. Guess it slipped my mind, having to fight off your thugs.”

“What is it, Perry?”

“Tony Gilbert over at that sign company. Said he’s your boss and wants you to call.”

“Okay, thanks. When did he call?”

“During the day, I guess. Good thing it wasn’t while those gangbanging fucks were putting the arm on me else I would’ve missed the message.”

“Perry, look-I didn’t tell those guys to do that. All they were supposed to do was bring back the car and give you the keys. That’s it. I already apologized.”

“Gilbert sounded pissed off, you ask me. I’d call him. And since you have a job, you might consider fronting the cash for an answering machine. My memory isn’t what it used to be.”

Holman started to say something, then thought better of it and went around the side of the motel to his car. He didn’t want to start his day with Gilbert, either, but he hadn’t been to work in a week and didn’t want to lose the job. Holman climbed into his Highlander to make the call and was pleased he could bring up Gilbert’s number on his phone’s memory without having to refer to the owner’s manual. It felt like a step into real life.

As soon as Gilbert came on the line, Holman knew his patience was wearing thin.

He said, “Are you coming back to work or not? I need to know.”

“I’m coming back. I’ve just had a lot to deal with.”

“Max, I’m trying to be a good guy here, what with your son and all, but what in hell are you doing? The police were here.”

Holman was so surprised he didn’t respond.

“Max?”

“I’m here. What did the police want?”

“You just got out, man. Are you going to wash ten years down the drain?”

“I’m not washing anything down the drain. Why were the police there?”

“They wanted to know if you’d been coming to work and what kind of people you’ve been associating with, like that. They asked whether or not you’ve been using.”

“I haven’t been using. What are you talking about?”

“Well, they asked, and they asked if I knew how you were supporting yourself without working. What am I supposed to think? Hey, listen, my friend, I’m trying to run a business here and you disappeared. I told’m I gave you some time off for your son, but now I gotta wonder. It’s been a week.”

“Who was it asking about me?”

“Some detectives.”

“Did Gail send them?”

“They weren’t from the Bureau of Prisons. These were cops. Now listen, are you coming back to work or not?”

“I just need a few more days-”

“Ah, hell.”

Gilbert hung up.

Holman closed his phone, feeling a dull ache in his stomach. He had expected Gilbert to bitch him out for missing so much work, but he hadn’t expected the police. He decided the cops were following up his visit to Maria Juarez, but he also worried that someone had put him together with Chee. He didn’t want to bring any heat down on Chee, mostly because he wasn’t sure Chee was completely straight.

Holman considered calling Gail Manelli about the police, but he was worried about missing Liz, so he put away his phone and headed for Westwood. As he turned out of the parking lot, he saw Perry still on the sidewalk, watching him. Perry waited until Holman had driven past, then flipped him off. Holman saw it in the mirror.

When Holman drew closer to Westwood, he called Liz to let her know he was coming.

When she answered, he said, “Hey, Liz, it’s Max. I need to stop by to see you for a few minutes. Can I bring you a coffee?”

“I’m on my way out.”

“This is kind of important. It’s about Richie.”

She hesitated, and when she spoke again her voice was cold.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what? I just need to-”

“I don’t want to see you anymore. Please stop bothering me.”

She hung up.

Holman was left sitting in traffic with his dead phone. He called back, but this time her message machine picked up.

“Liz? Maybe I should’ve called earlier, okay? I didn’t mean to be rude. Liz? Can you hear me?”

If she was listening she didn’t pick up, so Max ended the call. He was only five blocks from Veteran Avenue by then, so he continued on to Liz’s apartment. He didn’t take the time to find a parking spot, but left his car in a red zone by a fire hydrant. If he got a ticket he’d just pay Chee back with his own money.

The usual morning rush of students on their way to class meant Holman didn’t have long to wait before he could get inside the building. He took the stairs two at a time, but slowed when he reached her apartment, catching his breath before he knocked.

“Liz? Please tell me what’s wrong.”

He knocked softly again.

“Liz? This is important. Please, it’s for Richie.”

Holman waited.

“Liz? Can I come in, please?”

She finally opened the door. Her face was tight and pinched, and she was already dressed for the day. Her eyes were hard with a brittle tension.

Holman didn’t move. He stood with his hands at his sides, confused by her hostility.

He said, “Did I do something?”

“Whatever you’re doing, I want no part of it.”

Holman kept his voice calm.

“What do you think I’m doing? I’m not doing anything, Liz. I just want to know what happened to my son.”

“The police were here. They cleaned out Richard’s desk. They took all his things and they questioned me about you. They wanted to know what you were doing.”

“Who did? Levy?”

“No, not Levy-Detective Random. He wanted to know what you were asking about and said I should be careful around you. They warned me not to let you in.”

Holman wasn’t sure how to respond. He took a step away from her and spoke carefully.

“I’ve been inside with you, Liz. Do you think I would hurt you? You’re my son’s wife.”

Her eyes softened and she shook her head.

She said, “Why did they come here?”

“There was someone with Random?”

“I don’t remember his name. Red hair.”

Vukovich.

She said, “Why did they come?”

“I don’t know. What did they tell you?”

“They didn’t tell me anything. They said they were investigating you. They wanted to know-”

The apartment next door opened and two men came out. They were young, both wearing glasses and book bags over their shoulders. Holman and Liz stood quietly as they passed.

When the two men were gone, Liz said, “I guess you can come in. This is silly.”

Holman stepped inside and waited as she closed the door.

Holman said, “Are you all right?”

“They asked if you said anything to indicate you were involved in criminal activity. I didn’t know what in hell they were talking about. What would you say to me: Hey, you know any good banks to rob?”

Holman thought about describing his conversation with Tony Gilbert, but decided against it.

“You said they took things from his desk? Can I see?”

She brought him to their shared office, and Holman looked at Richie’s desk. The newspaper clippings still hung from the corkboard, but Holman could tell the items on Richie’s desk had been moved. Holman had been through everything himself and remembered how he had left it. The LAPD reports and documents were gone.

She said, “I don’t know what they took.”

“Some reports, it looks like. Did they say why?”

“They just said it was important. They wanted to know if you had been in here. I told them the truth.”

Holman wished she hadn’t, but nodded.

“That’s okay. It doesn’t matter.”

“Why would they go through his things?”

Holman wanted to change the subject. The reports were gone now, and he wished he had read them when he had the chance.

He said, “Did Richie go out with Fowler the Thursday before they were killed? It would have been at night, late.”

Her brow furrowed as she tried to remember.

“I’m not sure…Thursday? I think Rich worked that night.”

“Did he come home dirty? Fowler went out that night and came home with his boots caked with dirt and weeds. It would have been late.”

She thought more, then slowly shook her head.

“No, I-wait, yes, it was Friday morning I took the car. There was grass and dirt on the driver’s-side floor. Richie had the shift Thursday night. He said he had chased somebody.”

Her eyes suddenly took on the hardness again.

“What were they doing?”

“I don’t know. Didn’t Richie tell you?”

“He was on duty.”

“Did Richie ever say that Marchenko and Parsons were connected with any Latin gangs?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t remember.”

“Frogtown? Juarez was a member of the Frogtown gang.”

“What did Juarez have to do with Marchenko and Parsons?”

“I don’t know, but I’m trying to find out.”

“Waitaminute. I thought Juarez killed them because of Mike-because Mike killed his brother.”

“That’s what the police are saying.”

She crossed her arms, and Holman thought she looked worried.

She said, “You don’t believe it?”

“I gotta ask you something else. In all this time when he was telling you about Marchenko and Parsons, did he ever tell you exactly what he was doing?”

“Just…that he was working on the case.”

“What case? They were dead.”

A lost and hopeless cast came to her eyes, and Holman could see she didn’t remember. She finally shook her head, holding her arms even tighter.

“An investigation. I don’t know.”

“Trying to find an accomplice, maybe?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did he mention missing money?”

“What money?”

Holman studied her, and part of him wanted to explain, thinking that maybe it would trigger some memory in her that would help him, but he knew he was done. He didn’t want to bring this part of it to her. He didn’t want to leave her thinking about the money and wondering whether her husband was working as a cop in an investigation or was trying to find the missing cash for himself.

“It’s nothing. Listen, I don’t know what Random was talking about, all that stuff about investigating me. I haven’t done anything illegal and I’m not going to do anything, you understand? I wouldn’t do that to you and to Richie. I couldn’t.”

She stared up at him for a moment, and then she nodded.

“I know. I know what you’re doing.”

“Then you know a helluva lot more than me.”

She raised on her toes to kiss his cheek.

“You’re trying to take care of your little boy.”

Richie’s wife hugged him long and tight, and Holman was glad for it, but he cursed himself for being too late.

23

HOLMAN WAS FURIOUS as he crossed the street, heading back to his car. He was pissed that Random had questioned Liz about him and implied he was involved in some kind of criminal activity. Holman now assumed Random was the cop who got him in trouble with Tony Gilbert, but he was even more furious that Random warned Liz not to trust him. Random had jeopardized his only remaining connection to Richie, and Holman didn’t know why. He didn’t believe Random was harassing him, which meant that Random suspected him of something. He wanted to drive to Parker Center to confront the sonofabitch, but by the time he reached the Highlander he knew this would be a bad idea. He needed a better idea of what Random was thinking before he called him on it.

After the lousy start to his morning, Holman expected to find a ticket waiting under the Highlander’s windshield wiper, but the windshield was clean. He hoped he hadn’t used up his good luck for the day by ducking a lousy parking ticket.

Holman got into his car, started the engine, and spent a few minutes thinking through the rest of his day. He had a lot to do and couldn’t allow an asshole like Random to move him off track. He wanted to call Pollard, but it was still on the early side and he didn’t know what time she woke. She said something about having kids, so the mornings were probably rough-getting the kids up and fed, getting them dressed and ready for their day. All the stuff Holman had missed out on with Richie. It was an inevitable thread of regret that left Holman in a funk whenever he made the mistake of following it. He decided to call Chee about Perry. Chee probably thought he was doing Holman a favor, but Holman didn’t need that kind of help. Now he would have to deal with Perry’s resentment on top of everything else.

Holman found Chee’s number in the memory, and was listening to Chee’s line ring when a grey car slid up fast beside him, blocking him against the curb. Holman saw the doors open as Chee answered-

“Hello?”

“Hang on-”

“Homes?”

Random and his driver stepped out of the gray car as Holman caught a flash of movement from the curb. Vukovich and another man were stepping off the sidewalk, one from the front and one from the back. They were holding pistols down along their legs. Chee’s tinny voice squawked from the phone-

“Holman, is that you?”

“Don’t hang up. The cops are coming-”

Holman let the phone slip to the seat and put both hands on the steering wheel, motionless and in plain sight. Chee’s voice was an electronic squeak.

“Homes?”

Random pulled open the door, then stepped aside. His driver was shorter than Holman but as wide as a bed. He jerked Holman out from behind the wheel and shoved him face-first against the Highlander.

“Don’t fucking move.”

Holman didn’t resist. The short guy patted him down while Random leaned into the car. Random turned off the ignition, then backed out of the car with Holman’s phone. He held it to his ear, listened, then closed the phone and tossed it back into the car.

Random said, “Nice phone.”

“What are you doing? Why are you doing this?”

“Nice car, too. Where’d you get a car like this? You steal it?”

“I rented it.”

The short guy shoved Holman harder against the car.

“Keep your face planted.”

“It’s hot.”

“Too fucking bad.”

Random said, “Vuke, run the car. You can’t rent a car without a driver’s license and a credit card. I think he stole it.”

Holman said, “I got a driver’s license, goddamnit. It came yesterday. The rental papers are in the glove box.”

Vukovich opened the far passenger door to check the glove box as the short guy pulled Holman’s wallet.

Holman said, “This is bullshit. Why are you doing this?”

Random pulled Holman around so they were facing each other while the short guy brought the wallet to his car and went to work on their computer. Three students stopped on the sidewalk, but Random didn’t seem concerned. His eyes were dark knots focused on Holman.

“You don’t think Jacki Fowler is suffering enough?”

“What are you talking about? So I went to see her? So what?”

“Here’s a widow with four boys and a dead husband, but you had to invade her privacy. Why would you want to upset a woman like that, Holman? What do you expect to gain?”

“I’m trying to find out what happened to my son.”

“I told you what happened when I told you to let me do my job.”

“I don’t think you’re doing your job. I don’t know what in fuck you’re doing. Why did you go to my boss? What the fuck is that, asking if he thinks I’m on drugs?”

“You’re a drug addict.”

“Was. Was.”

“Drug addicts always want more, and I’m thinking that’s why you’re leaning on the families. You’re looking to score. Even from your own daughter-in-law.”

“Was! Fuck you, motherfucker.”

Holman fought hard for his self-control.

“That’s my son’s wife, you sonofabitch. Now it’s me telling you to stay away from her. You goddamn leave her alone.”

