The Two Minute Rule

1

“YOU’RE NOT TOO OLD. Forty-six isn’t old, these days. You got a world of time to make a life for yourself.”

Holman didn’t answer. He was trying to decide how best to pack. Everything he owned was spread out on the bed, all neatly folded: four white T-shirts, three Hanes briefs, four pairs of white socks, two short-sleeved shirts (one beige, one plaid), one pair of khaki pants, plus the clothes he had been wearing when he was arrested for bank robbery ten years, three months, and four days ago.

“Max, you listening?”

“I gotta get this stuff packed. Lemme ask you something-you think I should keep my old stuff, from before? I don’t know as I’ll ever get into those pants.”

Wally Figg, who ran the Community Correctional Center, which was kind of a halfway house for federal prisoners, stepped forward to eye the pants. He picked them up and held them next to Holman. The cream-colored slacks still bore scuff marks from when the police had wrestled Holman to the floor in the First United California Bank ten years plus three months ago. Wally admired the material.

“That’s a nice cut, man. What is it, Italian?”

“Armani.”

Wally nodded, impressed.

“I’d keep’m, I was you. Be a shame to lose something this nice.”

“I got four inches more in the waist now than back then.”

In the day, Holman had lived large. He stole cars, hijacked trucks, and robbed banks. Fat with fast cash, he hoovered up crystal meth for breakfast and Maker’s Mark for lunch, so jittery from dope and hung over from booze he rarely bothered to eat. He had gained weight in prison.

Wally refolded the pants.

“Was me, I’d keep’m. You’ll get yourself in shape again. Give yourself something to shoot for, gettin’ back in these pants.”

Holman tossed them to Wally. Wally was smaller.

“Better to leave the past behind.”

Wally admired the slacks, then looked sadly at Holman.

“You know I can’t. We can’t accept anything from the residents. I’ll pass’m along to one of the other guys, you want. Or give’m to Goodwill.”

“Whatever.”

“You got a preference, who I should give’m to?”

“No, whoever.”

“Okay. Sure.”

Holman went back to staring at his clothes. His suitcase was an Albertsons grocery bag. Technically, Max Holman was still incarcerated, but in another hour he would be a free man. You finish a federal stretch, they don’t just cross off the last X and cut you loose; being released from federal custody happened in stages. They started you off with six months in an Intensive Confinement Center where you got field trips into the outside world, behavioral counseling, additional drug counseling if you needed it, that kind of thing, after which you graduated to a Community Correctional Center where they let you live and work in a community with real live civilians. In the final stages of his release program, Holman had spent the past three months at the CCC in Venice, California, a beach community sandwiched between Santa Monica and Marina del Rey, preparing himself for his release. As of today, Holman would be released from full-time federal custody into what was known as supervised release-he would be a free man for the first time in ten years.

Wally said, “Well, okay, I’m gonna go get the papers together. I’m proud of you, Max. This is a big day. I’m really happy for you.”

Holman layered his clothes in the bag. With the help of his Bureau of Prisons release supervisor, Gail Manelli, he had secured a room in a resident motel and a job; the room would cost sixty dollars a week, the job would pay a hundred seventy-two fifty after taxes. A big day.

Wally clapped him on the back.

“I’ll be in the office whenever you’re ready to go. Hey, you know what I did, kind of a going-away present?”

Holman glanced at him.

“What?”

Wally slipped a business card from his pocket and gave it to Holman. The card showed a picture of an antique timepiece. Salvadore Jimenez, repairs, fine watches bought and sold, Culver City, California. Wally explained as Holman read the card.

“My wife’s cousin has this little place. He fixes watches. I figured maybe you havin’ a job and all, you’d want to get your old man’s watch fixed. You want to see Sally, you lemme know, I’ll make sure he gives you a price.”

Holman slipped the card into his pocket. He wore a cheap Timex with an expandable band that hadn’t worked in twenty years. In the day, Holman had worn an eighteen-thousand-dollar Patek Philippe he stole from a car fence named Oscar Reyes. Reyes had tried to short him on a stolen Carrera, so Holman had choked the sonofabitch until he passed out. But that was then. Now, Holman wore the Timex even though its hands were frozen. The Timex had belonged to his father.

“Thanks, Wally, thanks a lot. I was going to do that.”

“A watch that don’t keep time ain’t much good to you.”

“I have something in mind for it, so this will help.”

“You let me know. I’ll make sure he gives you a price.”

“Sure. Thanks. Let me get packed up here, okay?”

Wally left as Holman returned to his packing. He had the clothes, three hundred twelve dollars that he had earned during his incarceration, and his father’s watch. He did not have a car or a driver’s license or friends or family to pick him up upon his release. Wally was going to give him a ride to his motel. After that, Holman would be on his own with the Los Angeles public transportation system and a watch that didn’t work.

Holman went to his bureau for the picture of his son. Richie’s picture was the first thing he had put in the room here at the CCC, and it would be the last thing he packed when he left. It showed his son at the age of eight, a gap-toothed kid with a buzz cut, dark skin, and serious eyes; his child’s body already thickening with Holman’s neck and shoulders. The last time Holman actually saw the boy was his son’s twelfth birthday, Holman flush with cash from flipping two stolen Corvettes in San Diego, showing up blind drunk a day too late, the boy’s mother, Donna, taking the two thousand he offered too little too late by way of the child support he never paid and on which he was always behind. Donna had sent him the old picture during his second year of incarceration, a guilty spasm because she wouldn’t bring the boy to visit Holman in prison, wouldn’t let the boy speak to Holman on the phone, and wouldn’t pass on Holman’s letters, such as they were, however few and far between, keeping the boy out of Holman’s life. Holman no longer blamed her for that. She had done all right by the boy with no help from him. His son had made something of himself, and Holman was goddamned proud of that.

Holman placed the picture flat into the bag, then covered it with the remaining clothes to keep it safe. He glanced around the room. It didn’t look so very different than it had an hour ago before he started.

He said, “Well, I guess that’s it.”

He told himself to leave, but didn’t. He sat on the side of the bed instead. It was a big day, but the weight of it left him feeling heavy. He was going to get settled in his new room, check in with his release supervisor, then try to find Donna. It had been two years since her last note, not that she had ever written all that much anyway, but the five letters he had written to her since had all been returned, no longer at this address. Holman figured she had gotten married, and the new guy probably didn’t want her convicted-felon boyfriend messing in their life. Holman didn’t blame her for that, either. They had never married, but they did have the boy together and that had to be worth something even if she hated him. Holman wanted to apologize and let her know he had changed. If she had a new life, he wanted to wish her well with it, then get on with his. Eight or nine years ago when he thought about this day he saw himself running out the goddamned door, but now he just sat on the bed. Holman was still sitting when Wally came back.

“Max?”

Wally stood in the door like he was scared to come in. His face was pale and he kept wetting his lips.

Holman said, “What’s wrong? Wally, you having a heart attack, what?”

Wally closed the door. He glanced at a little notepad like something was on it he didn’t have right. He was visibly shaken.

“Wally, what?”

“You have a son, right? Richie?”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“What’s his full name?”

“Richard Dale Holman.”

Holman stood. He didn’t like the way Wally was fidgeting and licking his lips.

“You know I have a boy. You’ve seen his picture.”

“He’s a kid.”

“He’d be twenty-three now. He’s twenty-three. Why you want to know about this?”

“Max, listen, is he a police officer? Here in L.A.?”

“That’s right.”

Wally came over and touched Holman’s arm with fingers as light as a breath.

“It’s bad, Max. I have some bad news now and I want you to get ready for it.”

Wally searched Holman’s eyes as if he wanted a sign, so Holman nodded.

“Okay, Wally. What?”

“He was killed last night. I’m sorry, man. I’m really, really sorry.”

Holman heard the words; he saw the pain in Wally’s eyes and felt the concern in Wally’s touch, but Wally and the room and the world left Holman behind like one car pulling away from another on a flat desert highway, Holman hitting the brakes, Wally hitting the gas, Holman watching the world race away.

Then he caught up and fought down an empty, terrible ache.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know, Max. There was a call from the Bureau of Prisons when I went for your papers. They didn’t have much to say. They wasn’t even sure it was you or if you were still here.”

Holman sat down again and this time Wally sat beside him. Holman had wanted to look up his son after he spoke with Donna. That last time he saw the boy, just two months before Holman was pinched in the bank gig, the boy had told him to fuck off, running alongside the car as Holman drove away, eyes wet and bulging, screaming that Holman was a loser, screaming fuck off, you loser. Holman still dreamed about it. Now here they were and Holman was left with the empty sense that everything he had been moving to for the past ten years had come to a drifting stop like a ship that had lost its way.

Wally said, “You want to cry, it’s okay.”

Holman didn’t cry. He wanted to know who did it.

Dear Max,

I am writing because I want you to know that Richard has made something of himself despite your bad blood. Richard has joined the police department. This past Sunday he graduated at the police academy by Dodger stadium and it was really something. The mayor spoke and helicopters flew so low. Richard is now a police officer. He is strong and good and not like you. I am so proud of him. He looked so handsome. I think this is his way of proving there is no truth to that old saying “like father like son.”

Donna

This was the last letter Holman received, back when he was still at Lompoc. Holman remembered getting to the part where she wrote there was no truth about being like father like son, and what he felt when he read those words wasn’t embarrassment or shame; he felt relief. He remembered thinking, thank God, thank God.

He wrote back, but the letters were returned. He wrote to his son care of the Los Angeles Police Department, just a short note to congratulate the boy, but never received an answer. He didn’t know if Richie received the letter or not. He didn’t want to force himself on the boy. He had not written again.

2

“WHAT SHOULD I DO?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know what to do about this. Is there someone I’m supposed to see? Something I’m supposed to do?”

Holman had served a total of nine months juvenile time before he was seventeen years old. His first adult time came when he was eighteen-six months for grand theft auto. This was followed by sixteen months of state time for burglary, then three years for a stacked count of robbery and breaking and entering. Altogether, Holman had spent one-third of his adult life in state and federal facilities. He was used to people telling him what to do and where to do it. Wally seemed to read his confusion.

“You go on with what you were doing, I guess. He was a policeman. Jesus, you never said he was a policeman. That’s intense.”

“What about the arrangements?”

“I don’t know. I guess the police do that.”

Holman tried to imagine what responsible people did at times like this, but he had no experience. His mother had died when he was young and his father had died when Holman was serving the first burglary stretch. He had nothing to do with burying them.

“They sure it’s the same Richie Holman?”

“You want to see one of the counselors? We could get someone in here.”

“I don’t need a counselor, Wally. I want to know what happened. You tell me my boy was killed, I want to know things. You can’t just tell a man his boy was killed and let it go with that. Jesus Christ.”

Wally made a patting gesture with his hands, trying to keep Holman calm, but Holman didn’t feel upset. He didn’t know what else to do or what to say or have anyone to say it to except Wally.

Holman said, “Jesus, Donna must be devastated. I’d better talk to her.”

“Okay. Can I help with that?”

“I don’t know. The police gotta know how to reach her. If they called me they would’ve called her.”

“Let me see what I can find out. I told Gail I’d get back to her after I saw you. She was the one got the call from the police.”

Gail Manelli was a businesslike young woman with no sense of humor, but Holman liked her.

“Okay, Wally,” Holman said. “Sure.”

Wally spoke with Gail, who told them Holman could obtain additional information from Richie’s commander at the Devonshire Station up in Chatsworth, where Richie worked. Twenty minutes later Wally drove Holman north out of Venice on the 405 and into the San Fernando Valley. The trip took almost thirty minutes. They parked outside a clean, flat building that looked more like a modern suburban library than a police station. The air tasted like pencil lead. Holman had resided at the CCC for twelve weeks, but had not been outside of Venice, which always had great air because it was on the water. Living on a short leash like that, cons in transition called it being on the farm. Cons in transition were called transitionary inmates. There were names for everything when you were in the system.

Wally got out of the car like he was stepping into soup.

“Jesus, it’s hotter’n hell up here.”

Holman didn’t say anything. He liked the heat, enjoying the way it warmed his skin.

They identified themselves at the reception desk and asked for Captain Levy. Levy, Gail said, had been Richie’s commanding officer. Holman had been arrested by the Los Angeles Police Department on a dozen occasions, but had never seen the Devonshire Station before. The institutional lighting and austere government decor left him with the sense that he had been here before and would be again. Police stations, courts, and penal institutions had been a part of Holman’s life since he was fourteen years old. They felt normal. His counselors in prison had drummed it home that career criminals like Holman had difficulty going straight because crime and the penalties of crime were a normal part of their lives-the criminal lost his fear of the penalties of his actions. Holman knew this to be true. Here he was surrounded by people with guns and badges, and he didn’t feel a thing. He was disappointed. He thought he might feel afraid or at least apprehensive, but he might as well have been standing in a Ralphs market.

A uniformed officer about Holman’s age came out, and the desk officer waved them over. He had short silvery hair and stars on his shoulders, so Holman took him for Levy. He looked at Wally.

“Mr. Holman?”

“No, I’m Walter Figg, with the CCC.”

“I’m Holman.”

“Chip Levy. I was Richard’s commander. If you’ll come with me I’ll tell you what I can.”

Levy was a short, compact guy who looked like an aging gymnast. He shook Holman’s hand, and it was then Holman noticed he was wearing a black armband. So were the two officers seated behind the desk and another officer who was push-pinning flyers into a bulletin board: Summer Sports Camp!! Sign up your kids!!

“I just want to know what happened. I need to find out about the arrangements, I guess.”

“Here, step around through the gate. We’ll have some privacy.”

Wally waited in the reception area. Holman went through the metal detector, then followed Levy along a hall and into an interview room. Another uniformed officer was already waiting inside, this one wearing sergeant’s stripes. He stood when they entered.

Levy said, “This is Dale Clark. Dale, this is Richard’s father.”

Clark took Holman’s hand in a firm grip, and held on longer than Holman found comfortable. Unlike Levy, Clark seemed to study him.

“I was Richard’s shift supervisor. He was an outstanding young man. The best.”

Holman muttered a thanks, but didn’t know what to say past that; it occurred to him that these men had known and worked with his son, while he knew absolutely nothing about the boy. Realizing this left him feeling uncertain how to act, and he wished Wally was with him.

Levy asked him to take a seat at a small table. Every police officer who ever questioned Holman had hidden behind a veneer of distance, as if whatever Holman said was of no importance. Holman had long ago realized their eyes appeared distant because they were thinking; they were trying to figure out how to play him in order to get at the truth. Levy looked no different.

“Can we get you some coffee?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Water or a soft drink?”

“No, uh-uh.”

Levy settled across from him and folded his hands together on the table. Clark took a seat to the side on Holman’s left. Where Levy tipped forward to rest his forearms on the table, Clark leaned back with his arms crossed.

Levy said, “All right. Before we proceed I need to see some identification.”

Right away, Holman felt they were jacking him up. The Bureau of Prisons had told them he was coming, and here they were asking for his ID.

“Didn’t Ms. Manelli talk to you?”

“It’s just a formality. When something like this happens, we have people walking in off the street claiming to be related. They’re usually trying to float some kind of insurance scam.”

Holman felt himself redden even as he reached for his papers.

“I’m not looking for anything.”

Levy said, “It’s just a formality. Please.”

Holman showed them his release document and his government-issued identity card. Realizing that many inmates had no form of identification upon release, the government provided a picture ID similar to a driver’s license. Levy glanced at the card, then returned it.

“Okay, fine. I’m sorry you had to find out the way you did-through the Bureau of Prisons-but we didn’t know about you.”

“What does that mean?”

“You weren’t listed in the officer’s personnel file. Where it says ‘father,’ Richard had written ‘unknown.’”

Holman felt himself redden even more deeply, but stared back at Clark. Clark was pissing him off. It was guys like Clark who had been busting his balls for most of his life.

“If you didn’t know I existed, how did you find me?”

“Richard’s wife.”

Holman took it in. Richie was married, and neither Richie nor Donna had told him. Levy and Clark must have been able to read him because Levy cleared his throat.

“How long have you been incarcerated?”

“Ten years. I’m at the end of it now. I start supervised release today.”

Clark said, “What were you in for?”

“Banks.”

“Uh-huh, so you’ve had no recent contact with your son?”

Holman cursed himself for glancing away.

“I was hoping to get back in touch now that I’m out.”

Clark made a thoughtful nod.

“You could’ve called him from the correction center, couldn’t you? They give you guys plenty of freedom.”

“I didn’t want to call while I was still in custody. If he wanted to get together I didn’t want to have to ask permission. I wanted him to see me free with the prison behind me.”

Now it was Levy who seemed embarrassed, so Holman pushed ahead with his questions.

“Can you tell me how Richie’s mother is doing? I want to make sure she’s okay.”

Levy glanced at Clark, who took his cue to answer.

“We notified Richard’s wife. Our first responsibility was her, you understand, her being his spouse? If she notified his mother or anyone else she didn’t tell us, but that was up to her. It was Mrs. Holman-Richard’s wife-who told us about you. She wasn’t sure where you were housed, so we contacted the Bureau of Prisons.”

Levy took over.

“We’ll bring you up to date with what we know. It isn’t much. Robbery-Homicide is handling the case out of Parker Center. All we know at this point is that Richard was one of four officers murdered early this morning. We believe the killings were some sort of ambush, but we don’t know that at this time.”

Clark said, “Approximately one-fifty. A little before two is when it happened.”

Levy continued on as if he didn’t mind Clark’s intrusion.

“Two of the officers were on duty, and two were off-Richard was not on duty. They were gathered together in-”

Holman interrupted.

“So they weren’t killed in a shoot-out or anything like that?”

“If you’re asking whether or not they were in a gun battle we don’t know, but the reports I have don’t indicate that to be the case. They were gathered together in an informal setting. I don’t know how graphic I should be-”

“I don’t need graphic. I just want to know what happened.”

“The four officers were taking a break together-that’s what I meant by informal. They were out of their cars, their weapons were holstered, and none of them radioed that a crime was in progress or a situation was developing. We believe the weapon or weapons used were shotguns.”

“Jesus.”

“Understand, this happened only a few hours ago. The task force has just been formed, and detectives are working right now to figure out what happened. We’ll keep you informed on the developments, but right now we just don’t know. The investigation is developing.”

Holman shifted, and his chair made a tiny squeal.

“Do you know who did it? You have a suspect?”

“Not at this time.”

“So someone just shot him, like when he was looking the other way? In the back? I’m just trying to, I don’t know, picture it, I guess.”

“We don’t know any more, Mr. Holman. I know you have questions. Believe me, we have questions, too. We’re still trying to sort it out.”

Holman felt as if he didn’t know any more than when he arrived. The harder he tried to think, the more he saw the boy running alongside his car, calling him a loser.

“Did he suffer?”

Levy hesitated.

“I drove down to the crime scene this morning when I got the call. Richard was one of my guys. Not the other three, but Richard was one of us here at Devonshire so I had to go see. I don’t know, Mr. Holman-I want to tell you he didn’t. I want to think he didn’t even see it coming, but I don’t know.”

Holman watched Levy and appreciated the man’s honesty. He felt a coldness in his chest, but he had felt that coldness before.

“I should know about the burial. Is there anything I need to do?”

Clark said, “The department will take care of that with his widow. Right now, no date has been set. We don’t yet know when they’ll be released from the coroner.”

“All right, sure, I understand. Could I have her number? I’d like to talk to her.”

Clark shifted backwards, and Levy once more laced his fingers on the table.

“I can’t give you her number. If you give us your information, we’ll pass it on to her and tell her you’d like to speak with her. That way, if she wants to contact you, it’s her choice.”

“I just want to talk to her.”

“I can’t give you her number.”

Clark said, “It’s a privacy issue. Our first obligation is to the officer’s family.”

“I’m his father.”

“Not according to his personnel file.”

There it was. Holman wanted to say more, but he told himself to take it easy, just like when he was inside and another con tried to front him. You had to get along.

Holman looked at the floor.

“Okay. I understand.”

“If she wants to call, she will. You see how it is.”

“Sure.”

Holman couldn’t remember the number at the motel where he would be living. Levy walked him out to the reception area where Wally gave them the number, and Levy promised to call when they knew something more. Holman thanked him for his time. Getting along.

When Levy was heading back inside, Holman stopped him.

“Captain?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Was my son a good officer?”

Levy nodded.

“Yes, sir. Yes, he was. He was a fine young man.”

Holman watched Levy walk away.

Wally said, “What did they say?”

Holman turned away without answering and walked out to the car. He watched police officers entering and leaving the building as he waited for Wally to catch up. He looked up at the heavy blue sky and at the nearby mountains to the north. He tried to feel like a free man, but he felt like he was still up in Lompoc. Holman decided that was okay. He had spent much of his life in prison. He knew how to get along in prison just fine.