Random stepped closer and Holman knew he was being provoked. Random wanted him to swing. Random wanted to take him inside.

“You don’t have a right to tell me anything. You were nothing to your son, so don’t give yourself airs. You didn’t even meet the girl until last week, so don’t pretend she’s your family.”

Holman felt a deep throbbing in his temples. His vision grayed at the edges as the throbbing grew. Random floated in front of him like a target, but Holman told himself no. Why did Random want him inside? Why did Random want him out of the way?

Holman said, “What was in those reports you took?”

Random’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t answer, and Holman knew the reports were important.

“My daughter-in-law claims you took something that belonged to my son from her house. Did you have a warrant, Random? Did it list what you went there to find or were you grabbing whatever you wanted? That sounds like theft, if you had no warrant.”

Random was still staring when Vukovich backed out of the car with the rental papers. He held them out to show Random.

“He’s got a rental agreement here in his name. Looks legit.”

Holman said, “It is legit, Detective, just like your warrant. Call’m and see.”

Random studied the papers.

“Quality Motors of Los Angeles. You ever heard of Quality Motors?”

Vukovich shrugged as Random called over his shoulder.

“Teddy? You get the plate?”

The short guy was Teddy. Teddy returned and handed Holman’s license and wallet to Random.

“Vehicle registered to Quality Motors, no wants, warrants, or citations. His DL shows good, too.”

Random glanced at the driver’s license, then Holman.

“Where’d you get this?”

“The Department of Motor Vehicles. Where did you get your warrant?”

Random put the license back in Holman’s wallet but held on to it along with the rental papers. Random had backed off, and now Holman knew the reports were important. Random wasn’t pressing because he didn’t want Holman to make a stink about the reports.

Random said, “I want to make sure you understand the situation, Holman. I asked you one time nice. This is me telling you a second time. I’m not going to let you make it more difficult for these families. Stay away from them.”

“I’m one of those families.”

Something like a smile played at Random’s lips. He stepped closer and whispered.

“Which family? Frogtown?”

“Juarez was Frogtown. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You like White Fence any better?”

Holman kept his face empty.

“How’s your friend Gary Moreno-L’Chee?”

“I haven’t seen him in years. Maybe I’ll look him up.”

Random tossed Holman’s wallet and rental papers into the Highlander.

“You’re fucking me up, Holman, and I cannot tolerate that and will not allow it. I will not allow it for the four men who died. And I will not allow it for their families in which, as we all know, you are not included.”

“Can I go now?”

“You claim you want answers, but you have made it harder for me to find those answers, and I take that personally.”

“I thought you knew the answers.”

“Most of the answers, Holman. Most. But now because of you an important door just closed in my face and I don’t know if I’ll be able to open it again.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Maria Juarez disappeared. She split, man. She could have told us how Warren put it together, but now she’s gone and that one is on you. So if you feel like undercutting me with your daughter-in-law again, you get the urge to make these families doubt what we’re doing and keep their grief fresh, you explain to them how you delayed the case by being an asshole. Are we clear?”

Holman did not respond.

“Don’t try my patience, boy. This isn’t a fucking game.”

Random went back to his car. Vukovich and the other guy vanished. The grey car pulled away. The three kids on the sidewalk were gone. Holman climbed back into the Highlander and picked up his phone. He listened, but the line was dead. He got out again, went around to the passenger side, and felt under the seat. He checked the floorboards and glove box and panel pocket in the door, then checked the rear floors and back seats, too, worried that they had planted something in his car.

Holman didn’t believe Random’s false concern for the families or even that Random believed he was looking to score. Holman had been fronted and leaned on by a hundred cops, and he sensed something deeper was at play. Random wanted him out of the way, but Holman didn’t know why.

24

POLLARD WAS ON her way downtown to check out the crime scene. She had picked up the Hollywood Freeway and dropped down into the belly of the city when April Sanders called.

Sanders said, “Hey. You get the faxes okay?”

“I was going to call you to say thanks, girl. You really came through.”

“Hope you still think so after I tell you the rest. LAPD froze me out. I can’t get their file.”

“You’re kidding! They must have something in play.”

Pollard was surprised. The Feeb’s Bank Squad and the LAPD’s Bank Robbery team worked together so often on the same cases they shared information freely.

April said, “I don’t know why they wouldn’t come across. I asked the putz-you remember George Hines?”

“No.”

“Probably came on after you left. Anyway, I said, what gives with that, I thought we were butt buddies, what happened to agency cooperation?”

“What did he say?”

“He said they didn’t have the case anymore.”

“How could they not have the case anymore? They’re the Robbery bank team.”

“What I said. After they closed the file someone upstairs pulled the whole damned thing. I’m like, who upstairs, the chief, God? He said it wasn’t their case anymore and that’s all he could tell me.”

“How could it not be Robbery’s case? It was a robbery.”

“If those guys knew what they were doing they would be us, not them. I don’t know what to tell you.”

Pollard drove for a few seconds, thinking.

“But he said the case was closed?”

“Those were his words. Shit-gotta run. Leeds-”

The line went dead in Pollard’s ear. If LAPD had closed the book on Marchenko and Parsons, it increased the odds that Richard Holman had been involved with Fowler and the others in something off the books. It was bad news for Holman, but Pollard already had bad news to share-April’s witness list had included the names and numbers of thirty-two people who had been interviewed by the FBI in the matter of Marchenko and Parsons. Marchenko’s mother, Leyla, had been among them. Pollard had checked the thirty-two telephone numbers against the outgoing numbers appearing on both Richard Holman’s and Mike Fowler’s phone records and come up with a hit. Fowler had phoned Marchenko’s mother twice. It was highly unlikely that a uniformed field supervisor would have a legitimate reason to contact a witness, so Pollard now felt sure Fowler had been conducting some kind of rogue investigation. Fowler’s contact indicated Holman’s son was almost certainly involved in something inappropriate or illegal. Pollard didn’t look forward to telling Holman. She found his need to believe in his son moving.

Pollard dropped off the Hollywood Freeway at Alameda, then cruised south down Alameda parallel with the river. When she reached Fourth Street, she used the Fourth Street Bridge to cross over to the eastern side of the river. The east side was thick with warehouses and train yards and congested with eighteen-wheel cargo trucks. Pollard had been to the river only twice before, once as part of a task force targeting the importation of Iranian drugs and the other as part of a task force tracking a pedophile who brought children from Mexico and Thailand. Pollard had arrived on the scene in the drug case after the body had already been found, but she hadn’t been so lucky in the pedophile case. Pollard had discovered the bodies of three small children in a container car, one boy and two girls, and she had not slept after that for weeks. It wasn’t lost on Pollard that here she was again, drawn back to the river by death. The Los Angeles River left her feeling creeped out and queasy. Maybe more now because she knew she might break the law.

Pollard was a cop; even though she had left the Feeb eight years ago, she still felt like part of the law enforcement community. She had married a cop, most of her friends were cops, and, like almost every cop she knew, she didn’t want to get in trouble with other cops. The L.A. River was a restricted area. Jumping the fence to check out the crime scene would be a misdemeanor offense, but Pollard knew she had to see if Holman’s description held up. She had to see for herself.

Pollard drove along Mission Road, following the fence past trucks and workmen until she found the service gate. She parked beside the fence, locked her car, then went to the gate. A dry breeze came out of the east that smelled of kerosene. Pollard was wearing jeans and Nikes and had a pair of Marty’s work gloves in case she had to climb. The gate was locked and had been secured with a secondary chain, which she had expected. She also expected that security patrols along the gates had been increased, but so far she hadn’t seen anyone. Pollard had hoped she could see the scene well enough from above, but as soon as she reached the gate she knew she would have to climb.

The riverbed was a wide concrete plain cut by a trough and bordered by paved banks that were crowned with fences and barbed wire. She could see the Fourth Street Bridge from the gate, but not well enough to envision the crime scene in her head. Cars crossed the bridge in both directions and pedestrians moved on the sidewalks. The bright morning sun painted a sharp shadow beneath the bridge, cutting across the river. Pollard thought everything about the scene was ugly and industrial-the nasty concrete channel with its lack of life; the muddy trickle of water that looked like a sewer; the weeds sprouting hopelessly from cracks in the concrete. It looked like a bad place to die, and an even worse place for an ex-FBI agent to be arrested for unauthorized entry.

Pollard was pulling on her gloves when a white pickup truck drove out from one of the loading docks and beeped its horn. Pollard thought it was a security patrol, but when the truck drew close she saw it belonged to one of the shipping companies. The driver braked to a stop by the gate. He was a middle-aged man with short grey hair and a fleshy neck.

“Just letting you know. You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I know. I’m with the FBI.”

“I’m just telling you. We had some murders down here.”

“That’s why I’m here. Thanks.”

“They have security patrols.”

“Thanks.”

Pollard wished he would get the hell on with his business and leave her alone, but he didn’t move.

“You have some identification or something?”

Pollard put her gloves away and walked over to the truck, staring at him the way she had stared at criminals she was about to handcuff.

“You have some authority to ask?”

“Well, I work over there and they asked us to keep an eye out. I don’t mean anything by it.”

Pollard pulled out her wallet, but didn’t open it. She had turned in her badge and FBI commission card-which agents called their creds-when she left the Feeb, but her wallet had been a gift from Marty. He had purchased it at the FBI gift shop in Quantico because it was emblazoned with the FBI seal. Pollard kept her hard stare on the driver as she tapped her wallet, making no move to open it but letting him see the red, white, and blue seal.

“We got a report someone down here was taking tourists on tours of the crime scene. Tourists, for Christ’s sake. You know anything about that?”

“I never heard anything like that.”

Pollard studied him as if she suspected him of the crime.

“We heard it was someone in a white truck.”

The fleshy neck quivered and the man shook his head.

“Well, we got a million white trucks down here. I don’t know anything about it.”

Pollard studied him as if she was making a life-or-death decision, then slipped her wallet back into her jeans.

“If you want to keep your eye out for something, watch for the white truck.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“One more thing. Are you down here at night or just during the day?”

“The day.”

“Okay then, forget it. You’re doing a good job keeping an eye on things. Now move on and let me do my job.”

Pollard waited as he drove away, then turned back to the gate. She climbed the gate without much difficulty, then walked down the service drive. Entering the riverbed was like lowering herself into a trench. Concrete walls rose around her, cutting off the city from view, and soon all she could see were the tops of a few downtown skyscrapers.

The smooth flat channel stretched in both directions and the air was still. The kerosene breeze couldn’t reach her down here. Pollard could see the Sixth Street and Seventh Street bridges to the south, and the First Street Bridge beyond the Fourth Street Bridge to the north. The channel walls in this part of the river were twenty-foot verticals topped by the fence. They reminded Pollard of a maximum security prison and their purpose was the same. The walls were designed to contain the river during the rainy season. During the rains, the normally pathetic trickle would quickly overflow its trough and climb the higher walls like a raging beast, devouring everything in its path. Pollard knew that once she left the safety of the service ramp, the walls would become her prison, too. If a rush of water surged through the channel, she would have no way out. If a police car rolled up to the fence, she would have no place to hide.

Pollard made her way to the bridge and stepped out of the sun into the shade. It was cooler. Pollard had brought the Times’s drawing of the crime scene and Holman’s sketch, but she didn’t need them to see where the bodies had lain. Four shining irregular shapes were visible on the concrete beneath the bridge, each shape brighter and cleaner than the surrounding pavement. It was always this way. After the bodies had been removed and the crime scene cleared by the police, a hazmat crew had disinfected the area. Pollard had once seen them work. Blood was soaked up with absorbent granules, then vacuumed into special containers to remove all human tissue. Contaminated areas were sprayed with disinfectant, then scoured with high-pressure steam. Now, more than a week later, the ground where each man died glowed like a shimmering ghost. Pollard wondered if Holman had known what they were. She did not step on the clean places; she carefully stepped around them.

Pollard stood between the body shapes and considered the service ramp. It was about eighty yards away and sloped directly toward her. Pollard had an uninterrupted view of the ramp, but she knew this was in broad daylight with no cars parked in the area. Perspectives often changed in the darkness.

No marks remained to locate the positions of the cars, so Pollard opened the map that appeared in the Times. The three cars were pictured under the bridge in a loose triangle between the east columns and the river, with the car at the top of the triangle extending past the north side of the bridge. The car at the left base of the triangle was completely under the bridge, with the last car angled across its rear and a little bit to the east to form the right base. The bodies in the drawing were located relative to the cars and columns and were labeled by name.

Mellon and Ash had been together at the back of Ash’s radio car, which was the car at the top of the triangle. A six-pack carton of Tecate had been found on their trunk with four of the bottles missing. Fowler’s car was the left base of the triangle; completely under the bridge and nearest the river. His body was shown near the right front fender. Richard Holman’s car formed the right base of the triangle, with his body midway between his car and Fowler. Pollard decided that Mellon and Ash had arrived first, which was why they had parked at the north side of the bridge, leaving room for the others. Fowler had probably arrived second and Holman last.