3

HOLMAN’S NEW HOME was a three-story building one block off Washington Boulevard in Culver City, sandwiched between the Smooth Running Transmission Repair Service and a convenience store protected by iron bars. The Pacific Gardens Motel Apartments had been one of six housing suggestions on a list Gail Manelli provided when it was time for Holman to find a place to live. It was clean, cheap, and located on a no-transfer bus route Holman could use to get to his job.

Wally pulled up outside the front entrance and turned off his car. They had stopped by the CCC so Holman could sign his papers and pick up his things. Holman was now officially on supervised release. He was free.

Wally said, “This isn’t any way to start, man, not your first day back with news like this. Listen to me-if you want a few more days at the house you can stay. We can talk this out. You can see one of the counselors.”

Holman opened the door but didn’t get out. He knew Wally was worried about him.

“I’ll get settled, then I’ll call Gail. I still want to get to the DMV today. I want to get a car as soon as I can.”

“It’s a blow, man, this news. Here you are back in the world, and already you have this to deal with. Don’t let it beat you, man. Don’t yield to the dark side.”

“No one’s going to yield.”

Wally searched Holman’s eyes for some kind of reassurance, so Holman tried to look reassuring. Wally didn’t seem to buy it.

“You’re going to have dark times, Max-black moments like you’re trapped in a box with the air running out. You’ll pass a hundred liquor stores and bars, and they’re going to prey on your mind. If you feel weak, you call me.”

“I’m okay, Wally. You don’t have to worry.”

“Just remember you have people pulling for you. Not everyone would’ve went down the way you went down, and that shows you got a strong natural character. You’re a good man, Max.”

“I gotta go, Wally. There’s a lot to do.”

Wally put out his hand.

“I’m a call away, twenty-four seven.”

“Thanks, bro.”

Holman took his bag of clothes from the back seat, climbed out of the car, and waved as Wally drove away. Holman had arranged for one of the eight studio apartments at the Pacific Gardens. Five of the six other tenants were civilians, and one, like Holman, was on supervised release. Holman wondered if the civilians got a break on rent for living with criminals. Holman figured they were probably Section Eight Housing recipients and lucky to have a roof over their heads.

Something wet hit Holman’s neck and he glanced up. The Pacific Gardens didn’t have central air. Window units hung over the sidewalk, dripping water. More water hit Holman on the face, and this time he stepped to the side.

The manager was an elderly black man named Perry Wilkes, who waved when he saw Holman enter. Even though the Pacific Gardens called itself a motel, it didn’t have a front desk like a real motel. Perry owned the building and lived in the only ground-floor apartment. He manned a desk that filled a cramped corner of the entry so he could keep an eye on the people who came and left.

Perry glanced at Holman’s bag.

“Hey. That all your stuff?”

“Yeah, this is it.”

“Okay then, you’re officially a resident. You get two keys. These are real metal keys, so if you lose one you’re gonna lose your key deposit.”

Holman had already filled out the rental agreement and paid his rent two weeks in advance along with a one-hundred-dollar cleaning fee and a six-dollar key deposit. When Holman first looked at the place, Perry had lectured him on noise, late-night doings, smoking pot or cigars in the rooms, and making sure his rent was paid on time, which meant exactly two weeks in advance on the dot. Everything was set so all Holman had to do was show up and move in, which is the way Gail Manelli and the Bureau of Prisons liked it.

Perry took a set of keys from his center drawer and handed them to Holman.

“This is for two-oh-six, right at the top in front here. I got one other empty right now up on the third floor in back, but you look at two-oh-six first-it’s the nicest. If you want to see the other I’ll let you take your pick.”

“This is one of the rooms looking at the street?”

“That’s right. In front here right at the top. Set you up with a nice little view.”

“Those air conditioners drip water on people walking past.”

“I’ve heard that before and I didn’t give a shit then, either.”

Holman went up to see his room. It was a simple studio with dingy yellow walls, a shopworn double bed, and two stuffed chairs covered in a threadbare floral print. Holman had a private bath and what Perry called a kitchenette, which was a single-burner hot plate sitting on top of a half-size refrigerator. Holman put his bag of clothes at the foot of the bed, then opened the refrigerator. It was empty, but gleamed with cleanliness and a fresh bright light. The bathroom was clean, too, and smelled of Pine-Sol. Holman cupped his hand under the tap and drank, then looked at himself in the mirror. He had worked up a couple of mushy bags under his eyes and crow’s-feet at the corners. His short hair was dusty with grey. He couldn’t remember ever looking at himself up at Lompoc. He didn’t look like a kid anymore and probably never had. He felt like a mummy rising from the dead.

Holman rinsed his face in the cool water, but realized too late that he had no towels and nothing with which to dry himself, so he wiped away the water with his hands and left the bathroom wet.

He sat on the edge of his bed and dug through his wallet for phone numbers, then called Gail Manelli.

“It’s Holman. I’m in the room.”

“Max. I am so sorry to hear about your son. How are you doing?”

“I’m dealing. It’s not like we were close.”

“He was still your son.”

A silence developed because Holman didn’t know what to say. Finally he said something because he knew she wanted him to.

“I just have to keep my eye on the ball.”

“That’s right. You’ve come a long way and now is no time to backslide. Have you spoken to Tony yet?”

Tony was Holman’s new boss, Tony Gilbert, at the Harding Sign Company. Holman had been a part-time employee for the past eight weeks, training for a full-time position that he would begin tomorrow.

“No, not yet. I just got up to the room. Wally took me up to Chatsworth.”

“I know. I just spoke with him. Were the officers able to tell you anything?”

“They didn’t know anything.”

“I’ve been listening to the news stories. It’s just terrible, Max. I’m so sorry.”

Holman glanced around his new room, but saw he had no television or radio.

“I’ll have to check it out.”

“Were the police helpful? Did they treat you all right?”

“They were fine.”

“All right, now listen-if you need a day or two off because of this, I can arrange it.”

“I’d rather jump on the job. I think getting busy would be good.”

“If you change your mind, just let me know.”

“Listen, I want to get to the DMV. It’s getting late and I’m not sure of the bus route. I gotta get the license so I can start driving again.”

“All right, Max. Now you know you can call me anytime. You have my office and my pager.”

“Listen, I really want to get to the DMV.”

“I’m sorry you had to start with this terrible news.”

“Thanks, Gail. Me, too.”

When Gail finally hung up Holman picked up his bag of clothes. He removed the top layer of shirts, then fished out the picture of his son. He stared at Richie’s face. Holman, not wanting to pock the boy’s head with pinholes, had fashioned a frame out of maple scraps in the Lompoc woodworking shop and fixed the picture to a piece of cardboard with carpenter’s glue. They wouldn’t let inmates have glass in prison. You had glass, you could make a weapon. Broken glass, you could kill yourself or someone else. Holman set the picture on the little table between the two ugly chairs, then went downstairs to find Perry at his desk.

Perry was tipped back in his chair, almost like he was waiting for Holman to turn the corner from the stairs. He was.

Perry said, “You have to lock the deadbolt when you leave. I could hear you didn’t lock the deadbolt. This isn’t the CCC. You don’t lock your room, someone might steal your stuff.”

Holman hadn’t even thought to lock his door.

“That’s a good tip. After so many years, you forget.”

“I know.”

“Listen, I need some towels up there.”

“I didn’t leave any?”

“No.”

“You look in the closet? Up on the shelf?”

Holman resisted his instinct to ask why towels would be in the closet and not in the bathroom.

“No, I didn’t think to look in there. I’ll check it out. I’d like a television, too. Can you help me with that?”

“We don’t have cable.”

“Just a TV.”

“Might have one if I can find it. Cost you an extra eight dollars a month, plus another sixty security deposit.”

Holman didn’t have much of a nest egg. He could manage the extra eight a month, but the security deposit would bite pretty deep into his available cash. He figured he would need that cash for other things.

“That sounds steep, the security deposit.”

Perry shrugged.

“You throw a bottle through it, what do I have? Look, I know it’s a lot of money. Go to one of these discount places. You can pick up a brand-new set for eighty bucks. They make’m in Korea with slave labor and damn near give’m away. It’ll be more up front, but you won’t have to pay the eight a month and you’ll have a better picture, too. These old sets I have are kind of fuzzy.”

Holman didn’t have time to waste shopping for a Korean television.

He said, “You’ll give back the sixty when I give back the set?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, hook me up. I’ll give it back to you when I get one of my own.”

“That’s what you want, you got it.”

Holman went next door to the convenience store for a Times. He bought a carton of chocolate milk to go with the paper and read the newspaper’s story about the murders while standing on the sidewalk.

Sergeant Mike Fowler, a twenty-six-year veteran, had been the senior officer at the scene. He was survived by a wife and four children. Officers Patrick Mellon and Charles Wallace Ash had eight and six years on the job, respectively. Mellon was survived by a wife and two small children; Ash was unmarried. Holman studied their pictures. Fowler had a thin face and papery skin. Mellon was a dark man with a wide brow and heavy features who looked like he enjoyed kicking ass. Ash was his opposite with chipmunk cheeks, wispy hair so blond it was almost white, and nervous eyes. The last of the officers pictured was Richie. Holman had never seen an adult picture of his son. The boy had Holman’s lean face and thin mouth. Holman realized his son had the same hardened expression he had seen on jailbirds who had lived ragged lives that left them burned at the edges. Holman suddenly felt angry and responsible. He folded the page to hide his son’s face, then continued reading.

The article described the crime scene much as Levy described it, but contained little information beyond that. Holman was disappointed. He could tell the reporters had rushed to file their story before press time.

The officers had been parked in the L.A. River channel beneath the Fourth Street Bridge and had apparently been ambushed. Levy told Holman that all four officers had holstered weapons, but the paper reported that Officer Mellon’s weapon had been drawn, though not fired. A police spokesman confirmed that the senior officer present-Fowler-had radioed to announce he was taking a coffee break, but was not heard from again. Holman made a soft whistle-four trained police officers had been hammered so quickly that they hadn’t been able to return fire or even take cover to call for assistance. The article contained no information about the number of shots fired or how many times the officers were hit, but Holman guessed at least two shooters were involved. It would be difficult for one man to take out four officers so quickly they didn’t have time to react.

Holman was wondering why the officers were under the bridge when he read that a police spokesman denied that an open six-pack of beer had been found on one of the police cars. Holman concluded that the officers had been down there drinking, but wondered why they had chosen the riverbed for their party. Back in the day, Holman had ridden motorcycles down in the river, hanging out with dope addicts and scumbags. The concrete channel was off limits to the public, so he had climbed the fence or broken through gates with bolt-cutters. Holman thought the police might have had a passkey, but he wondered why they had gone to so much trouble just for a quiet place to drink.

Holman finished the article, then tore out Richie’s picture. His wallet was the same wallet that had been in his possession when he was arrested for the bank jobs. They returned it when Holman was transferred to the CCC, but by then everything in it was out of date. Holman had thrown away all the old stuff to make room for new. He put Richie’s picture into the wallet and walked back upstairs to his room.

Holman sat by his phone again, thinking, then finally dialed information.

“City and state, please?”

“Ah, Los Angeles. That’s in California.”

“Listing?”

“Donna Banik, B-A-N-I-K.”

“Sorry, sir. I don’t show anyone by that name.”

If Donna had married and taken another name, he didn’t know. If she had moved to another city, he didn’t know that, either.

“Let me try someone else. How about Richard Holman?”

“Sorry, sir.”

Holman thought what else he might try.

“When you say Los Angeles, is that just in the three-ten and two-one-three area codes?”

“Yes, sir. And the three-two-three.”

Holman had never even heard of the 323. He wondered how many other area codes had been added while he was away.

“Okay, how about up in Chatsworth? What is that, eight-one-eight?”

“Sorry, I show no listing in Chatsworth by that name, or anywhere else in those area codes.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Holman put down the phone, feeling irritated and anxious. He went back into his bathroom and washed his face again, then walked over to his window where he stood in front of the air conditioner. He wondered if the water from its drain was falling on anyone. He took out his wallet again. His remaining savings were tucked in the billfold. He was supposed to open savings and checking accounts to demonstrate his return to the normal world, but Gail had told him anytime in the next couple of weeks would be fine. He fished through the bills and found the corner of the envelope he had torn from Donna’s last letter. It was the address where he had written her only to have his letters returned. He studied it, then slipped it back between the bills.

When he left his room this time, he remembered to lock the deadbolt.

Perry nodded at him when he reached the bottom of the stairs.

“There you go. I heard you shoot the lock this time.”

“Perry, listen, I need to get over to the DMV and I’m running way late. You got a car I could borrow?”

Perry’s smile faded to a frown.

“You don’t even have a license.”

“I know, but I’m running late, man. You know what those lines are like. It’s almost noon.”

“Have you gone stupid already? What would you do if you got stopped? What you think Gail’s gonna say?”

“I won’t get stopped and I won’t say you loaned me a car.”

“I don’t loan shit to anyone.”

Holman watched Perry frowning, and knew he was considering it.

“I just need something for a few hours. Just to get over to the DMV. Once I start my job tomorrow it’ll be hard to get away. You know that.”

“That’s true.”

“Maybe I could work something out with one of the other tenants.”

“So you’re in a jam and you want a favor?”

“I just need the wheels.”

“I did you a favor like this, it couldn’t get back to Gail.”

“Come on, man, look at me.”

Holman spread his hands. Look at me.

Perry tipped forward in his chair, and opened the center drawer.

“Yeah, I got an old beater I’ll let you use, a Mercury. It ain’t pretty, but it’ll run. Cost is twenty, and you gotta bring it back full.”

“Jesus, that’s steep. Twenty bucks for a couple of hours?”

“Twenty. And if you get fancy and don’t bring it back, I’ll say you stole it.”

Holman passed over the twenty. He had been officially on supervised release for only four hours. It was his first violation.

4

PERRY’S MERCURY looked like a turd on wheels. It blew smoke from bad rings and had a nasty case of engine knock, so Holman spent most of the drive worried that some enterprising cop might tag him for a smog violation.

Donna’s address led to a pink stucco garden apartment in Jefferson Park, south of the Santa Monica Freeway and dead center in the flat plain of the city. It was an ugly two-story building with a parched skin bleached by an unrelenting sun. Holman felt depressed when he saw the blistered eaves and spotty shrubs. He had imagined Donna would live in a nicer place; not Brentwood or Santa Monica nice, but at least something hopeful and comforting. Donna had complained of being short of cash from time to time, but she had held steady employment as a private nurse for elderly clients. Holman wondered if Richie had helped his mother move to a better area when he got on with the cops. He figured the man that Richie had become would have done that even if it crimped his own lifestyle.

The apartment building was laid out like a long U with the open end facing the street and a shrub-lined sidewalk winding its way between twin rows of apartments. Donna had lived in apartment number 108.

The building had no security gate. Any passerby was free to walk up along the sidewalk, yet Holman couldn’t bring himself to enter the courtyard. He stood on the sidewalk with a nervous fire flickering in his stomach, telling himself he was just going to knock and ask the new tenants if they knew Donna’s current address. Entering the courtyard wasn’t illegal and knocking on a door wasn’t a violation of his release, but it was difficult to stop feeling like a criminal.

Holman finally worked up the nut and found his way to 108. He knocked on the doorjamb, immediately discouraged when no one answered. He was knocking again, a little more forcefully, when the door opened and a thin, balding man peered out. He held tight to the door, ready to push it closed, and spoke in an abrupt, clipped manner.

“You caught me working, man. What’s up?”

Holman slipped his hands into his pockets to make himself less threatening.

“I’m trying to find an old friend. Her name is Donna Banik. She used to live here.”

The man relaxed and opened the door wider. He stood like a stork with his right foot propped on his left knee, wearing baggy shorts and a faded wife-beater. He was barefoot.

“Sorry, dude. Can’t help you.”

“She lived here about two years ago, Donna Banik, dark hair, about this tall.”

“I’ve been here, what, four or five months? I don’t know who had it before me, let alone two years ago.”

Holman glanced at the surrounding apartments, thinking maybe one of the neighbors.

“You know if any of these other people were here back then?”

The pale man followed Holman’s glance, then frowned as if the notion of knowing his neighbors was disturbing.

“No, man, sorry, they come and go.”

“Okay. Sorry to bother you.”

“No problem.”

Holman turned away, then had a thought, but the man had already closed the door. Holman knocked again and the man opened right away.

Holman said, “Sorry, dude. Does the manager live here in the building?”

“Yeah, right there in number one hundred. The first apartment as you come in, on the north side.”

“What’s his name?”

“Her. She’s a woman. Mrs. Bartello.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Holman went back along the sidewalk to number one hundred, and this time he knocked without hesitation.

Mrs. Bartello was a sturdy woman who wore her grey hair pulled back tight and a shapeless house dress. She opened her door wide and stared out through the screen. Holman introduced himself and explained he was trying to find the former tenant of apartment 108, Donna Banik.

“Donna and I, we were married once, but that was a long time ago. I’ve been away and we lost track.”

Holman figured saying they were married would be easier than explaining he was the asshole who knocked Donna up, then left her to raise their son on her own.

Mrs. Bartello’s expression softened as if she recognized him, and she opened the screen.

“Oh my gosh, you must be Richard’s father, that Mr. Holman?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

Holman wondered if maybe she had seen the news about Richie’s death, but then he understood that she hadn’t and didn’t know that Richie was dead.

“Richard is such a wonderful boy. He would visit her all the time. He looks so handsome in his uniform.”

“Yes, ma’am, thanks. Can you tell me where Donna is living now?”

Her eyes softened even more.

“You don’t know?”

“I haven’t seen Richie or Donna for a long time.”

Mrs. Bartello opened the screen wider, her eyes bunching with sorrow.

“I’m sorry. You don’t know. I’m sorry. Donna passed away.”

Holman felt himself slow as if he had been drugged; as if his heart and breath and the blood in his veins were winding down like a phonograph record when you pulled the plug. First Richie, now Donna. He didn’t say anything, and Mrs. Bartello’s sorrowful eyes grew knowing.

She wedged the screen open with her ample shoulders to cross her arms.

“You didn’t know. Oh, I’m sorry, you didn’t know. I’m sorry, Mr. Holman.”

Holman felt the slowness coalesce into a kind of distant calm.

“What happened?”

“It was those cars. They drive so fast on the freeways, that’s why I hate to go anywhere.”

“She was in an auto accident?”

“She was on her way home one night. You know she worked as a nurse, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“She was on her way home. That was almost two years ago now. The way it was explained to me someone lost control of their car, and then more cars lost control, and one of them was Donna. I’m so sorry to tell you. I felt so badly for her and poor Richard.”

Holman wanted to leave. He wanted to get away from Donna’s old apartment, the place she had been driving back to when she was killed.

He said, “I need to find Richie. You know where I can find him?”

“It’s so sweet you call him Richie. When I met him he was Richard. Donna always called him Richard. He’s a policeman, you know.”

“You have his phone number?”

“Well, no, I just saw him when he came to visit, you know. I don’t think I ever had his number.”

“So you don’t know where he lives?”

“Oh, no.”

“Maybe you have Richie’s address on her rental application.”

“I’m sorry. I threw those old papers out after-well, once I had new tenants there was no reason to keep all that.”

Holman suddenly wanted to tell her that Richie was dead, too; he thought it would be the kind thing to do, her saying such kind things about both Donna and Richie, but he didn’t have the strength. He felt depleted, like he had already given all of himself and didn’t have any more to give.

Holman was about to thank her for all of it when another thought occurred to him.

“Where was she buried?”

“That was over in Baldwin Hills. The Baldwin Haven Cemetery. That was the last time I saw Richard, you know. He didn’t wear his uniform. I thought he might because he was so proud and all, but he wore a nice dark suit.”

“Did many people attend?”

Mrs. Bartello made a sad shrug.

“No. No, not so many.”

Holman walked back to Perry’s beater in a dull funk, then drove west directly into the sun, trapped in lurching rush hour traffic. It took almost forty minutes to cover the few miles back to Culver City. Holman left Perry’s car in its spot behind the motel, then entered through the front door. Perry was still at his desk, the little radio tinny with the Dodgers play-by-play. Perry turned down the volume as Holman handed him the keys.

“How was your first day of freedom?”

“It was shit.”

Perry leaned back and turned up his radio.

“Then it can only get better.”

“Anyone call for me?”

“I don’t know. You got a message machine?”

“I gave some people your number.”

“Give them your own number, not mine. Do I look like a message service?”

“A police captain named Levy and a young woman. Either of them call?”

“Nope. Not that I answered and I been here all day.”

“You set up my TV?”

“I been here all day. I’ll bring it tomorrow.”

“You got a phone book or you gotta bring it tomorrow?”

Perry lifted a phone book from behind his desk.

Holman took the phone book upstairs and looked up the Baldwin Haven Cemetery. He copied the address, then lay on the bed in his clothes, thinking about Donna. After a while he held up his father’s watch. The hands were frozen just the way they had been frozen since his father died. He pulled the knob and spun the hands. He watched them race around the dial, but he knew he was kidding himself. The hands were frozen. Time moved only for other people. Holman was trapped by his past.