Pollard folded the map and put it away. She studied the four steam-blasted spots on the concrete, no longer drawings on a page but the fading residue of four lives-Mellon and Ash together and Richard Holman nearest the column. Pollard was standing next to Fowler. She moved away and tried to picture their cars and how they were standing at the moment they were shot. If the four men were talking, both Fowler and Holman would have had their backs turned to the ramp. Fowler had probably been perched on his right front fender. Holman might have been leaning against his car, but Pollard couldn’t know. Either way, they were facing away from the ramp and wouldn’t have seen someone approaching. The shooter had come from behind.

Pollard moved to stand with Mellon and Ash. She positioned herself where their car had been parked. They had been facing south toward Fowler. Pollard imagined herself leaning against their car, having a beer. Mellon and Ash had a clear view of the ramp.

Pollard moved away to circle the columns. She wanted to see if there was another way down to the north, but the walls were hard verticals all the way to the Fourth Street Bridge and beyond. She was still searching to the north when she heard the gate clatter like the rattle of chains. She walked back under the bridge and saw Holman coming down the ramp. Pollard was surprised. She hadn’t told him she was coming to the bridge and hadn’t expected him to appear. She was wondering what he was doing here when she realized she had heard the gate. Then she heard the scruffing his shoes were making on the gritty concrete surface. He was half a football field away, but she heard him walking, and then she knew why. The towering walls trapped sound just like they trapped water and channeled it like the river.

Pollard watched him approach, but didn’t say anything until he arrived, and then she gave him her expert opinion.

“You were right, Holman. They would have heard him coming just like I heard you. They knew the person who killed them.”

Holman glanced back at the ramp.

“Once you’re down here there’s no other way to see it. And at night it’s even more quiet than this.”

Pollard crossed her arms and felt sick. That was the problem-there was no other way to see it, but the police claimed they saw it another way.

25

POLLARD WAS still trying to decide what this meant when Holman interrupted her. He seemed nervous.

“Listen, we shouldn’t spend too much time down here. Those guys at the loading docks might call the police.”

“How’d you know I would be here?”

“Didn’t. I was up on the bridge when you came down the ramp. I saw you jump the fence.”

“You just happened to be up there?”

“I’ve come here a dozen times since it happened. C’mon, let’s go back up. I was going to call you-”

Pollard didn’t want to go back to the gate; she wanted to figure out why the police had overlooked such an obvious flaw in their case, and was thinking about something Holman had said.

“Waitaminute, Holman. Have you been here at night?”

Holman stopped in the edge of the bridge’s shadow, split in two by the light.

“Yeah. Two or three times.”

“How’s the light at that time of night?”

“They had a three-quarter moon with scattered clouds on the night they were killed. I checked the weather report. You could’ve read a newspaper down here.”

He turned back toward the gate again.

“We better leave. You could get arrested, being down here.”

“So could you.”

“I’ve been arrested before. You won’t like it.”

“Holman, if you want to wait up at the gate, go on. I’m trying to figure out what happened down here.”

Holman didn’t leave, but it was obvious he wasn’t happy about staying. Pollard circled the murder scene, trying to picture the cars and the officers on the night they were killed. She changed their positions like mannequins in a store window, turning each time to stare at the ramp. She rearranged the cars in her mind’s eye, thinking maybe she had missed some obvious explanation.

Holman said, “What are you trying to figure out?”

“I’m trying to see if there was some way they wouldn’t have seen him.”

“They saw him. You just told me they saw him.”

Pollard went to the edge of the channel and peered at the water. The channel was a rectangular trough about two feet deep with a sickly trickle along its bottom. The shooter could have hidden down here or maybe behind one of the columns, but only if he had known when and where to expect the four officers, and both possibilities were absurd. Pollard knew she was reaching. The primary rule of an investigation was that the simplest explanation was the most likely. It was no more likely the shooter had lain in wait than he had jumped down from the bridge like a ninja.

Holman said, “Did you hear me?”

“I’m thinking.”

“You need to listen. I went to see Liz this morning to get the reports, but the police got to her first. They cleaned out Richie’s desk. They took the reports.”

Pollard turned away from the channel, surprised.

“How did they know she had the reports?”

“I don’t know if they went for the reports, but they knew she’s been helping me. They made it sound like they had to search his things because I had been there-like they wanted to see what I was up to. Maybe that’s when they saw the reports.”

“Who?”

“That detective I told you about, Random.”

“Random’s the homicide detective running the task force?”

“That’s right. When I was leaving, Random and three other guys jumped me. They told me Maria Juarez split and they’re blaming me for it, but I don’t think that’s why they jumped me. They knew we went to see Mike Fowler’s wife and they didn’t like it. They didn’t mention you, but they knew about me.”

Pollard didn’t give a damn if they knew about her or not, but she wondered why a homicide detective had taken robbery reports about Marchenko and Parsons. The same reports April told her were no longer available from Robbery Special because they had been pulled upstairs.

Pollard figured she knew the answer but asked anyway.

“Did you have a chance to speak with Mellon’s and Ash’s families?”

“I called after I left Liz, but they wouldn’t speak to me. Random had already seen them. He told me not to bother Liz anymore. Richie’s wife, and he warned me to stay away from her.”

Pollard then circled the crime scene again, shaking her head, careful not to step on the clean places where the bodies had dropped. She was glad Holman hadn’t asked her about them.

She said, “I want to see what’s in those reports.”

“They took them.”

“That’s why I want to see what’s in them. What did she say about Thursday night?”

Pollard circled back to her starting point, and realized Holman hadn’t answered.

“Did you remember to ask her about Thursday?”

“The floorboard of his car was messy with dirt and grass, she said.”

“So Richard was out with Fowler.”

“I guess. You think they were down here?”

Pollard had already considered the river and discounted it.

“There’s no grass and damned little mud, Holman. Even if they jumped down in the water and waded around, they wouldn’t pick up mud and weeds like we saw on Fowler’s boots.”

Pollard stared at the ramp again, then Holman. Where he was standing, he was perfectly split by the bridge’s shadow, half in light, half in darkness.

“Holman, you and I aren’t Sherlock-fucking-Holmes. Here we are in the kill zone, and it’s obvious the shooter could not have approached without being seen. He wasn’t hiding down here and he did not lay in wait-he walked down that ramp, came over here, and shot them. This is freshman detective work. Fowler, your son, Mellon, and Ash-they let him get close.”

“I know.”

“That’s the point. You and I aren’t the only two people who would see this. The cops who came down here would have seen it, too. They would know Juarez could not have ambushed these guys, but all their statements in the press claimed that’s how it happened. So either they’re ignoring the obvious or they’re lying about it or there is some mitigating factor that explains it, but I don’t see what that might be.”

Holman stepped back into the shade and was no longer split by the light.

“I understand.”

Pollard wasn’t sure he did. If a mitigating factor didn’t exist, then the police had been lying about what happened down here. Pollard didn’t want to let herself believe it until she had seen the reports. She still held out hope that something in the papers would make it all right.

She said, “Okay, here’s where we are. I went through the witness list from the Marchenko case and checked the witnesses against the calls your son and Fowler made. Here’s the bad news-Fowler called Marchenko’s mother two times.”

“That means they were investigating the robberies.”

“It means they were investigating the robberies. It doesn’t tell us whether or not they were doing it in an official capacity or doing it for themselves. We should talk to this woman and find out what Fowler wanted.”

Holman seemed to think about it, then looked away.

“Maybe tomorrow. I can’t do it today.”

Pollard checked her watch and felt a tick of irritation. Here she was, humiliating herself with her mother to help out Holman, and he couldn’t put himself out.

She said, “You know, I don’t have all the time in the world for this, Holman. I’m set up to help you today, so today would be a good day to do this.”

Holman’s mouth tightened and he turned red. He started to say something, then glanced at the ramp before turning back to her again. She thought he looked embarrassed.

He said, “You’re really going above and beyond. I appreciate this-”

“Then let’s go see her.”

“I gotta go see my boss. I haven’t been to work in a week, and the guy reamed me out today. He’s been really good to me, too, but Random went to see him. I can’t lose this job, Agent Pollard. I lose the job, and I’m fucked with my release.”

Pollard watched Holman squirming, and felt terrible she had pressed him. She also wondered again why Random was coming down so hard on a poor bastard who had just lost his son. She checked her watch again, then felt like an idiot for being such a slave to the clock.

“Okay, we can go see Marchenko’s mother tomorrow. I know a man who might be able to help get the reports. I guess I could do that today.”

Holman looked back at the ramp.

“We should go. I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

Neither spoke as they walked back, but their footsteps were loud in the silence. With every step, Pollard grew more convinced that the investigation into the murder of the four officers was bad, and she wanted to find out the truth.

Pollard thought about Detective Random. He was pulling the shades on Holman’s sources of information, which was never a smart move for an officer to make. Pollard had dealt with dozens of journalists and overanxious family members during her own investigations, and shutting them out had always been the worst thing to do-they always dug harder. Pollard felt Random would know this, too, but wanted to protect something so badly he was willing to take the risk.

It was a dangerous risk to take. Pollard wanted to know what he was protecting and she would keep digging to find it.

26

POLLARD LEFT Holman at the river, but didn’t drive far. She crossed back over the bridge, then followed Alameda north into Chinatown to a tall glass building where Pacific West Bank kept their corporate headquarters. Pollard believed she had only one possible way to see the reports Random had confiscated from Richard Holman’s apartment, and that was through Pacific West Bank-if she could pull it off.

Pollard no longer had their phone number, so she called information and was connected with a Pacific West receptionist.

Pollard said, “Is Peter Williams still with the company?”

It had been nine years, and she hoped he would remember her.

“Yes, ma’am. Would you like his office?”

“Yes, please.”

A second voice came on the line.

“Mr. Williams’ office.”

“Is he available for Katherine Pollard? Special Agent Pollard of the FBI.”

“Hold, please, and I’ll see.”

Pollard’s most dramatic bust during her time with the Bank Squad was taking down the Front Line Bandits, a team of four Ukranians who were later identified as Craig and Jamison Bepko, their cousin Vartan Bepko, and an associate named Vlad Stepankutza. Leeds tagged the Front Line with their name because of their size; Varton Bepko, the lightest, weighed in at two hundred sixty-four pounds; Stepankutza tipped the scales at an even two-eighty; and brothers Craig and Jamison clocked in at three hundred sixteen and three hundred eighteen pounds respectively. The Front Line hit sixteen branches of Pacific West Bank over a two-week period, and almost put Pacific West out of business.

The Front Line foursome were one-on-one bandits who operated as a team. They entered a bank together, joined the teller line, then intimidated other customers into dropping out of the line. They approached the available tellers en masse to fill the bank counter with a wall of flesh, then made their demands. The Front Line didn’t whisper or pass notes like most one-on-one bandits; they shouted, cursed, and often grabbed tellers by the arm or punched them, apparently not caring that everyone now knew the bank was being robbed. Each man stole only the money of his particular teller, and they never attempted to rob the vault. Once they had the money, they fled as a group, punching and kicking customers and bank employees out of their way. The Front Line Bandits robbed four Pacific West branches on their first day in business. Three days later, they robbed three more branches. It went on like that for two weeks, a reign of nightly-news terror that became a public-relations nightmare for Pacific West Bank, a small regional chain with only forty-two branches.

Leeds assigned the case to Pollard after the first group of robberies. By the end of the second group of robberies, Pollard had a good fix on how she would identify the bandits and solve the case. First, they were only hitting branches of Pacific West Bank. This indicated a connection to Pacific West, and most likely some kind of grudge-they weren’t just stealing money; they were trying to hurt Pacific West. Second, Pacific West tellers were trained to slip explosive dye packs disguised as cash in with the regular money. The Front Line Bandits successfully recognized and discarded these dye packs before leaving the teller windows. Third, once the Front Line Bandits reached the tellers and demanded the money, they never stayed in a bank longer than two minutes. Pollard was convinced a knowledgeable employee of Pacific West had taught these guys about the dye packs and the Two Minute Rule. Because of the grudge factor, Pollard began screening the bank for disgruntled employees. On the morning of the day the Front Line Bandits committed robberies fifteen and sixteen, Pollard and April Sanders questioned one Kanka Dubrov, a middle-aged woman who had recently been fired as an assistant manager from a Glendale branch of Pacific West. Pollard and Sanders didn’t have to resort to torture or truth serum; the moment they flashed their creds and told Ms. Dubrov they wanted to ask her about the recent robberies, she burst into tears. Vlad Stepankutza was her son.

Later that day when Stepankutza and his associates arrived home, they were met by Pollard, Sanders, three LAPD detectives, and a SWAT Tactical Team that had been deployed to assist in the arrest. The general manager and chief operations officer of Pacific West, a man named Peter Williams, presented Pollard with their Pacific West Bank Meritorious Service Award of the Year.