5

HOLMAN ROSE EARLY the next morning and went down to the convenience store before Perry was at his desk. He bought a pint of chocolate milk, a six-pack of miniature powdered donuts, and a Times, and brought them back to his room to eat while he read the paper. The investigation into the murders was still front-page news, though today it was below the fold. The chief of police had announced that unnamed witnesses had come forward and detectives were narrowing a field of suspects. No specifics were presented except for an announcement that the city was offering a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for the arrest and conviction of the shooter. Holman suspected the cops had nothing, but were floating bullshit witnesses to bait real witnesses into making a move on the reward.

Holman ate the donuts and wished he had a television to see the morning news coverage. A lot could have happened since the paper went to bed.

Holman finished his chocolate milk, showered, then dressed for work in his one set of fresh clothes. He needed to catch the 7:10 bus to arrive at his job by eight. One bus, no changes, one long ride to his job and back again that night. Holman just had to do it every day, a single ride at a time, and he could turn his life around.

When he was ready to leave he called the Chatsworth police station, identified himself, and asked for Captain Levy. He didn’t know if Levy would be at work so early and expected to leave a message, but Levy came on the line.

“Captain, it’s Max Holman.”

“Yes, sir. I don’t have anything new to report.”

“Okay, well, I have another number I’d like you to have. I don’t have an answering machine yet, so if something comes up during the day you can reach me at work.”

Holman read off the work number.

“One other thing. Did you have a chance to talk with Richie’s wife?”

“I spoke with her, Mr. Holman.”

“I’d appreciate it if you gave her this number, too. If she tries to call me here at the motel I’m not sure I’ll get the message.”

Levy answered slowly.

“I’ll give her your work number.”

“And please tell her again that I’d like to speak with her as soon as possible.”

Holman wondered why Levy hesitated, and was about to ask if there was a problem when Levy interrupted.

“Mr. Holman, I’ll pass along this message, but I’m going to be direct with you about this situation, and you won’t like what I’m about to say.”

Levy plowed on as if it was going to be just as difficult for him to say it as for Holman to hear it.

“I was Richard’s commanding officer. I want to respect his wishes and the wishes of his widow, but I’m also a father-it wouldn’t be right to leave you waiting for something that isn’t going to happen. Richard wanted nothing to do with you. His wife, well, her world has been turned upside down. I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for her to call. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“I don’t understand. You told me she’s the one who told you about me. That’s why you called the Bureau of Prisons.”

“She thought you should know, but that doesn’t change how Richard felt. I don’t like being in this position, but there it is. Whatever was between you and your son is none of my business, but I am going to respect his wishes and that means I’m going to respect whatever his widow wants to do. I’m not a family counselor in this matter. Are we clear on that?”

Holman stared at his hand. It lay in his lap like a crab on its back, flexing to right itself.

“I stopped expecting anything a long time ago.”

“Just so you understand. I’ll pass along this new number, but I’m not going to push her. As far as you go, I am here to answer your questions about the investigation if I can and I’ll call to update you when we have something to report.”

“What about the funeral?”

Levy didn’t answer. Holman hung up without saying more, then went downstairs and was waiting in the lobby when Perry showed up.

Holman said, “I need that car again.”

“You got another twenty?”

Holman held up the bill like a middle finger and Perry scooped it away.

“Bring it back full. I’m telling you. I didn’t check last night or this morning, but I want that ride full.”

“I need the TV.”

“You look like something’s wrong. If you’re mad you didn’t have the TV last night I’m sorry, but it’s in storage. I’ll get it this morning.”

“I’m not mad about the TV.”

“Then why the face?”

“Just give me the fucking keys.”

Holman picked up Perry’s Mercury and headed south to the City of Industry. Taking the bus would have been smarter, but Holman had a lot of ground to cover. He never exceeded the speed limit and was wary of other drivers.

Holman arrived at work ten minutes early and parked on the far side of the building because he didn’t want his boss, Tony Gilbert, to see him driving. Gilbert was familiar with inmate hires, and knew Holman would not yet have his license.

Holman worked for the Harding Sign Company in a plant that printed art for Harding billboards. The art was printed on huge wallpaper-like sheets that were cut and rolled so they could be transported all over California, Nevada, and Arizona. When they reached their assigned billboards, special crews hung the rolls in huge strips and pasted them in place. During the past two months, Holman had trained part-time as a trimmer in the printing plant, which meant his job was to load five-, six-, and eight-foot-wide rolls of fabric into the printer, make sure the fabric fed square, then make sure the automatic trimmers at the end of the process made a clean cut. A moron could do it. Holman had learned the job in about two minutes, but he was lucky to have the gig and knew it.

He clocked in, then looked up Gilbert so his boss would know he had shown up on time. Gilbert was going over the day’s schedule with the printer operators, who were responsible for color-coordinating and correcting the art that would be reproduced that day. Gilbert was a short thick man with a bald crown who swaggered when he walked.

Gilbert said, “So, you’re officially a free man. Congratulations.”

Holman thanked him, but let their conversation die. He didn’t bother alerting the office receptionist or anyone else that Richie’s wife might call. After his conversation with Levy, he figured her call wouldn’t come.

Throughout the morning Holman was congratulated on making his release and welcomed as a full-time hire even though he had already been working there for two months. Holman kept an eye on the clock as he worked, anxious for the free hour he would have at lunch.

Holman took a piss break at ten minutes after eleven. While he was standing at the urinal another inmate hire named Marc Lee Pitchess took the next stall. Holman didn’t like Pitchess and had avoided him during his two-month training period.

Pitchess said, “Ten years is a long time. Welcome back.”

“You’ve been seeing me five days a week for the past two months. I haven’t been anywhere.”

“They still gonna test you?”

“Get away from me.”

“I’m just saying. I can get you a kit, you keep a little sample with you ready to go, you’ll be all set when they spring it on you, piss in a cup.”

Holman finished and stepped back from the urinal. He turned to face Pitchess, but Pitchess was staring ahead at the wall.

“Stay the fuck away from me with that shit.”

“You feel the need, I can hook you up, your basic pharmaceuticals, sleep aids, blow, X, oxy, whatever.”

Pitchess shook off and zipped, but still didn’t move. He stared at the wall. Someone had drawn a picture of a cock with a little word balloon. The cock was saying smoke this, bitch.

Pitchess said, “Just tryin’ to help a brother.”

Pitchess was still smiling when Holman walked out and looked up Gilbert.

Tony said, “How’s it going, your first day?”

“Doin’ fine. Listen, I want to ask you, I need to get to the DMV to take the test and after work is too late. Could you cut me an extra hour at lunch?”

“Don’t they open on Saturday morning?”

“You have to make an appointment and they’re booked three weeks. I’d really like to get this done, Tony.”

Holman could tell that Gilbert didn’t appreciate being asked, but he finally went along.

“Okay, but if there’s some kind of problem, you call. Don’t take advantage. This isn’t getting off to a good start, you asking for time on your first day.”

“Thanks, Tony.”

“Two o’clock. I want you back by two o’clock. That should be plenty of time.”

“Sure, Tony. Thanks.”

Gilbert hadn’t mentioned Richie and Holman didn’t bring it up. Gail hadn’t called, which suited Holman. He didn’t want to have to explain about Richie, and have Richie lead into Donna and the whole fucking mess he had made of his life.

When Gilbert finally turned away and steamed off across the floor, Holman walked back to the office and punched out even though it wasn’t yet noon.

6

HOLMAN BOUGHT a small bunch of red roses from a Latin cat at the bottom of the freeway off-ramp. Here was this dude, probably illegal, with a cowboy hat and a big plastic bucket filled with bundles of flowers, hoping to score with people on their way to the graveyard. The dude asked eight-ocho-but Holman paid ten, guilty he hadn’t thought to bring flowers before seeing the cat with his bucket, even more guilty because Donna was gone and Richie hadn’t thought enough of him to let him know.

Baldwin Haven Cemetery covered the wide face of a rolling hillside just off the 405 in Baldwin Hills. Holman turned through the gates and pulled up alongside the main office, hoping no one had seen the crappy condition of his car. Perry’s old Mercury was such a shitpile that anyone who saw him pull up would think he was here to hustle work trimming weeds. Holman brought the flowers inside with him, thinking he would make a better impression.

The cemetery office was a large room divided by a counter. Two desks and some file cabinets sat on one side of the counter; landscape plans were laid out on a large table on the other side. An older woman with grey hair glanced up from one of the desks when he entered.

Holman said, “I need to find someone’s grave.”

She stood and came to the counter.

“Yes, sir. Could I have the party’s name?”

“Donna Banik.”

“Banner?”

“B-A-N-I-K. She was buried here about two years ago.”

The woman went to a shelf and took down what looked to Holman like a heavy frayed ledger. Her lips moved as she flipped the pages, mumbling the name, Banik.

She found the entry, wrote something on a note slip, then came out from behind the counter and led Holman to the landscape plans.

“Here, I can show you how to find the site.”

Holman followed her as she circled the landscape map. She checked the coordinates written on the slip, then pointed out a tiny rectangle in a uniform rank and file of tiny rectangles, each labeled by number.

“She’s here, on the south face. We’re here in the office, so what you’ll do is turn right out of the parking lot and follow the road to this fork, then veer left. She’s right in front of the mausoleum here. Just count the rows, third row from the street, the sixth marker from the end. You shouldn’t have any trouble, but if you do, just come back and I’ll show you.”

Holman stared at the tiny blue rectangle with its indecipherable number.

“She’s my wife.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Well, she wasn’t my wife, but like that, a long time ago. We hadn’t seen each other in a long time. I didn’t even know she had passed until yesterday.”

“Well, if you need any help just let me know.”

Holman watched the woman return to her place behind the counter, clearly uninterested in who Donna was to him. Holman felt a flash of anger, but he had never been one to share his feelings. During the ten years he spent at Lompoc he had rarely mentioned Donna or Richie. What was he going to do, swap family stories with shitbird convicts and predatory criminals like Pitchess? Real people talked about their families with other real people, but Holman didn’t know real people and had abandoned his family, and now lost them. He had suddenly needed to tell someone about Donna, but the best he could do was an uninterested stranger. Recognizing the need left him feeling lonely and pathetic.

Holman climbed back into the Mercury and followed the directions to Donna’s grave. He found a small bronze plaque set into the earth bearing Donna’s name and the years of her birth and death. On the plaque was a simple legend: Beloved Mother.

Holman laid the roses on the grass. He had rehearsed what he wanted to tell her when he got out a thousand times, but now she was dead and it was too late. Holman didn’t believe in an afterlife. He didn’t believe she was up in Heaven, watching him. He told her anyway, staring down at the roses and the plaque.