“This is Peter. Katherine, is that you?”

He sounded pleased to hear from her.

“The very one. I wasn’t sure if you’d remember.”

“I remember those hulking monsters who almost put me out of business. You know what we nicknamed you after you brought those men down? Kat the Giant Killer.”

Pollard thought, perfect.

“Peter, I need five minutes with you. I’m in Chinatown now. Can you make time for me?”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“May I ask what this is regarding?”

“Marchenko and Parsons. I need to discuss them with you, but I’d rather do it face-to-face. It won’t take long.”

Williams grew distracted for a moment, and Pollard hoped he was making room on his calendar.

“Sure, Katherine. I can do that. When can you be here?”

“Five minutes.”

Pollard left her car in a parking lot next to the building, then took an elevator to the top floor. She felt anxious and irritated at having left Williams with the impression she was still with the FBI. Pollard didn’t like lying, but she didn’t trust telling the truth. If Williams turned her down, she had no other hope of seeing the reports Random was trying to hide.

When Pollard got off the elevator she saw that Peter had been promoted. A burnished sign identified him as the president and CEO. Pollard considered this a lucky break-if she was going to lie she might as well lie to the boss.

Peter Williams was a fit man in his late fifties, short and balding with a tennis player’s tan. He seemed geniunely pleased to see her and brought her into his office to show off the sweeping views that let him look out over the entire Los Angeles Basin. Peter didn’t retreat to his desk. He brought her to a wall covered with framed photographs and plaques. He pointed at one of the pictures, high in the right corner.

“You see? Here you are.”

It was a picture of Peter presenting her with the Pac West Meritorious Service Award nine years earlier. Pollard thought she looked a lot younger in the picture. And thinner.

Peter offered her a seat on the couch, then sat in a leather club chair.

“All right, Agent. What can I do for Kat the Giant Killer after all this time?”

“I’m not with the FBI anymore. That’s why I need your help.”

Peter seemed to stiffen, so Pollard gave him her most charming smile.

“I’m not talking about a loan. It’s nothing like that.”

Peter laughed.

“Loans are easy. What can I do?”

“I’m interviewing with private contractors as a security specialist. Marchenko and Parsons have the highest profile of the recent takeover teams, so I need to know those guys inside and out.”

Peter was nodding, going along.

“They hit us twice.”

“Right. They hit you on their fourth and seventh robberies, two of the thirteen.”

“Fucking animals.”

“I need the backstory in detail, but LAPD won’t share their files with a civilian.”

“But you were an FBI agent.”

“From their side I can see it. They have to dot the i’s and cross the t’s, and the Feeb is even worse. Leeds hates it when an agent goes into the private sector. He considers us traitors. But traitor or not, I have two kids to support and I want this job, so if you can help me I’d appreciate it.”

Pollard thought she had done a pretty good job with the subtle hint that the welfare of her children depended upon his cooperation. Most major banks and banking chains had their own security office that worked hand in hand with authorities to identify, locate, and apprehend bank robbers, as well as prevent or deter future robberies. To that end, banks and authorities openly shared information in an ongoing evolution that began with the initial robbery. What was learned during robbery number two or six or nine might very well help the police capture the bandits during robbery number sixteen. Pollard knew this because she had been part of the process herself. The Pacific West security office had likely been copied on all or part of the LAPD’s detail reports as they were developed. They might not have all of it, but they might have some, even if in redacted form.

Peter frowned, and she could tell he was working it through.

“You know, we have security agreements with these agencies.”

“I know. You signed some of those forms for me when I was profiling the Front Line gang and I shared our interview summaries.”

“They’re supposed to be for our internal use and ours alone.”

“If you want me to read them at your security office, that would be fine. They don’t have to leave the premises.”

Pollard held his eyes for a moment, then looked at the Kat the Giant Killer picture. She stared at it for several seconds before looking back at him.

“And if you’d like me to sign a confidentiality agreement, of course I’d be happy to sign it.”

She stared at him, waiting.

“I don’t know, Katherine.”

Pollard sensed the whole effort going south, and suddenly grew worried he might ask LAPD for their permission. His security office had almost daily contact with robbery detectives and FBI agents. If the Robbery Special dicks found out she was running an end-around after they already turned her down, she would be screwed.

She studied the picture again, then took her final shot.

“Those bastards are getting out in two years.”

Peter made a noncommittal shrug that was not encouraging.

“Tell you what. Leave your contact information with my assistant. Let me think about it and I’ll be in touch.”

Peter stood, and Pollard stood with him. She couldn’t think of anything else to say. He walked her out. She left her information, then rode down in the elevator alone, feeling like a brush salesman who had struck out for the day.

Pollard missed her credentials-the badge and commission card that identified her as an agent of the FBI. The creds gave her the weight and moral authority to ask questions and demand answers, and she had never hesitated to knock on any door or ask any question and she had almost always gotten the answers. She felt worse than a brush salesman. She felt like a chiseler stealing sugar packs from a diner. She felt like nothing.

Pollard drove back to the Simi Valley to make dinner for her kids.

27

HOLMAN WATCHED Pollard drive away from the river with a numb feeling in his chest. He hadn’t told her the real reason he had seen her under the bridge. He had been on his way to Chee’s shop. And he had also lied when he told her he had been to the bridge a dozen times. Holman had returned to this place twenty or thirty times. He found himself at the bridge several times every day and two or three times each night. Sometimes he would find himself at the bridge as if he had fallen asleep at the wheel and the car had driven itself. He didn’t always jump the fence. Most times he cruised the bridge without stopping, but other times he parked, leaning far over the rail to see those terrible scrubbed patches from every possible angle. Holman hadn’t told her the truth about those visits, and knew he could never tell anyone, not about his terrible moments with those bright patches of light.

Holman thought through everything he and Pollard talked about, then decided not to go to Chee’s. He still needed to talk to Chee, but he wanted to keep Chee out of the rest of it.

He turned back toward Culver City and called Chee on his cell.

“Homes! ’Sup, bro? How you like those wheels?”

“I wish you hadn’t sent your boys after the old man. It made me look bad.”

“Homes, please! Muthuhfuckuh billin’ you twenty a day for a cop magnet like that, a man in your position! He knew what he was doing, bro-I couldn’t let him get away with that.”

“He’s an old man, Chee. We had a deal. I knew what I was getting into.”

“You knew he had warrants on that piece of shit?”

“No, but that’s not the point-”

“What you want me to do, send him some flowers? Maybe a little note sayin’ I’m sorry?”

“No, but-”

Holman knew he wasn’t going to get anywhere and was already sorry he brought it up. He had more important things to discuss.

“Look, I’m not asking you to do anything, I guess I just wanted to mention it. I know you meant well.”

“I got your back, bro, don’t ever forget that.”

“This other thing, I heard Maria Juarez disappeared.”

“She left her cousins?”

“Yeah. The cops issued a warrant, and now they’re blaming me for making her run. Think you can ask around?”

“Whatever, bro. I’ll see what I can see. You need anything else?”

Holman needed something, but not from Chee.

He said, “Something else. I got fronted by the cops today about this Juarez thing. Have the cops been talking to you?”

“Why would the cops be talkin’ to me?”

Holman told him that Random had mentioned Chee by name. Chee was silent for a moment, and then his voice was quiet.

“I don’t like that, bro.”

“I didn’t like it, either. I don’t know if they’ve been following me or they’re into my phone at the room, but don’t call me on that phone anymore. Just on the cell.”

Holman put down the phone and drove in silence across the city. He spent almost an hour driving from the Fourth Street Bridge to the City of Industry. Traffic always got heavy at the end of the day when people were getting off work. Holman grew worried he would get there too late, but he reached the sign company a few minutes before quitting time.

Holman didn’t turn into the parking lot and he didn’t intend to see Tony Gilbert. He parked in a red zone across the street and stayed in the car, waiting for five o’clock. The workday ended at five.

Holman glanced at his father’s watch with its frozen hands. Maybe that was why he wore it-time had no meaning. He checked the dashboard clock and watched the minutes tick past.

At exactly five o’clock, men and women came out of the printing plant and filed through the parking lot to their cars. Holman watched Tony Gilbert go to a Cadillac and the two front-office girls get into a Jetta. Three minutes later he watched Pitchess exit the building and get into a Dodge Charger that was almost as bad as Perry’s beater.

Holman waited until Pitchess pulled out, then slipped into traffic a few cars behind him. He followed the Charger for almost a mile until he was sure no one else from the printing plant was around. He accelerated around the cars ahead, and swerved back into the lane so he was directly behind Pitchess.

Holman tapped his horn and saw Pitchess’s eyes go to the rearview mirror, but Pitchess kept driving.

Holman tapped his horn again, and when Pitchess looked, Holman gestured for him to pull over.

Pitchess got the message and turned into a Safeway parking lot. He stopped near the entrance, but didn’t get out of his car. Holman thought the sonofabitch was probably scared.

Holman parked behind him, got out, and walked forward. Pitchess’s window rolled down as Holman approached.

Holman said, “Can you get me a gun?”

“I knew I’d see you again.”

“Can you get me a gun or not?”

“You got the money?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I can get whatever you need. Get in.”

Holman went around to the passenger side and climbed in.

28

WHEN HOLMAN got home that night Perry’s usual parking spot was empty. The beater was gone.

Holman avoided the water raining from the window units and let himself in through the front door like always. It was almost ten, but Perry was still at his desk, reading a magazine with his feet up.

Holman decided to move quickly to the stairs without speaking, but Perry put down his magazine with a big smile.

“Hey, those boys came back today. You must’ve straightened’m out real good, Holman. Thanks.”

“Good. I’m glad it worked out.”

Holman didn’t want to hear about it now. He wanted to get upstairs, so he kept going, but Perry swung his feet from the desk.

“Hey, wait-hang on there. What’s that in the bag, your dinner?”

Holman stopped, but held the paper Safeway bag down along his leg like it was nothing.

“Yeah. Listen, Perry, it’s getting cold.”

Perry pushed the magazine aside and smiled so wide his lips peeled off his gums.

“If you want a beer to go with it I got a couple in my place. We could have dinner together or something.”

Holman hesitated, not wanting to be rude but also not wanting to get involved with Perry. He wanted to bring the bag upstairs.

“It’s just a little bit of chow mein. I already ate most of it.”

“Well, we could still have that beer.”

“I’m sober, remember?”

“Yeah. Listen, I’m just trying to thank you for whatever you did. When those boys walked in, I thought, holy shit, they’re gonna bust my guts.”

Now Holman was curious. He also figured the sooner Perry got it out, the sooner he’d be able to go upstairs.

“I didn’t know they were coming back.”

“Well, shit, you must’ve told’m somethin’. Did you notice that ol’ Mercury is gone?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re gonna fix it up for me, kind of like an apology. Pound out those dents and hit the rust that’s eating up my headlights and paint the sonofabitch. Have it back good as new, they said.”

“That’s real good, Perry.”

“Hell, Holman, I appreciate this. Thanks, man.”

“No problem. Listen, I want to get this upstairs.”

“Okay, partner, I just wanted to let you know. You change your mind about that beer, you come knock.”

“Sure, Perry. Thanks.”

Holman went up to his room, but left his door open. He turned off his AC unit to cut the noise of its blower, then returned to his door. He heard Perry lock the front door, then move through the lobby turning off lights before heading back along the hall to his room. When Holman heard Perry’s door close, he slipped off his shoes. He crept down to the utility closet at the end of the hall where Perry kept mops, soaps, and cleaning supplies. Holman had raided the closet a couple of times, looking for Pine-Sol and a plunger.

In addition to the cleaning supplies, Holman had noticed a water shutoff valve in a rectangular hole cut into the wall between two studs. He pushed the bag into the hole beneath the valve. He didn’t want to keep the gun in his room or car. The way things had been going, the cops would search his room. If they had found something when they searched his car that morning, he would be back in federal custody right now.

Holman shut the closet and returned to his room. He was too tired for a shower. He washed up as best he could in the sink, then put the air conditioner back on and climbed into bed.

When Holman first saw problems with how the police were explaining Richie’s death, he believed the police were incompetent; now he believed he was dealing with conspiracy and murder. If Richie and his friends had been trying to find the sixteen million in missing money, Holman was pretty sure they weren’t the only people trying to find it. And since the missing money was a secret, the only other people who knew about it were policemen.

Holman tried to imagine what sixteen million dollars in cash looked like, but couldn’t. The most he had ever had in his possession at one time was forty-two hundred bucks. He wondered if he could lift it. He wondered if he could put it into his car. A man might do anything for that much cash. He wondered if Richie was such a man, but thinking about it made his chest ache so he forced the thoughts away.

Holman turned to Katherine Pollard and what they discussed under the bridge. He liked her and found himself feeling bad he had gotten her involved. He thought he might like to know her a little bit better, but he held no real hope of that. Now here he was with the gun. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it, but he would even though it meant going back to prison. He would use it as soon as he found his son’s killer.

29

THE NEXT MORNING, Pollard called to tell Holman they were on with Leyla Marchenko. Mrs. Marchenko lived in Lincoln Heights not far from Chinatown, so Pollard would pick him up at Union Station and they would drive over together.

Pollard said, “Here’s the deal, Holman-this woman hates the police, so I told her we were reporters.”

“I don’t know anything about reporters.”

“What’s to know? The point is she hates cops and that’s our in. I told her we were doing a story about how the cops mistreated her when they were investigating her son. That’s why she’s willing to talk to us.”

“Well, okay.”

“Why don’t I do this without you? No reason you have to tag along.”

“No, no-I want to go.”

Holman felt bad enough she was working for free; he didn’t want her to think he was leaving it all to her.

Holman took a fast shower, then waited until he heard Perry hosing the sidewalk before he returned to the closet. He had tossed and turned throughout the night, regretting that he had gotten the gun. Now Pitchess knew he had a gun and if Pitchess got pinched for something he wouldn’t hesitate to cut a deal for himself by ratting Holman out. Holman knew with a certainty Pitchess would get pinched because guys like Pitchess always got pinched. It was only a matter of time.

Holman wanted to check his hiding place in the better light of day. The water valve and exposed pipes were thick with dust and cobwebs, so it was unlikely Perry or anyone else would reach down between the studs. Holman was satisfied. If Pitchess ratted him out, he would deny everything and the cops would have to find the gun. Holman positioned the mop and broom in front of the valve, then went to meet Pollard.

Holman had always liked Union Station, even though it was a block away from the jail. He liked the deco Spanish look of the place with its stucco and tile and arches, which reminded him of the city’s roots in the Old West. Holman had loved watching westerns on TV when he was a child, which was the only thing he remembered ever doing with his father. The old man brought him down to Olvera Street a few times, mostly because Mexican guys walked around dressed like Old West vaqueros. They had bought churros, then walked across the street to see the trains at Union Station. It had all seemed to fit together-Olvera Street, the vaqueros, and Union Station looking like an old Spanish mission-there at the birthplace of Los Angeles. His mother had brought him the one time, but only the one. She brought him into the passenger terminal with its enormously high ceiling and they sat on one of the long wooden benches where people wait. She bought him a Coke and a Tootsie Pop. Holman had been five or six, something like that, and after a few minutes she told him to wait while she used the bathroom. Five hours later his father claimed him from the station attendants because she hadn’t come back. Two years later she died and the old man finally told him his mother had tried to abandon him. She had boarded a train, but only got as far as Oxnard before she ran out of guts. That’s the way his father had put it-she ran out of guts. Holman still liked Union Station anyway. It reminded him of the Old West that had always looked pretty good when he was watching it on TV with his dad.

Holman parked in the lot alongside the passenger terminal, then walked over to wait at the main entrance. Pollard picked him up a few minutes later and they drove to Lincoln Heights. It was only a few minutes away.

Anton Marchenko’s mother lived in a low-income neighborhood between Main and Broadway, not far from Chinatown. The tiny houses were poorly kept because the people here had no money. The houses would be overcrowded with two or three generations and sometimes more than one family, and it took everything they had just to hang on. Holman had grown up in a similar house in another part of town and found the street depressing. Back in the day when Holman was stealing, he didn’t bother with a neighborhood like this because he knew firsthand they had nothing worth stealing.

Pollard said, “Okay, now listen-she’s going to rant about how the cops murdered her son, so we’ll just have to listen to it. Let me direct the conversation to Fowler.”

“You’re the boss.”

Pollard reached around to the backseat and brought out a folder. She put it in Holman’s lap.

“Carry this. Here we come, up here on the right. Try to act like a reporter.”

Leyla Marchenko was short and squat, with a wide Slavic face showing small eyes and thin lips. When she answered the door, she was wearing a heavy black dress and fluffy house slippers. Holman thought she seemed suspicious.

“You are the newspaper people?”

Pollard said, “Yes, that’s right. You spoke with me on the phone.”

Holman said, “We’re reporters.”

Pollard cleared her throat to shut him up, but Mrs. Marchenko pushed open the door and told them to come in.

Mrs. Marchenko’s living room was small, with spotty furnishings pieced together from lawn sales and secondhand stores. Her house wasn’t air-conditioned. Three electric table fans were set up around the room, swinging from side to side to churn the hot air. A fourth fan sat motionless in the corner, its safety cage broken and hanging on the blades. Except for the fans, it reminded Holman of his old house and he didn’t feel comfortable. The small closed space felt like a cell. He already wanted to leave.

Mrs. Marchenko dropped into a chair like a dead weight. Pollard took a seat on the couch and Holman sat beside her.

Pollard said, “All right, Mrs. Marchenko, like I told you on the phone, we’re going to do a story exploring how the police mistreated-”

Pollard didn’t have to say more than that. Mrs. Marchenko turned bright red and launched into her complaints.

“They were nasty and rude. They come in here and make such a mess, me alone, an old woman. They break a lamp in my bedroom. They break my fan-”

She waved at the motionless fan.

“They come in here stomping around the house and here I was alone, thinking I might be raped. I don’t believe any of those things they say and I still don’t. Anton did not commit all those robberies like they say, maybe that last one, but not those others. They blame him so they can say they solved all those cases. They murdered him. This man on TV, he say Anton was trying to give up when they kill him. He say, they use too much force. They tell those terrible lies to cover up themselves. I am going to sue the city. I am going to make them pay.”

The old woman’s eyes reddened along with her face, and Holman found himself staring at the broken fan. It was easier than seeing her pain.

“Max?”

“What?”

“The folder? Could I have the folder, please?”

Pollard had her hand out, waiting for the folder. Holman handed it to her. Pollard took out a sheet and passed it to Mrs. Marchenko.

“I’d like to show you some pictures. Do you recognize any of these men?”

“Who are they?”

“Police officers. Did any of these officers come to see you?”

Pollard had clipped the pictures of Richie and Fowler and the others from the newspaper and taped them to the sheet. Holman thought this was a good idea and knew he probably wouldn’t have thought of it.

Mrs. Marchenko peered at the pictures, then tapped the one of Fowler.

“Maybe him. No uniform. A suit.”

Holman glanced at Pollard, but Pollard showed no reaction. Holman knew it was a telling moment. Fowler had worn civilian clothes because he had been pretending he was a detective. He had hidden the fact that he was a uniformed officer and was pretending to be something else.

Pollard said, “How about the others? Were any of them here either with the first man or at another time?”

“No. Another man came with him, but not these.”

Now Pollard glanced over at Holman and Holman shrugged. He was wondering who in hell this fifth man was and whether or not the old woman was making a mistake.

Holman said, “You sure the other man isn’t one of the guys in the pictures? Why don’t you take another look to be sure?”

Mrs. Marchenko’s eyes narrowed into angry slits.

“I don’t need to see again. It was some other man, not one of these.”

Pollard cleared her throat and jumped in. Holman was glad.

“Do you remember his name?”

“I don’t give those bastards the time of day. I don’t know.”

“About when were they here, you think? How long ago?”

“Not long. Two weeks, I think. Why do you ask about them? They did not break my lamp. That was another one.”

Pollard put away the pictures.

“Let’s just say they might be nastier than most, but we’ll focus on everyone in the story.”

Holman was impressed with how well Pollard lied. It was a skill he had noticed before in cops. They often lied better than criminals.

Pollard said, “What did they want?”

“They wanted to know about Allie.”

“And who is Allie?”

“Anton’s lady friend.”

Holman was surprised and he could tell Pollard was surprised, too. The papers had described Marchenko and Parsons as a couple of friendless loners and had hinted at a homosexual relationship. Pollard stared down at the folder for a moment before continuing.

“Anton had a girlfriend?”

The old woman’s face grew rigid and she tipped forward.

“I am not making this up! My Anton was not a sissy boy like those horrible people said. Many young men have roommates to share in the cost. Many!”

“I’m sure of it, Mrs. Marchenko, a handsome young man like him. What did the officers want to know about her?”

“Just questions, they ask-did Anton see her a lot, where she lives, like that, but I am not going to help these people who murdered my son. I made like I don’t know her.”

“So you didn’t tell them about her?”

“I say I don’t know any girl named Allie. I am not going to help these murderers.”

“We’d like to speak with her for the article, Mrs. Marchenko. Could you give me her phone number?”

“I don’t know the number.”

“That’s okay. We can look it up. How about her last name?”

“I am not making this up. He would call her when he was here watching the television. She was so nice, a nice girl, she was laughing when he gave me the phone.”

Mrs. Marchenko had once more flushed, and Holman saw how desperately she needed them to believe her. She had been trapped in her tiny house by the death of her son, and no one was listening and no one had listened for three months and she was alone. Holman felt so bad he wanted to jump up and run, but instead he smiled and made his voice gentle.

“We believe you. We just want to talk to the girl. When was this you spoke to her?”

“Since before they murdered my Anton. It was a long time. Anton would come and we would watch the TV. Sometimes he would call her and put me on the phone, here, Mama, talk to my girl.”

Pollard pouched out her lips, thinking, then glanced at the phone at the end of Mrs. Marchenko’s couch.

“Maybe if you showed us your old phone bills we could figure out which number belongs to Allie. Then we could see if Detective Fowler treated her as badly as he treated you.”

Mrs. Marchenko brightened.

“Would that help me sue them?”

“Yes, ma’am, I think it might.”

Mrs. Marchenko pushed up from her chair and waddled out of the room.

Holman leaned toward Pollard and lowered his voice.

“Who’s this fifth guy?”

“I don’t know.”

“The papers didn’t say anything about a girlfriend.”

“I don’t know. She wasn’t on the FBI witness list, either.”

Mrs. Marchenko interrupted them by returning with a cardboard box.

“The bills I put in here after I pay them. It’s all mixed up.”

Holman settled back and watched them go through the bills. Mrs. Marchenko didn’t make many calls and didn’t phone many different numbers-her landlord, her doctors, a couple of other older women who were friends, her younger brother in Cleveland, and her son. Whenever Pollard found a number Mrs. Marchenko couldn’t identify, Pollard called the number on her cell phone, but the first three she dialed were two repairmen and a Domino’s. Mrs. Marchenko remembered the repairmen, but frowned when Pollard reached the Domino’s.

“I never have the pizza. That must have been Anton.”

The Domino’s call had been placed five months ago. The following number on the list was also a number Mrs. Marchenko couldn’t identify, but then she nodded.

“That must be Allie. I remember the pizza now. I tell Anton it has a nasty taste. When the man brought it, Anton gave me the phone when he went to the door.”

Pollard smiled at Holman.

“Well, there we go. Let’s see who answers.”

Pollard dialed the number, and Holman watched as her smile faded. She closed her phone.

“It’s no longer in service.”

Mrs. Marchenko said, “Is this bad?”

“Maybe not. I’m pretty sure we can use this number to find her.”

Pollard copied the number into her notebook along with the time, date, and duration of the call, then searched through the remaining bills, but found the number only one other time on a call placed three weeks before the first.

Pollard glanced at Holman, then smiled at Mrs. Marchenko.

“I think we’ve taken enough of your time. Thank you very much.”

Mrs. Marchenko’s face folded in disappointment.

“Don’t you want to talk about the fan and how they lied?”

Pollard stood and Holman stood with her.

“I think we have enough. We’ll see what Allie has to say and we’ll get back to you. Come on, Holman.”

Mrs. Marchenko waddled after them to the door.

“They did not have to kill my boy. I don’t believe any of those things they said. Will you put that in your story?”

“Goodbye and thank you again.”

Pollard walked out to the car, but Holman hesitated. He felt awkward just leaving.

Mrs. Marchenko said, “Anton was trying to give up. Put in your story how they murdered my son.”

Pollard was waving for him to join her, but here was this old woman with her pleading eyes, thinking they were going to help her and they were going to leave her with nothing. Holman felt ashamed of himself. He looked at the broken fan.

“You couldn’t fix it?”

“How could I get it fixed? My Anton is dead. How could I get it fixed until I sue and get the money?”

Pollard beeped the horn. Holman glanced at her, then turned back to Mrs. Marchenko.

“Let me take a look.”

Holman went back into the house and examined the fan. The safety cage was supposed to be attached at the back of the motor by a little screw, but the screw was broken. It had probably snapped when the cops knocked over the fan. The head of the screw had popped off and the body of the screw was still in the hole. It would have to be drilled and rethreaded. It would be cheaper to buy a new fan.

“I can’t fix it, Mrs. Marchenko. I’m sorry.”

“This is outrageous, what they did to my son. I am going to sue them.”

The horn beeped.