“I was a rotten prick. I was all those things you ever called me and worse. You had no idea how rotten I really was. I used to thank God you didn’t know, but now I’m ashamed. If you had known you would’ve given up on me, and you might’ve married some decent guy and had something. I wish you had known. Not for me, but for you. So you wouldn’t have wasted your life.”

Beloved Mother.

Holman returned to his car and drove back to the office. The woman was showing the map of the grounds to a middle-aged couple when Holman walked in, so he waited by the door. The cold air in the little office felt good after standing in the sun. After a few minutes, the woman left the couple talking over available sites and came over.

“Did you find it okay?”

“Yeah, thanks, you made it real easy. Listen, I want to ask you something. Do you remember who made the arrangements?”

“For her burial?”

“I don’t know if it was her sister or a husband or what, but I’d like to share in the cost. We were together a long time, then I was away, and, well, it’s not right that I didn’t share the expenses.”

“It’s been paid for. It was paid for at the time of the service.”

“I figured that, but I still want to offer to pay. Part of it, at least.”

“You want to know who paid for the burial?”

“Yes, ma’am. If you can give me a phone number or an address or something. I’d like to offer to help out on the costs.”

The woman glanced at her other customers but they were still talking over the various sites. She went back around the counter to her desk and searched through the trash can until she found the slip with the plot numbers.

“That was Banik, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ll have to look it up for you. I have to find the records. Can you leave a phone number?”

Holman wrote Perry’s number on her note-pad.

She said, “This is very generous. I’m sure her family will be glad to hear from you.”

“Yes, ma’am. I hope so.”

Holman went out to his car and drove back toward the City of Industry. With the time and the traffic he figured he would get back to work before two o’clock, but then he turned on the radio and all of that changed. The station had broken into their regular programming with news that a suspect had been named in the murders of the four officers, and a warrant had been issued for his arrest.

Holman turned up the volume and forgot about work. He immediately began looking for a phone.

7

HOLMAN DROVE until he spotted a tiny sports bar with its front door wedged open. He jockeyed the beater into a red zone, then hesitated in the door, taking the measure of the place until he saw a television. Holman hadn’t been in a bar since the week before he was arrested, but this was no different: A young bartender with sharp sideburns worked a half-dozen alkies sipping their lunch. The television was showing ESPN but no one was looking at it. Holman went to the bar.

“You mind if we get the news?”

The bartender glanced over like the toughest thing he would do that day was pour Holman a drink.

“Whatever you want. Can I get you something?”

Holman glanced at the two women next to him. They were watching him.

“Club soda, I guess. How about that news?”

The bartender added a squeeze of lime to the ice, brimmed the glass, then set it on the bar before changing the channel to a couple of heads talking about the Middle East.

Holman said, “How about the local news?”

“I don’t know if you’re gonna get news right now. It’s nothing but soap operas.”

The nearest of the two women said, “Try five or nine.”

The bartender found a local station and there it was, several high-ranking LAPD suits holding a press conference.

The bartender said, “What happened? This about those cops who were killed?”

“Yeah, they know who did it. Let’s listen.”

The second woman said, “What happened?”

Holman said, “Can we listen?”

The first woman said, “I saw that this morning. There isn’t anything new.”

Holman said, “Can we listen to what they’re saying, please?”

The woman made a snorting sound and rolled her eyes like where did Holman get off. The bartender turned up the sound, but now an assistant chief named Donnelly was recounting the crime and stating information Holman already knew. Pictures of the murdered officers flashed on the screen as Donnelly identified them, Richie being the last. It was the same picture Holman had seen in the papers, but now the picture left Holman feeling creepy. It was as if Richie was staring down at him from the screen.

A man at the far end of the bar said, “I hope they catch the bastard did this.”

The first woman said, “Can’t we get something else? I’m tired of all this killing.”

Holman said, “Listen.”

She turned to her friend as if they were having a private conversation, only loud.

“Nothing but the bad news and they wonder why no one watches.”

Holman said, “Shut the fuck up and listen.”

The picture cut back to Donnelly, who looked determined as another picture appeared on the screen to his right.

Donnelly said, “We have issued a warrant for the arrest of this man, Warren Alberto Juarez, for the murder of these officers.”

The woman swiveled toward Holman.

“You can’t talk to me like that. How dare you use the F word when you’re talking to me?”

Holman strained to hear past her as Donnelly continued.

“Mr. Juarez is a resident of Cypress Park. He has an extensive criminal history including assault, robbery, possession of a concealed weapon, and known gang associations-”

The woman said, “Don’t pretend you can’t hear me!”

Holman concentrated on what Donnelly was saying, but he still missed some of it.

“-contact us at the number appearing on your screen. Do NOT-I repeat-do NOT try to apprehend this man yourself.”

Holman stared hard at the face on the screen. Warren Alberto Juarez looked like a gangbanger, with a thick mustache and hair slicked tight like a skullcap. He was making his eyes sleepy to look tough for the booking photo. The sleepy look was popular with black and Latino criminals, but Holman wasn’t impressed. Back in the day when he pulled state time at Men’s Colony and Pleasant Valley, he had kicked the shit out of plenty of sleepy assholes just to stay alive.

The woman said, “I’m talking to you, goddamnit. How dare you say such a thing, using that word with me!”

Holman nodded at the bartender.

“How much for the soda?”

“I said I’m talking to you.”

“Two.”

“You got a pay phone?”

“Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

“Back by the bathrooms.”

Holman put two dollars on the bar, then followed the bartender’s finger back toward the pay phone as the woman called him an asshole. When Holman reached the phone he dug out his list for Levy’s number up at the Devonshire Station. He had to wait while Levy got off another call, then Levy came on.

Holman said, “I heard on the news.”

“Then you know what I know. Parker Center called less than an hour ago.”

“Do they have him yet?”

“Mr. Holman, they just issued the warrant. They’ll notify me as soon as an arrest is made.”

Holman was so jacked up that he shook as if he had been on meth for a week. He didn’t want to put off Levy, so he took a couple of deep breaths and forced himself to relax.

“All right, I understand that. Do they know why it happened?”

“The word I have so far is it was a personal vendetta between Juarez and Sergeant Fowler. Fowler arrested Juarez’s younger brother last year, and apparently the brother was killed in prison.”

“How was Richie involved with Juarez?”

“He wasn’t.”

Holman waited for more. He waited for Levy to tell him the reason that would stitch the four murders together but Levy was silent.

“Waitaminute-wait-this asshole killed all four of these people just to get Fowler?”

“Mr. Holman, listen, I know what you’re looking for here-you want this to make sense. I would like this to make sense, too, but sometimes they don’t. Richard had nothing to do with the Juarez arrest. So far as I know neither did Mellon or Ash. I can’t say that definitively, but that’s the impression I have from speaking with their captains. Maybe we’ll know more later and this will make sense.”

“They know who was with him?”

“It’s my understanding that he acted alone.”

Holman felt his voice shake again and fought hard to stop it.

“This doesn’t make sense. How did he know they were down under that bridge? Did he follow them? Was he laying in wait, one guy, and he shotguns four men just to get one of them? This doesn’t make sense.”

“I know it doesn’t. I’m sorry.”

“They’re sure it was Juarez?”

“They are positive. They matched fingerprints found on shell casings at the scene with Mr. Juarez. My understanding is they also have witnesses who heard Juarez make numerous threats and placed him at the scene earlier that night. They attempted to arrest Juarez at his home earlier today, but he had already fled. Listen, I have other calls-”

“Are they close to an arrest?”

“I don’t know. Now I really do-”

“One more thing, Captain, please. On the news, they said he was a gangbanger.”

“That’s my understanding, yes.”

“You know his gang affiliation?”

“I don’t-no, sir. I really do have to go now.”

Holman thanked him, then went back to the bartender for change of a dollar. The woman with the loud mouth gave him a nasty glance, but this time she didn’t say anything. Holman took his change back to the phone and called Gail Manelli.

“Hey, it’s Holman. You got a second?”

“Of course, Max. I was just about to call you.”

Holman figured she wanted to tell him that the police had named a suspect, but he plowed on.

“Remember you said if I needed a few days you’d square it with Gilbert?”

“Do you need some time off?”

“Yes. There’s a lot to deal with, Gail. More than I thought.”

“Have you spoken with the police today?”

“I just got off the phone with Captain Levy. Can you square a few days with Gilbert? That guy has been good to me with the job-”

“I’ll call him right now, Max-I’m sure he’ll understand. Now listen, would you like to see a counselor?”

“I’m doing fine, Gail. I don’t need a counselor.”

“This isn’t a time to lose sight of everything you’ve learned, Max. Use the coping tools you have. Don’t try to be an iron man and think you have to weather this alone.”

Holman wanted to ask her if she would like to share the guilt and shame he felt. He was tired of everyone treating him as if they were scared shitless he would explode, but he reminded himself Gail was doing her job.

“I just need the time, is all. If I change my mind about the counselor I’ll let you know.”

“I just want you to understand I’m here.”

“I know. Listen-I have to go. Thanks for squaring up the job for me. Tell Tony I’ll call him in a few days.”

“I will, Max. You take care of yourself. I know you’re hurting, but the most important thing you can do right now is take care of yourself. Your son would want that.”

“Thanks, Gail. I’ll see you.”

Holman put down the phone. Gail had her ideas about what was important, but Holman had his. The criminal world was a world he knew. And knew how to use.

8

CRIMINALS DID not have friends. They had associates, suppliers, fences, whores, sugar daddies, enablers, dealers, collaborators, coconspirators, victims, and bosses, any of whom they might rat out and none of whom could be trusted. Most everyone Holman met on the yard during his ten years at Lompoc had not been arrested and convicted because Dick Tracy or Sherlock Holmes made their case; they had been fingered by someone they knew and trusted. Police work only went so far; Holman wanted to find someone who would rat out Warren Juarez.

That afternoon, Gary “L’Chee” Moreno said, “You gotta be the dumbest gringo ever shit between two feet.”

“Tell me you love me, bro.”

“Here’s what I’m tellin’ you, Holman: Why didn’t you run? I been waiting ten years to ask that, dumbfuckinAnglo.”

“Didn’t have to wait ten years, Chee. You coulda come seen me in Lompoc.”

“That’s why they caught you, thinkin’ like that, dumbfuckinHolman! Me, I would’a jetted outta that bank straight to Zacatecas like a chili pepper was up my ass. C’mere. Give a brother some love.”