Holman went back to the door and saw Pollard waving, but he still didn’t leave. Here was this woman with her son who had robbed thirteen banks, murdered three people, and wounded four others; her little boy who had modified semiautomatic rifles to fire like machine guns, dressed up like a lunatic, and shot it out with the police, but here she was, defending her son to the last.

Holman said, “Was he a good son?”

“He came and we watched the TV.”

“Then that’s all you need to know. You hang on to that.”

Holman left her then and went to join Pollard.

30

WHEN HOLMAN pulled the door closed, Pollard roared back toward Union station.

“What were you doing? Why’d you go back inside?”

“To see if I could fix her fan.”

“We have something important here and you’re wasting time with that?”

“The woman thinks we’re helping her. I didn’t feel right just leaving.”

Holman felt so bad he didn’t notice that Pollard had gone silent. When he finally glanced over, her mouth was a hard line and her brow was cut by a vertical line.

He said, “What?”

“It might not have dawned on you, but I did not enjoy that. I don’t like lying to some poor woman who lost her son and I don’t like sneaking around pretending to be something I’m not. This kind of thing was easier and simpler when I was on the Feeb, but I’m not, so this is what we have. I don’t need you making me feel even worse.”

Holman stared at her. He had spent much of the night regretting he had gotten her involved, and now he felt like a moron.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Forget it. I know you didn’t.”

She was clearly in a bad mood now, but Holman didn’t know what to say. The more he thought about everything she was doing for him, the more he felt like an idiot.

“I’m sorry.”

Her mouth tightened, so he decided not to apologize again. He decided to change the subject.

“Hey, I know this Allie thing is important. Can you find her with a disconnected number?”

“I’ll have a friend of mine at the Feeb do it. They can run the number through a database that will show prior subscribers even though it’s no longer in use.”

“How long will it take?”

“It’s computers. Milliseconds.”

“Why wasn’t she on the witness list?”

“Because they didn’t know about her, Holman. Duh.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s why this is important. They didn’t know about her, but Fowler did. That means he learned about her from some other source.”

“Fowler and the new guy.”

Pollard glanced over at him.

“Yeah, and the new guy. I’m looking forward to talking with this girl, Holman. I want to find out what she told them.”

Holman grew thoughtful. They were driving west on Main Street toward the river. He was thinking about what she might have told them, too.

“Maybe she told them to meet her under the bridge to cut up the money.”

Pollard didn’t look at him. She was silent for a moment and then she shrugged.

“We’ll see. I’ll go back through his phone bills to see if and when they made contact, and I’ll see if we can find her. I’ll call you later with whatever I find.”

Holman watched her drive, feeling even more guilty that she would be spending her afternoon with this.

“Listen, I want to thank you again for going to all this trouble. I didn’t mean to put my foot in it back there.”

“You’re welcome. Forget it.”

“I know you already said no, but I’d like to pay you something. At least gas money since you won’t let me drive.”

“If we have to get gas I’ll let you pay. Will that make you feel better?”

“I’m not trying to be a pain. I just feel bad with you putting in so much time.”

Pollard didn’t respond.

“Your husband doesn’t mind you spending all this time?”

“Let’s not talk about my husband.”

Holman sensed he had stepped over a line with her, so he backed off and fell silent. He had noticed she didn’t wear a ring the first time he saw her at Starbucks, but she had mentioned her kids so he didn’t know what to make of it. Now he regretted bringing it up.

They drove on without speaking. As they crossed the river, Holman tried to see the Fourth Street Bridge, but it was too far away. He was surprised when Pollard suddenly spoke.

“I don’t have a husband. He’s dead.”

“Sorry. It was none of my business.”

“It sounds worse than it was. We were separated. We were on our way to a divorce we both wanted.”

Pollard shrugged, but still didn’t look at him.

“How about you? How’d it go between you and your wife?”

“Richie’s mom?”

“Yeah.”

“We never got married.”

“Typical.”

“If I could go back and do it all over again I would have married her, but that was me. I didn’t learn my lesson until I was in prison.”

“Some people never learn, Holman. At least you figured it out. Maybe you’re ahead of the curve.”

Holman had been spiraling down into the inevitable funk, but when he glanced over he saw Pollard smiling.

She said, “I can’t believe you went back to fix her fan.”

Holman shrugged.

“That was cool, Holman. That was very, very cool.”

Holman watched Union Station swing into view and realized he was smiling, too.

31

HOLMAN DIDN’T immediately leave Union Station when Pollard dropped him off. He waited until she had gone, then walked across to Olvera Street. A Mexican dance troop garbed in brilliant feathers was performing Toltec dances to the rhythms of a beating drum. The drumbeats were fast and primitive, and the dancers soared around each other so quickly they appeared to be flying.

Holman watched for a while, then bought a churro and moved through the crowd. Tourists from all over the world crowded the alleys and shops, buying sombreros and Mexican handicrafts. Holman drifted among them. He breathed the air and felt the sun and enjoyed the churro. He wandered along a row of shops, stopping in some when the notion struck him and bypassing others. Holman felt a lightness he hadn’t known in a while. When long-term convicts were first released they often experienced a form of agoraphobia-a fear of open spaces. The prison counselors had a special name for this type of agoraphobia when they attributed it to convicts-the fear of life. Freedom gave a man choices and choices could be terrifying. Every choice was a potential failure. Every choice could be another step back toward prison. Choices as simple as leaving a room or asking for directions could leave a man humiliated and unable to act. But now Holman felt the lightness and knew he was putting the fear behind him. He was becoming free again and it felt good.

It occurred to him he could have asked Pollard to join him for lunch. Since she wasn’t letting him pay for her time he should have offered to buy her a sandwich. He imagined the two of them having a French Dip at Philippe’s or a taco plate at one of the Mexican restaurants, but then he realized he was being stupid. She would have taken it wrong and probably wouldn’t have seen him again. Holman told himself to be careful with stuff like that. Maybe he wasn’t as free as he thought.

Holman no longer felt hungry, so he picked up his car and was heading for home when his phone rang. He hoped it was Pollard, but the caller ID window showed it was Chee. Holman opened the phone.

“Hey, bro.”

“Where are you, Holman?”

Chee’s voice was quiet.

“On my way home. I just left Union Station.”

“Come see me, bro. Drop around the shop.”

Holman wasn’t liking how Chee sounded.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Just come see me, okay?”

Holman was certain that something was wrong and he wondered if it had to do with Random.

“Are you all right?”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Chee hung up without waiting for an answer.

Holman picked up the freeway and headed south. He wanted to call Chee back, but he knew Chee would have already told him if he wanted to say it over the phone, and that worried him even more.

When he reached Chee’s shop he pulled into the lot and was parking his car when Chee came out. As soon as Holman saw him he knew it was bad. Chee’s face was grim, and he didn’t wait for Holman to park. He motioned Holman to stop, then climbed into the passenger seat.

“Let’s take a little drive, bro. Swing on around the block.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Just drive, bro. Get away from this place.”

As they pulled into traffic, Chee swiveled his head left and right as if searching the surrounding cars. He adjusted the outside passenger mirror so he could see behind them.

He said, “It was the cops told you Maria Juarez went on the run?”

“Yeah. They put out a warrant.”

“That’s bullshit, man. They fed you bullshit.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She didn’t go on the run, bro. The fuckin’ cops took her.”

“They said she split. They put out a warrant.”

“Night before last?”

“Yeah, it would’ve been-yeah, the night before last.”

“Their warrant can kiss my ass. They bagged her in the middle of the night. Some people over there, they saw it happen, ese. They heard the noise and saw these two muthuhfuckuhs shove her in a car.”

“A police car?”

“A car car.”

“How do they know it was the police?”

“It was that red-haired guy, homes-that same fuckin’ guy who jumped you. That’s how they know. These are the people who told me that you got bagged, homes! They said it was the same fuckin’ guy who grabbed you.”

Holman drove in silence for a while. The red-haired man was Vukovich, and Vukovich worked for Random.

“They get the plate?”

“No, man, that time of night?”

“What kind of car?”

“Dark blue or brown Crown Victoria. You tell me anyone who drives a Crown Vic but the cops?”

Holman fell silent, and Chee shook his head.

“What the fuck are those cops doin’, homes? What you got into?”

Holman kept driving. He was thinking. He had to tell Pollard.

32

POLLARD CALLED IT the blood tingle. She blasted up the Hollywood Freeway, high-fiving the dashboard and pumping her fist, feeling the electric buzz in her fingers and legs that had always come with making a breakthrough in a case-the blood tingle. Now she wasn’t just covering someone else’s old case notes-the girlfriend was new. Pollard had turned a new lead and now the investigation felt totally hers.

She called April Sanders as she hit Hollywood and climbed the Cahuenga Pass.

“Hey, girl, can you talk?”

April came back whispering so softly Pollard could barely understand.

“Office. You got more donuts?”

“I have an out-of-service phone number and I’m in my car. Can you pull the subscriber for me?”

“Yeah, I think-hang on.”

Pollard smiled. She knew Sanders would be peeking out of her cubicle to make sure she wasn’t being watched.

“Yeah, sure. What is it?”

Pollard read off the number.

“Three-ten area code.”

“Stand by. I show a Verizon account for one Alison Whitt, W-HI-T-T, billed to what looks like a Hollywood POB. You want it?”

“Yeah. Go.”

The address appeared to be a private mailbox service on Sunset Boulevard.

“What was the date of termination?”

“Last week…six days ago.”

Pollard thought about it. If Fowler had discovered her number at about the time he visited Leyla Marchenko he would have been able to contact her. Maybe Fowler’s contact is why she dropped the number.

“April, see if she has a new listing.”

“Ah…hang on. No, negative. No Alison Whitt in the listings.”

Pollard found the absence of a new listing notable but not unusual. Unlisted numbers didn’t show on the regular database, so Whitt’s new number might be unlisted. Also, it was possible Whitt had taken a number under a different name or was sharing a phone billed to another party. The bad news was that none of this would help Pollard find her.

“Listen, one more thing. I hate to ask, but could you check this girl in the system?”

“The NCIC?”

“Whatever. The DMV should be fine. I’m trying to find her.”

“Is this something I should know about?”

“If it turns out to be I’ll let you know.”

Sanders hesitated, and Pollard thought she might be peeking at the office again. Running a government database check couldn’t be handled at her desk. Sanders returned to the line.

“I can’t right now. Leeds is here but I can’t see him. I don’t want him to ask what I’m doing.”

“So call me later.”

“Out.”

Pollard felt good about the progress she was making. The disconnection of Alison’s phone number so close in time to Fowler’s questioning of Mrs. Marchenko was too coincidental. Coincidences occurred, but, like all cops, Pollard had learned to be suspicious of them. She put down her phone, anxious to go through Fowler’s phone records and hear back from Sanders. If Sanders struck out, Pollard knew she could try for contact information through the mailbox service. Learning anything from the mail service would be difficult without her creds, but it left her an avenue for investigation and she found herself smiling again.

Pollard knew she might not hear back from Sanders until the end of the day, so she had her car washed, then went to Ralphs. She stocked up on food and toilet paper and bought extra treats for the boys. They ate like starving wolves and seemed to eat more every day. She found herself wondering if Holman had once bought boxes of Jujubes for his little boy, and suspected that no, he hadn’t. This left her feeling sad. Holman seemed like a pretty good guy now that she had gotten to know him, but she also knew he had been a criminal for much of his life. Every thug she ever arrested had a story-debt, drug addiction, abusive parents, no parents, learning disabilities, poverty, whatever. None of that mattered. All that mattered was whether or not you broke the law. If you did the crime, you did the time, and Holman had done the time. Pollard thought it was a shame he hadn’t had a second chance with his son.

Once she had the groceries away, she straightened the house, then sat on her living room couch with Fowler’s phone bills. She read through the outgoing numbers beginning with the date Fowler visited Mrs. Marchenko and found Alison Whitt’s phone number only a few days later. Fowler had called her on the same Thursday he and Holman’s son went out late and came home muddy. Fowler had called her, but Mrs. Marchenko claimed she did not give Fowler any information about Allie, which meant Fowler had gotten her number from another source. Pollard read through the rest of Fowler’s bills, but the Thursday call was the only time he called her. Pollard searched through Richard Holman’s bills next, but found nothing.

Pollard wondered how Fowler had learned about Alison Whitt. She reviewed the FBI’s witness list. The summaries referenced Marchenko’s landlord and neighbors, but did not include anyone named Alison Whitt. If one of the neighbors reported that Marchenko or Parsons had a girlfriend, the investigators would have followed the trail and named her in the witness list, but just the opposite had occurred-the neighbors uniformly stated that neither man had friends, girlfriends, or other visitors to their apartment. Yet somehow Fowler had learned of Whitt before he visited Mrs. Marchenko. Maybe the fifth man had known. Maybe the fifth man’s phone number was somewhere in Fowler’s bills.

Pollard was still thinking about it when her doorbell rang. She pushed the papers together, went to the door, and squinted through the peephole. It was still too early for her mother to bring the boys home.

Leeds and Bill Cecil were at the door, Leeds scowling at something down the street. He didn’t look happy. He frowned at his watch, rubbed his chin, then rang her bell again.

Though Cecil had been to her home on several occasions when she and Marty entertained, Leeds had never been to her house. She had not seen him outside the office since she left the Feeb.

He was reaching to ring the bell again when Pollard opened the door.

“Chris, Bill, this is-what a surprise.”

Leeds didn’t look particularly happy to see her. His blue suit hung loose off his hunched frame and he towered over her like a spindly scarecrow who no longer liked his job. Cecil stood a halfstep behind him, expressionless.

Leeds said, “I would think so. May we come in?”

“Of course. Absolutely.”

She stepped out of the way to let them in, but she didn’t know what to do or say. Leeds entered first. As Cecil passed, he raised his eyebrows, warning her Leeds was in a mood. Pollard moved to join Leeds in the living room.

“I’m stunned. Were you in the area?”

“No, I came up here to see you. This is very nice, Katherine. You have a lovely home. Are your boys here?”

“No. They’re at camp.”

“Too bad. I would have liked to meet them.”

Pollard felt the creepy sensation of being a child again in the presence of her father. Leeds looked around as if he was inspecting her house, while Cecil stood just inside the door. Leeds finished his slow tour of the living room and settled on her like a sinking ship finding rest on the bottom.

He said, “Have you lost your mind?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why on earth would you get involved with a convicted criminal?”

Pollard felt the blood rush to her face as her stomach knotted. She started to open her mouth, but he shook his head, stopping her.

“I know you’re helping Max Holman.”

She had been about to deny it, but she lied.

“I wasn’t going to deny it. Chris, he lost his son. He asked me to talk to the police about it-”

“I know about his son. Katherine, the man is a criminal. You should know better than this.”

“Than what? I don’t know why you’re here, Chris.”

“Because you were on my team for three years. I picked you and I was goddamned pissed off to lose you. I could never forgive myself if I let you do this to yourself without speaking up.”

“Do what? Chris, I’m just trying to help the man get answers about his son.”

Leeds shook his head as if she was the dumbest rookie alive and he could see right through her into the creases and folds of her innermost secrets.

He said, “Have you gone Indian?”

Pollard felt a fresh surge of blood brighten her face. It was an old expression. A cop went Indian when he turned crooked…or fell in love with a crook.

“No!”

“I hope to hell not.”

“This is really none of your business-”

“Your personal life is absolutely none of my business, yes, you’re right-but I still give a damn so here I am. Have you let him into your home? Have you exposed your children to him or given him money?”

“Chris? You know what? You should go-”

Cecil said, “Maybe we should leave now, Chris.”

“When I’m finished.”

Leeds didn’t move. He stared at Pollard, and Pollard suddenly remembered the papers on her couch. She edged toward the door to draw his eye away.

“I’m not doing anything wrong. I haven’t broken any laws or done anything my children would be ashamed of.”

Leeds placed his palms together as if he was praying and tipped his fingers at her.

“Do you really know what this man wants?”

“He wants to know who killed his son.”

“But is that really what he wants? I’ve spoken with the police-I know what he’s told them and I’m sure he’s told you the same thing, but can you be sure? You put him in prison for ten years. Why would he turn to you for help?”

“Maybe because I got his sentence reduced.”

“And maybe he sought you out because he knew you were soft. Maybe he thought he could use you again.”

Pollard felt a growing tickle of anger. Leeds had been furious when the Times dubbed Holman the Hero Bandit, and he had been livid at her for speaking in Holman’s favor with the U.S. Attorney.

“He didn’t use me. We didn’t discuss it and he didn’t ask me to intervene. He earned that reduction.”

“He isn’t telling you the truth, Katherine. You can’t trust him.”

“What isn’t he telling me the truth about?”

“The police believe he’s consorting with a convicted felon and active gang member named Gary Moreno, also known as Little Chee or L’Chee. Ring a bell?”

“No.”

Pollard was growing scared. She sensed Leeds was directing the conversation. He was judging her reactions and trying to read her as if he suspected she was lying.

“Ask him. Moreno and Holman were known associates throughout Holman’s career. The police believe Moreno has funded Holman with cash, a vehicle, and other items for use in a criminal enterprise.”

Pollard tried to keep her breath even. Here was Holman fresh out of prison with a brand-new car and cell phone. Holman had told her a friend loaned him the car.

“Why?”

“You know why. You can feel it. Here-”

Leeds touched his stomach, then gave her the answer.

“To recover the sixteen million dollars stolen by Marchenko and Parsons.”

Pollard worked to show nothing. She didn’t want to admit anything until she had time to think. If Leeds was right, she might need to talk with a lawyer.

“I don’t believe it. He didn’t even know about the money until-”

Pollard realized she was already saying too much when Leeds gave her a sad but knowing smile.

“You told him?”

She forced herself to take a slow breath, but Leeds seemed able to see her fears.

“It’s difficult to think when your emotions are involved, but you need to rethink this, Katherine.”

“My emotions aren’t involved.”

“You felt something for the man ten years ago and now you’ve let him back into your life. Don’t lose yourself to this man, Katherine. You know better than that.”

“I know I would like you to leave.”

Pollard kept her face even, staring at him when the phone rang. Not her house phone, but the cell. The loud chirp broke the silence like a stranger entering the room.

Leeds said, “Answer it.”

Pollard didn’t move toward the phone. It sat on the couch near the file with Holman’s papers, ringing.

“Please go. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

Cecil looked embarrassed and went to the door. He opened it, trying to get Leeds out of her house.

“Come on, Chris. You’ve said what you wanted to say.”

The phone rang. Leeds studied it as if he was thinking of answering it himself, but then he joined Cecil at the door. He looked back at her.

“Agent Sanders will no longer be helping you.”

Leeds walked out, but Cecil hesitated, looking sad.

“I’m sorry about this, lady. The man-I don’t know, he hasn’t been himself. He meant well.”

“Goodbye, Bill.”

Pollard watched Cecil leave, then went to the door and locked it.

She walked back to the phone.

It was Holman.

33

HOLMAN DROPPED Chee a block from his shop, then turned toward Culver City. He played and replayed the news about Maria Juarez, trying to cast it in a light that made sense. He wanted to drive to her house to speak with her cousins, but now he was afraid the same cops would be watching. Why would they bag her, then claim she had split? Why would they issue a warrant for her arrest if they had already arrested her? News of her flight and the warrant had even been in the newspaper.

Holman didn’t like any of it. The police who thought she fled had been lied to by the cops who knew different. The police who obtained the warrant didn’t know that other cops already knew her whereabouts. Cops were keeping secrets from other cops, and that could only mean one thing: bad cops.

Holman drove a mile from Chee’s shop, then turned into a parking lot. He speed-dialed Pollard’s number and listened as it rang. The ringing seemed to go on forever, but finally she answered.

“Now isn’t a good time.”

Pollard didn’t sound like Pollard. Her voice was remote and failing, and Holman thought he might have gotten the wrong number.

“Katherine? Is this Agent Pollard?”

“What?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Now isn’t a good time.”

She sounded terrible, but Holman believed this was important.

“Maria Juarez didn’t run. The cops took her. That same cop with the red hair who bounced me-Vukovich. It isn’t like the police have been saying. Vukovich and another cop took her in the middle of the night.”

Holman waited, but heard only silence.

“Are you there?”

“How do you know this?”

“A friend knows some people who live on her street. They saw it. Just like they saw those guys get me.”

“What friend?”

Holman hesitated.

“Who?”

Holman still didn’t know what to say.

“Just…a friend.”

“Gary Moreno?”

Holman knew better than to ask how she knew. Asking would be defensive. Being defensive would imply guilt.

“Yeah, Gary Moreno. He’s a friend. Katherine, we were kids together-”

“So tight he gave you a car?”

“He runs a body shop. He has lots of cars-”

“And so much money you don’t have to work?”

“He knew my little boy-”

“A multiple felon and gang member and you didn’t think it worth mentioning?”

“Katherine-?”

“What are you doing, Holman?”

“Nothing-”

“Don’t call me again.”

The line was dead.

Holman hit the speed-dial, but her voice mail picked up. She had turned off the phone. He spoke as fast as he could.

“Katherine, listen, what should I have said? Chee’s my friend-that’s Gary’s nickname, Chee-and yes he’s a convicted felon, but so am I. I was a criminal all my life; the only people I know are criminals.”

Her voice mail beeped, cutting him off. Holman cursed and hit the speed-dial again.

“Now he’s straight just like I’m trying to be straight and he’s my friend so I went to him for help. I don’t know anyone else. I don’t have anyone else. Katherine, please call back. I need you. I need your help to get through this. Agent Pollard, please-”

Her voice mail beeped again, but this time Holman lowered his phone. He sat in the parking lot, waiting. He didn’t know what else to do. He didn’t know where she lived or how to reach her except through her phone. She had kept it that way to protect herself. Holman sat in his car, feeling alone the way he had been alone on his first night in jail. He wanted to reach out to her, but Agent Pollard had turned off her phone.

34

POLLARD’S MOTHER called at dinnertime. That’s the way they had been working it. Her mother would meet the boys when they were brought home from camp, then bring them to her condo in Canyon Country where the boys could play by the pool while her mother played online poker. Texas Hold’em.

Pollard, knowing it would be awful and steeling herself for the pain, said, “Could they camp out with you tonight?”

“Katie, do you have a man there?”

“I’m really tired, Mom. I’m just beat, that’s all. I need the break.”

“Why are you tired? You’re not sick, are you?”

“Could they stay?”

“You didn’t catch anything, did you? Did you catch something from some man? You need a husband but there’s no reason to become a slut.”

Pollard lowered the phone and stared at it. She could hear her mother still talking, but couldn’t understand the words.

“Mom?”

“What?”

“Could they stay?”

“I guess it would be all right, but what about camp? They’ll be heartbroken if they miss their camp.”

“Missing one day won’t kill them. They hate camp.”

“I don’t understand a mother who needs a break from her children. I never needed a break from you or wanted one.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

Pollard put down the phone and stared at the clock over her sink. She was in the kitchen. The house was quiet again. She watched the second hand sweep and waited for the tock.

TOCK.

Like a gunshot.

Pollard got up and went back into the living room, wondering if Leeds was right. She had felt a kind of admiration for Holman both back in the day and now, for how he went down and how he had brought himself back. And she had felt a kind of attraction, too. Pollard didn’t like admitting to the attraction. It made her feel stupid. Maybe she had gone Indian without even knowing it. Maybe that’s the way going Indian happened. Maybe it snuck up on you when you weren’t looking and took over before you knew.

Pollard stared at the papers on the couch and felt disgusted with herself. Her Holman file.

She said, “Jesus Christ.”

Sixteen million dollars was a fortune. It was buried treasure, a winning lotto ticket, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. It was the Lost Dutchman Mine and the Treasure of the Sierra Madre. Holman had robbed nine banks for a total score of less than forty thousand. He had pulled ten years and come out with nothing, so why wouldn’t he want the money? Pollard wanted the money. She had dreamed about it, seeing herself in the dream, opening a shitty garage door in a shitty neighborhood, everything covered in grime; pushing up the door and finding the money, a great huge vacuum-packed block of it, sixteen million dollars. She would be set up for life. The boys would be set. Their kids would be set. Her problems would be solved.

Pollard, of course, would not steal it. Keeping the money was just a fantasy. Like finding Prince Charming.

But Holman was a lifelong degenerate criminal who had stolen cars, ripped off warehouses, and robbed nine banks-he probably wouldn’t think twice about stealing the money.

The phone rang. Her house phone, not the cell.

Pollard’s gut clenched because she was sure it was her mother. The boys had probably bitched about staying over, and now her mother was calling to lay on both barrels of guilt.

Pollard returned to the kitchen. She didn’t want to answer, but she did. She was already guilty enough.

April Sanders said, “Are you really helping out the Hero?”

Pollard closed her eyes and shouldered a fresh load of guilt.

“I am so sorry, April. Are you in trouble?”

“Oh, fuck Leeds. Is it true about the Hero?”

Pollard sighed.

“Yes.”

“Are you fucking him?”

“No! How could you even ask a question like that?”

“I’d fuck him.”

“April, shut up!”

“I wouldn’t marry him, but I’d fuck him.”

“April-”

“I found Alison Whitt.”

“Are you still going to help me?”

“Of course I’m going to help you, Pollard. Give a sista some credit.”

Pollard reached for a pen.

“Okay, April. I owe you, girl. Where is she?”

“The morgue.”

Pollard froze with her pen in the air as April’s voice turned somber and professional.

“What have you gotten yourself into, Pollard? Why are you looking for a dead girl?”

“She was Marchenko’s girlfriend.”