Chee came around the counter there at his body shop in East L.A. He wrapped Holman in a tight hug, it being ten years since they had seen each other-since the day Chee had waited outside the bank for Holman as the police and FBI arrived; whereupon-by mutual agreement-Chee had driven away.

Holman first met Chee when they were serving stints at the California Youth Authority, both fourteen years old; Holman for a string of shoplifting and burglary arrests, Chee on his second auto theft conviction. Chee, small but fearless, was being pounded by three bloods on the main yard when Holman, large for his size even then with the thick neck and shoulders, whaled in and beat the bloods down. Chee couldn’t do enough for him after that, and neither could Chee’s family. Chee was a fifth-generation White Fence homeboy, nephew to the infamous Chihuahua Brothers from Pacoima, two miniature Guatemalans who macheted their way to the top of the L.A. stolen car market in the seventies. In the day, Holman had fed Porsches and ’vettes to Chee when he was sober enough to steal them, which wasn’t so very often toward the end, and Chee had even driven on a few of the bank jobs; done it, Holman knew, only for the in-your-face outlaw rush of living crazy with his good buddy Holman.

Now, Chee stepped back, and Holman saw that his eyes were serious. Holman really did mean something to him; meant something deep for all those past times.

“Goddamn, it’s good to see you, bro. Goddamn. You crazy or what? It’s a violation for you even to be standing here.”

“I’m federal release, homes. It’s not like a state parole. They don’t say who I can roll with.”

Chee looked doubtful.

“No shit?”

“Up.”

Chee was clearly mystified and impressed at the vagaries of the federal system.

“C’mon back here, we’ll get away from this noise.”

Chee led Holman behind the counter into a small office. These same offices had once been the center of a chop shop Chee managed for his uncles, breaking down stolen cars into their component parts. Now, older, wiser, and with his uncles long dead, Chee ran a mostly legitimate body shop employing his sons and nephews. Holman made a show of looking around the body shop office.

“Looks different.”

“Is different, homes. My daughter works here three days a week. She don’t wanna see titty pictures on the walls. You want a beer?”

“I’m sober.”

“No shit? Well, good, man, that’s real good. Goddamned, we’re gettin’ old.”

Chee laughed as he dropped into his chair. When Chee laughed, his leathery skin accordioned with acne craters and tattoos from his gang days. He was still White Fence, a certified veterano, but out of the street life. Chee’s weathered face grew sad, staring at nothing until he finally looked at Holman.

“You need some money? I’ll front you, homes. You don’t even have to pay me back. I mean it.”

“I want a homeboy named Warren Alberto Juarez.”

Chee swiveled in his chair to pull a thick phone book from the clutter. He flipped a few pages, circled a name, then pushed the book across his desk.

“Here you go. Knock yourself out.”

Holman glanced at the page. Warren A. Juarez. An address in Cypress Park. A phone number. When Holman looked up, Chee was staring like Holman was stupid.

“Homes, that why you came down here, cash in on the reward? You think he’s hidin’ in a closet down here? Ese, please.”

“You know where he went?”

“Why you think I’d know something like that?”

“You’re Little Chee. You always knew things.”

“Those days are gone, bro. I am Mister Moreno. Look around. I ain’t in the life anymore. I pay taxes. I got hemorrhoids.”

“You’re still White Fence.”

“To the death and beyond, and I’ll tell you this-if I knew where the homeboy was I’d nail that fifty myself-he ain’t White Fence. He’s Frogtown, homes, from up by the river, and right now he ain’t nothing to me ’cept a pain in the ass. Half my boys called in sick today, wantin’ that money. My work schedule’s in the shitter.”

Chee showed his palms, like enough already with Warren Juarez, and went on with his rant.

“Forget that reward bullshit, Holman. I tol’ you, I’ll give you money, you want it.”

“I’m not looking for a loan.”

“Then what?”

“One of the officers he killed was my son. Richie grew up to be a policeman, you imagine? My little boy.”

Chee’s eyes went round like saucers. He had met the boy a few times, the first when Richie was three. Holman had convinced Donna to let him take the boy to the Santa Monica pier for the Ferris wheel. Holman and Chee had hooked up, but Holman had left Richie with Chee’s girlfriend so he and Chee could steal a Corvette they saw in the parking lot. Real Father of the Year stuff.

“Ese. Ese, I’m sorry.”

“That’s his mother, Chee. I used to pray for that. Don’t let him be a fuckup like me; let him be like his mother.”

“God answered.”

“The police say Juarez killed him. They say Juarez killed all four of them just to get the one named Fowler, some bullshit about Juarez’s brother.”

“I don’t know anything about that, man. Whatever, that’s Frogtown, ese.”

“Whatever, I want to find him. I want to find out who helped him, and find them, too.”

Chee shifted in his chair, making it creak. He rubbed a rough hand over his face, muttering and thinking. Latin gangs derived their names from their neighborhoods: Happy Valley Gang, Hazard Street, Geraghty Lomas. Frogtown drew its name from the old days of the Los Angeles River, where neighborhood homies fell asleep to croaking bullfrogs before the city lined the river with concrete and the frogs died. Juarez being a member of the Frogtown gang wasn’t lost on Holman. The officers had been murdered at the river.

Chee slowly fixed his eyes on Holman.

“You gonna kill him? That what you wanna do?”

Holman wasn’t sure what he would do. He wasn’t sure what he was doing sitting with Chee. The entire Los Angeles Police Department was looking for Warren Juarez.

“Holman?”

“He was my boy. Someone kills your boy you can’t just sit.”

“You’re not a killer, Holman. Tough motherfucker, yeah, but a man would do murder? I never seen that in you, homes, and, believe me, I seen plenty of coldhearted killers, homies stab a child then go eat a prime rib dinner, but that wasn’t you. You gonna kill this boy, then ride the murder bus back to prison, thinking you done the right thing?”

“What would you do?”

“Kill the muthuhfuckuh straight up, homes. Cut off the boy’s head, hang it from my rearview so everyone see, and ride straight down Whittier Boulevard. You gonna do something like that? Could you?”

“No.”

“Then let the police do their business. They lost four of their own. They’re gonna take lives findin’ this boy.”

Holman knew Chee was right, but tried to put his need into words.

“The officers, they have to fill out this next-of-kin form at the police. Where they have a place for the father, Richie wrote ‘unknown.’ He was so ashamed of me he didn’t even claim me-he put down that his father was unknown. I can’t have that, Chee. I’m his father. This is the way I have to answer.”

Chee settled back again, quietly thoughtful as Holman went on.

“I can’t leave this to someone else. Right now, they’re saying Juarez did this thing by himself. C’mon, Chee, how’d some homeboy get good enough to take out four armed officers all by himself, so fast they didn’t shoot back?”

“A lot of homies are coming back from Iraq, bro. If the boy tooled up overseas, he might know exactly how to do what he did.”

“Then I want to know that. I need to understand how this happened and find the bastards who did it. I’m not racing the cops. I just want this bastard found.”

“Well, you’re gonna have a lot of help. Over there outside his house in Cypress Park, it looks like a cop convention. My wife and daughter drove by there at lunchtime just to see, a couple of goddamned looky-loos! His wife’s gone into hiding herself. The address I gave you, that place is empty right now.”

“Where’d his wife go?”

“How can I know something like that, Holman? That boy ain’t White Fence. If he was and he killed your son, I would shoot him myself, ese. But he’s in with that Frogtown crew.”

“Little Chee?”

Witnesses at two of the bank jobs had seen Holman get into cars driven by another man. After Holman’s arrest, the FBI had pressured him to name his accomplice. They had asked, but Holman had held fast.

Holman said, “After my arrest-how much sleep did you lose, worrying I was going to rat you out?”

“Not one night. Not a single night, homes.”

“Because why?”

“Because I knew you were solid. You were my brother.”

“Has that fact changed or is it the same?”

“The same. We’re the same.”

“Help me, Little Chee. Where can I find the girl?”

Holman knew Chee didn’t like it, but Chee did not hesitate. He picked up his phone.

“Get yourself some coffee, homes. I gotta make some calls.”

An hour later, Holman walked out, but Chee didn’t walk with him. Ten years later, some things were the same, but others were different.

9

HOLMAN DECIDED to drive past Juarez’s house first to see the cop convention. Even though Chee had warned him that the police commanded the scene, Holman was surprised. Three news vans and an LAPD black-and-white were parked in front of a tiny bungalow. Transmission dishes swayed over the vans like spindly palms, with the uniformed officers and newspeople chatting together on the sidewalk. One look, and Holman knew Juarez would never return even if the officers were gone. A small crowd of neighborhood civilians gawked from across the street, and the line of cars edging past the house made Holman feel like he was passing a traffic fatality on the 405. No wonder Juarez’s wife had split.

Holman kept driving.

Chee had learned that Maria Juarez had relocated to her cousin’s house in Silver Lake, south of Sunset in an area rich with Central Americans. Holman figured the police knew her location, too, and had probably even helped her move to protect her from the media; if she had gone into hiding on her own they would have declared her a fugitive and issued a warrant.

The address Chee provided led to a small clapboard box crouched behind a row of spotty cypress trees on a steep hill lined with broken sidewalks. Holman thought the house looked like it was hiding. He parked at the curb two blocks uphill, then tried to figure out what to do. The door was closed and the shades were drawn, but it was that way for most of the houses. Holman wondered if Juarez was in the house. It was possible. Holman knew dozens of guys who were bagged in their own garages because they didn’t have anyplace else to go. Criminals always returned to their girlfriends, their wives, their mothers, their house, their trailer, their car-they ran to whatever or whoever made them feel safe. Holman probably would have been caught at home, too, only he hadn’t had a home.

It occurred to Holman the police knew this and might be watching the house. He twisted around to examine the neighboring cars and houses, but saw nothing suspicious. He got out of his car and went to the front door. He didn’t see any reason to get dramatic unless no one answered. If no one answered, he would walk around the side of the place and break in through the back. He knocked.

Holman didn’t expect someone to answer so quickly, but a young woman threw open the door right away. She couldn’t have been more than twenty or twenty-one, even younger than Richie. She was butt-ugly, with a flat nose, big teeth, and black hair greased flat into squiggly sideburns.

She said, “Is he all right?”

She thought he was a cop.

Holman said, “Maria Juarez?”

“Tell me he is all right. Did you find him? Tell me he is not dead.”

She had just told Holman everything he needed to know. Juarez wasn’t here. The police had been here earlier, and she had been cooperative with them. Holman gave her an easy smile.

“I need to ask a few questions. May I come in?”