“Marchenko didn’t have a girlfriend.”

“He saw her on multiple occasions. Marchenko’s mother spoke with her at least twice.”

“Bill and I ran his phone logs, Kat. If we had ID’d a potential girlfriend on the callbacks we would have followed up on her.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe he never phoned her at home or maybe he only called her from his mother’s.”

Sanders hesitated and Pollard knew she was thinking about it.

Sanders said, “Whatever. The sheet shows a couple of busts for prostitution, shoplifting, drugs-the usual. She was just a kid-twenty-two years old-and now she’s been killed.”

Pollard felt the blood tingle again.

“She was murdered?”

“The body was found in a Dumpster off Yucca in Hollywood. Ligature marks on the neck indicate strangulation, but the cause of death was cardiac arrest brought on by blood loss. She was stabbed twelve times in the chest and abdomen. Yeah, I’d call that murder.”

“Was there an arrest?”

“Nope.”

“When was she killed?”

“The same night Holman’s son was killed.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Pollard was thinking of Maria Juarez. She wondered if Maria Juarez would turn up dead, too. Finally, Sanders asked the question.

“Kat? Do you know what happened to this girl?”

“No.”

“Would you tell me if you did?”

“Yes, I would tell you. Of course I would.”

“Okay.”

“What was the time of death?”

“Between eleven and eleven-thirty that night.”

Pollard hesitated, unsure what this might mean or how much she should say, but she owed April the truth.

“Mike Fowler knew her or knew of her. Do you recognize Fowler’s name?”

“No, who’s that?”

“One of the officers killed with Richard Holman that night. He was the senior officer.”

Pollard knew Sanders was taking notes. Everything she now said would be part of Sanders’ records.

“Fowler approached Marchenko’s mother about a girl named Allie. He knew Allie and Anton Marchenko were linked, and asked Mrs. Marchenko about her.”

“What did Mrs. Marchenko tell him?”

“She denied knowing the girl.”

“What did she tell you?”

“She gave us the first name and allowed us to look through her phone bills to find the number.”

“You mean you and the Hero?”

Pollard closed her eyes again.

“Yeah, me and Holman.”

“Huh.”

“Stop.”

“When were the four officers killed that night?”

Pollard knew where Sanders was going and had already considered it.

“One thirty-two. A shotgun pellet broke Mellon’s watch at one thirty-two, so they know the exact time.”

“So it was possible Fowler and these guys killed the girl earlier. They had time to kill her, then get to the river.”

“It’s also possible someone else killed the girl, then went to the river to kill the four officers.”

“Where was the Hero that night?”

Pollard had already thought of that, too.

“He has a name, April. Holman was still in custody. He wasn’t released until the next day.”

“Lucky him.”

“Listen, April, can you get the police report on Alison Whitt?”

“Already have it. I’ll fax you a copy when I get home. I don’t want to do it from here.”

“Thanks, babe.”

“You and the Hero. Man, that’s a shiver.”

Pollard put down the phone and returned to her living room. Her home didn’t seem quiet anymore, but she knew the sounds now came from her heart. She considered the papers on her couch, thinking more papers would soon be added. The Holman file was growing. A girl had been murdered before his release and now Holman believed the police were lying about Maria Juarez. She wondered again if Maria Juarez was going to turn up dead and whether the fifth man would have something to do with it.

Pollard thought about the timing and found herself hoping that Holman’s son had nothing to do with murdering Alison Whitt. She had seen him struggle with the guilt he felt about his son’s death and agonize over the growing evidence that his son had been involved in an illegal scheme to recover the stolen money. Holman would be crushed if his son was a murderer.

Pollard knew she had to tell him about Alison Whitt and find out more about Maria Juarez. Pollard picked up the phone, but hesitated. Leeds’ appearance had taken a toll. His comments about her going Indian had left her feeling foolish and ashamed of herself. She hadn’t gone Indian, but she had been thinking about Holman in ways that disturbed her. Even Sanders had laughed. You and the Hero. Man, that’s a shiver.

Pollard had to call him, but not just yet. She tossed the phone back onto the couch and went back through the kitchen into the garage. It was hotter than hell even though the sun was down and night had fallen. She waded around bicycles, skateboards, and the vacuum cleaner to a battered grey file cabinet layered with dust. She hadn’t opened the damned thing in years.

She pulled the top drawer and found the folder containing her old case clippings. Pollard had saved press clippings from her cases and arrests. She had almost tossed the stuff a hundred times, but now was glad she hadn’t. She wanted to read about him again. She needed to remember why the Times had called him the Hero Bandit, and why he deserved a second chance.

She found the clip and smiled at the headline. Leeds had thrown the paper across the room and cursed the Times for a week, but Pollard had smiled even then. The headline read: Beach Bum a Hero.

Pollard read the clippings at her kitchen table and remembered how they had met…

The Beach Bum Bandit

The woman ahead of him shifted irritably, making a disgusted grunt as she glanced at him for the fourth time. Holman knew she was working herself up to say something, so he ignored her. It didn’t do any good. She finally pulled the trigger.

“I hate this bank. Only three tellers, and they move like sleepwalkers. Why three tellers when they have ten windows? Shouldn’t they hire more people, they see a line like this? Every time I come here it sucks.”

Holman kept his eyes down so the bill of his cap blocked his face from the surveillance cameras.

The woman spoke louder, wanting the other people in line to hear.

“I have things to do. I can’t spend all day in this bank.”

Her manner was drawing attention. Everything about her drew attention. She was a large woman wearing a brilliant purple muumuu, orange nails, and an enormous shock of frizzy hair. Holman crossed his arms without responding and tried to become invisible. He was wearing a faded Tommy Bahama beachcomber’s shirt, cream-colored Armani slacks, sandals, and a Santa Monica Pier cap pulled low over his eyes. He was also wearing sunglasses, but so were half the people in line. This was L.A.

The woman harrumphed again.

“Well, finally. It’s about time.”

An older man with pickled skin in a pink shirt moved to a teller. The large woman went next, and then it was Holman’s turn. He tried to even his breathing, and hoped the tellers couldn’t see the way he was sweating.

“Sir, I can help you over here.”

The teller at the end of the row was a brisk woman with tight features, too much makeup, and rings on her thumbs. Holman shuffled to the window and stood as close as he could. He was carrying a sheet of paper folded in half around a small brown paper bag. He put the note and the bag on the counter in front of her. The note was composed of words he had clipped from a magazine. He waited for her to read it.

THIS IS A ROBBERY

PUT YOUR CASH IN

THE BAG

Holman spoke softly so his voice wouldn’t carry.

“No dye packs. Just give me the money and everything’s cool.”

Her tight features hardened even more. She stared at him and Holman stared back; then she wet her lips and opened her cash drawer. Holman glanced at the clock behind her. He figured she had already pressed a silent alarm with her foot and the bank’s security company had been alerted. An ex-con Holman knew cautioned him you only had two minutes to get the cash and get out of the bank. Two minutes wasn’t long, but it had been long enough eight times before.

FBI Special Agent Katherine Pollard stood in the parking lot of the Ralphs Market in Studio City sweating in the afternoon sun. Bill Cecil, in the passenger seat of their anonymous beige g-ride, called out to her.

“You’re gonna get heatstroke.”

“All this sitting is killing me.”

They had been in the parking lot since eight-thirty that morning, a half hour before the banks in the area opened for business. Pollard’s butt was killing her, so she got out of the car every twenty minutes or so to stretch her muscles. When she got out, she left the driver’s-side window down to monitor the two radios on her front seat even though Cecil remained in the car. Cecil was the senior agent, but he was only on hand to assist. The Beach Bum Bandit was Pollard’s case.

Pollard bent deep at the hips, touching her toes. Pollard hated stretching in public with her big ass, but they had been hovering in the Ralphs lot for three days, praying the Beach Bum would strike again. Leeds had dubbed this one the Beach Bum Bandit because he wore sandals and a Hawaiian shirt, and had shaggy hair pulled back into a ponytail.

A voice crackled from one of the radios.

“Pollard?”

Cecil said, “Hey, lady, that’s the boss.”

It was Leeds on the FBI channel.

Pollard dropped into her car and scooped up the radio.

“Hey, boss, I’m up.”

“LAPD wants their people on something else. I agree. I’m pulling the plug on this.”

Pollard glanced at Cecil, but he only shrugged and shook his head. Pollard had been dreading this moment. Forty-two known serial bank robbers were operating in the city. Many of them used violence and guns, and most of them had robbed way more banks than the Beach Bum.

“Boss, he’s going to hit one of my banks. Every day he hasn’t drives up the odds that he will. We just need a little more time.”

Pollard had patterned most of the serial bandits operating in Los Angeles. She believed the Beach Bum’s pattern was more obvious than most. The banks he hit all were located at major surface intersections and had easy access to two freeways; none employed security guards, Plexiglas barriers, or bandit-trap entry doors; and all of his robberies had followed a progressive counterclockwise route along the L.A. freeway system. Pollard believed his next target would be near the Ventura/Hollywood split, and had identified six banks as likely targets. The rolling stakeout she now oversaw covered those six banks.

Leeds said, “He isn’t important enough. LAPD wants their people on gunslingers and I can’t afford to have you and Cecil tied up any longer, either. The Rock Stars hit in Torrance today.”

Pollard felt her heart sink. The Rock Stars were a takeover crew who got their name because one of them sang during their robberies. It sounded silly until you knew the singer was stoned out of his mind and strumming a MAC-10 machine pistol. The Rock Stars had killed two people during sixteen robberies.

Cecil took the radio.

“Give the girl one more day, boss. She’s earned it.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s done, Katherine. The plug has been pulled.”

Pollard was trying to decide what else to say when the second radio popped to life. The second radio was linked with Jay Dugan, the LAPD surveillance team leader assigned to the stakeout.

“Two-eleven in progress at First United. It’s going down.”

Pollard dropped the FBI radio into Cecil’s lap and snatched up her stopwatch. She hit the timer button, started her car, then radioed back to Dugan.

“Time on the lead?”

“Minute thirty plus ten. We’re rolling.”

Cecil was already filling in Leeds.

“It’s happening, Chris. We’re rolling out now. Go, lady-drive this thing.”

The First United California Bank was only four blocks away, but the traffic was heavy. The Beach Bum had at least a ninety-second jump on them and might already be exiting the bank.

Pollard dropped her car into gear and jerked into the traffic.

“Time out, Jay?”

“We’re six blocks out. Gonna be close.”

Pollard steered through traffic with one hand, blowing her horn. She drove hard toward the bank, praying they would get there in time.

Holman watched the teller empty her drawers one by one into the bag. She was stalling.

“Faster.”

She picked up the pace.

Holman glanced at the time and smiled. The second hand swept through seventy seconds. He would be out in less than two minutes.

The teller pushed the last of the cash into the bag. She was being careful not to make eye contact with the other tellers. When the last of the cash was in the bag, she waited for his instructions.

Holman said, “Cool. Just slide it across to me. Don’t shout and don’t tell anyone until I’m out the door.”

She slid the bag toward him exactly as Holman wanted, but that’s when the bank manager brought over a credit slip. The manager saw the paper bag and the teller’s expression, and that was all she needed to know. She froze. She didn’t scream or try to stop him, but Holman could tell she was scared.

He said, “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be okay.”

“Take it and go. Please don’t hurt anyone.”

The old man in the pink shirt had finished his transaction. He was passing behind Holman when the manager asked Holman not to hurt anyone. The old man turned to see what was happening and, like the manager, realized that the bank was being robbed. Unlike the manager, he shouted-

“We’re being robbed!”

His face turned bright red, then he clutched his chest and made an agonized gurgle.

Holman said, “Hey.”

The old man stumbled backwards and fell. When he hit the floor his eyes rolled and the gurgle turned into a fading sigh.

The loud woman in the muumuu screamed, “Oh my God!”

Holman snatched up the money and started toward the door, but no one was moving to help the old man.

The large woman said, “I think he’s dead! Someone call nine-one-one! I think he’s dead!”

Holman ran to the door, but then he looked back again. The old man’s red face was now dark purple and he was motionless. Holman knew the old man had suffered a heart attack.

Holman said, “Goddamnit, don’t any of you people know CPR? Someone help him!”

No one moved.

Holman knew the time was slipping away. He was already over the two-minute mark and falling farther behind. He turned back toward the door, but he just couldn’t do it. No one was trying to help.

Holman ran back to the old man, dropped to the ground, and went to work saving his life. Holman was still blowing into the old man’s mouth when a woman with a gun ran into the bank, followed by this inhumanly wide bald guy. The woman identified herself as an FBI agent and told Holman he was under arrest.

Between breaths, Holman said, “You want me to stop?”

The woman then lowered her gun.

“No,” she said. “You’re doing fine.”

Holman kept up the CPR until the ambulance arrived. He had violated the two minute rule by three minutes and forty-six seconds.

The old man survived.