She moved back out of the door and Holman went in. A TV was showing Telemundo, but other than that the place was quiet. He listened to see if anyone was in the back of the house, but heard nothing. He could see through the dining room and the kitchen to a back door which was closed. The house smelled of chorizo and cilantro. A central hall opened off the living room and probably led to a bathroom and a couple of bedrooms. Holman wondered if anyone was in the bedrooms.

Holman said, “Is anyone else here?”

Her eyes flickered, and Holman knew he had made his first mistake. The question left her suspicious.

“My aunt. She is in the bed.”

He took her arm, bringing her toward the hall.

“Let’s take a look.”

“Who are you? Are you the police?”

Holman knew a lot of these homegirls would kill you as quick as any veterano and some would kill you faster, so he gripped her arm tight.

“I just want to see if Warren is here.”

“He is not here. You know he isn’t here. Who are you? You are not one of the detectives.”

Holman brought her back along the hall, glancing in the bathroom first, then the front bedroom. An old lady wrapped in shawls and blankets was sitting up in bed, as withered and tiny as a raisin. She said something in Spanish that Holman didn’t understand. He gave her an apologetic smile, then pulled Maria out to the second bedroom, closing the old lady’s door behind them.

Maria said, “Don’t go in there.”

“Warren isn’t in here, is he?”

“My baby. She is sleeping.”

Holman held Juarez’s wife in front of him and cracked open the door. The room was dim. He made out a small figure napping in an adult’s bed, a little girl who was maybe three or four. Holman stood listening again, knowing that Juarez might be hiding under the bed or in the closet, but not wanting to wake the little girl. He heard the buzz of a child’s gentle snore. Something in the child’s innocent pose made Holman think of Richie at that age. Holman tried to remember if he had ever seen Richie asleep, but couldn’t. The memories didn’t come because they didn’t exist. He was never around long enough to see his baby sleeping.

Holman closed the door and brought Maria into the living room.

She said, “You weren’t here with the policemen-I want to know who you are.”

“My name is Holman. You know that name?”

“Get out of this house. I don’t know where he is. I already tol’ them. Who are you? You don’t show me your badge.”

Holman forced her down onto the couch. He leaned over her, nose to nose, and pointed at his face.

“Look at this face. Did you see this face on the news?”

She was crying. She didn’t understand what he was saying, and she was scared. Holman realized this but was unable to stop himself. His voice never rose above a whisper. Just like when he was robbing the banks.

“My name is Holman. One of the officers, his name was Holman, too. Your fucking husband murdered my son. Do you understand that?”

“No!”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did he go to Mexico? I heard he went under the fence.”

“He did not do this. I showed them. He was with us.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me who’s hiding him.”

“I don’t know. I told them. I showed them. He was with us.”

Holman hadn’t thought through his actions and now he felt trapped. The prison counselors had harped on that-criminals were people who were unable or unwilling to anticipate the consequences of their actions. No impulse control, they called it. Holman suddenly grabbed her throat. His hand encircled her from ear to ear as if acting with a will of its own. He grabbed her with no sense of what he was doing or why-

– but then she made a choking gurgle and Holman saw himself in the moment. He released her and stepped back, his face burning with shame.

The little girl said, “Mommy?”

She stood in the hall outside the old lady’s room, so small she looked like a miniature person. Holman wanted to run, sick with himself and humiliated that the child might have seen him.

Maria said, “It’s okay, my love. Go back to bed. I’ll be in with you soon. Go on, now.”

The little girl returned to her room.

Richie, turning away as Donna cursed him for being a loser.

Holman said, “I’m sorry. Are you all right?”

Maria stared at him, soundless. She touched her throat where he had gripped her. She touched a curl gelled to her cheek.

Holman said, “Listen, I’m sorry. I’m upset. He killed my son.”

She gathered herself and shook her head.

“It was her birthday, the day before yesterday. He was with us for her birthday. He wasn’t killing no policemen.”

“Her birthday? The little girl?”

“I can prove it. I showed them the tape. Warren was with us.”

Holman shook his head, fighting away the depressing memories of loss as he tried to understand what she was saying.

“I don’t know what you’re telling me. You had a party for the little girl? You had guests?”

Holman wouldn’t believe any witness she could produce and neither would the cops, but she waved toward the television.

“Warren brought us one of these video cameras. It’s at my house. We took videos of her blowing out the candles and playing with us, the day before yesterday.”

“That doesn’t prove anything.”

“You don’t understand. That show was on, that one with the comedian? Warren put her on his back so she could ride him like a donkey and he was going around the living room in front of the TV. You could see the show when Warren was here. That proves he was with us.”

Holman had no idea what show she was talking about.

“Those officers were murdered at one-thirty in the morning.”

“Yes! The show starts at one. It was on the TV when Warren was giving her rides. You can see on the tape.”

“You were having a party for your kid in the middle of the night? C’mon.”

“He has the warrants, you know? He has to be careful when he comes by. My father, he saw the tape I took. He told me the show proved Warren was home with us.”

She seemed to believe what she was saying, and it would be easy enough to check. If her videotape showed a television show on the tube, all you had to do was call the TV station and ask what time the show had aired.

“Okay. Lemme see it. Show me.”

“The police took it. They said it was evidence.”

Holman worked through what she was telling him. The police took the tape, but clearly hadn’t believed it cleared Warren of the crime-they had issued the warrant. Still, Holman thought she was being sincere, so he figured she was probably telling the truth about not knowing her husband’s whereabouts.

The little girl said, “Mama.”

The little girl was back in the hall.

Holman said, “How old are you?”

The little girl stared at the floor.

Maria said, “Answer him, Alicia. Where are your manners?”

The little girl held up a hand, showing three fingers.

Maria said, “I’m sorry your son was killed, but it was not Warren. I know what is in your heart now. If you kill him, that will be in your heart, too.”

Holman pulled his eyes from the little girl.

“I’m sorry about what I did.”

He went out the front door. The sun was blinding after being in the dim house. He walked back to Perry’s car, feeling like a boat without a rudder, trapped in a current. He had no place to go and no idea what to do. He thought he should probably just go back to work and start earning money. He couldn’t think of anything else to do.

Holman was still trying to decide when he reached Perry’s car. He put the key in the lock, then was suddenly hit from behind so hard that he lost his breath. He smashed into the side of the car as his feet were kicked from beneath him, and they rode him down hard onto the street, proning him out with the grace of true professionals.

When Holman looked up, a red-haired guy in sunglasses and plainclothes held up a badge.

“Los Angeles Police Department. You’re under arrest.”

Holman closed his eyes as their handcuffs shut on his wrists.

10

IT WAS FOUR plainclothes officers who hooked him up, but only two of them brought him to Parker Center, the red-haired officer whose name was Vukovich and a Latino officer named Fuentes. Holman had been arrested by the Los Angeles Police Department on twelve separate occasions, and in every case except his last (when he was arrested by an FBI agent named Katherine Pollard) he had been processed through one of LAPD’s nineteen divisional police stations. He had been in the Men’s Central Jail twice and the Federal Men’s Detention Center three times, but he had never been to Parker Center. When they brought him to Parker, Holman knew he was in deep shit.

Parker was the Los Angeles Police Department’s main office: A white-and-glass building that housed the Chief of Police, the Internal Affairs Group, various civilian administrators and administration agencies, and LAPD’s elite Robbery-Homicide Division, which was a command division overseeing Homicide Special, Robbery Special, and Rape Special. Each of the nineteen divisions had homicide, robbery, and sex crimes detectives, but those detectives worked only in their respective divisions; Robbery-Homicide detectives worked on cases that spanned the city.

Vukovich and Fuentes walked Holman into an interview room on the third floor and questioned him for more than an hour, after which another set of detectives took over. Holman knew the drill. The cops always asked the same questions over and over, looking to see if your answers changed. If your answers changed they knew you were lying, so Holman told them the truth about everything except Chee. When the red-haired guy, Vukovich, asked how he knew Maria Juarez was with her cousins, Holman told them he heard it in a bar, some Frogtown paco bragging he screwed Maria in junior high, him and sixty-two other guys, the girl was such a slut, the paco spouting the cops Warren killed had probably been bagging the little slut, too. Covering for Chee was something he had done before and now it was the only lie Holman told. One lie, it was easy to remember even though telling it frightened him.

Eight-forty that night, Holman was still in the room, having been questioned on and off for more than six hours without being offered an attorney or being booked. Eight forty-one, the door opened again and Vukovich entered with someone new.

The new man studied Holman for a moment, then put out his hand. Holman thought he looked familiar.

“Mr. Holman, I’m John Random. I’m sorry about your son.”

Random was the first of the detectives to offer his hand. He wore a long-sleeved white shirt and tie without a jacket. A gold detective’s shield was clipped to his belt. Random took a seat opposite Holman as Vukovich leaned against the wall.

Holman said, “Am I being charged with anything?”

“Has Detective Vukovich explained why we pulled you in?”

“No.”

Holman suddenly realized why Random was familiar. Random had been part of the press conference that Holman had seen in the bar. He hadn’t known Random’s name, but he recognized him.

Random said, “When the officers ran your vehicle they found thirty-two unpaid parking violations and another nine outstanding traffic violations.”

Holman said, “Jesus.”

Vukovich smiled.

“Yeah, and you didn’t match the DMV description we got of the vehicle’s owner, you not being a seventy-four-year-old black male. We thought you had a hot car, bud.”

Random said, “We spoke with Mr. Wilkes. You’re in the clear so far as the car, even though you’ve been driving it without a license. So forget the car and let’s get back to Ms. Juarez. Why did you go see her?”

The same question he had been asked three dozen times. Holman gave them the same answer.

“I was looking for her husband.”

“What do you know about her husband?”

“I saw you on TV. You’re looking for him.”

“But why were you looking for him?”

“He killed my son.”

“How’d you find your way to Ms. Juarez?”

“Their address was in the phone book. I went to their house but the place was crawling with people. I started hitting the bars in their neighborhood and found some people who knew them, and pretty soon I ended up in Silver Lake and met this guy said he knew her. He told me she was staying with her cousins, and I guess he was telling the truth-that’s where I found her.”

Random nodded.

“He knew her address?”

“Information operator gave me the address. The guy I met, he just told me who she was staying with. It wasn’t any big deal. Most folks don’t have unlisted numbers.”

Random smiled, still staring at him.

“Which bar was this?”

Holman met Random’s eye, then casually glanced at Vukovich.

“I don’t know the name of the place, but it’s on Sunset a couple of blocks west of Silver Lake Boulevard. On the north side. I’m pretty sure it had a Mexican name.”

Holman had driven past earlier. Sunset was lined with Mexican places.

“Uh-huh, so you could take us there?”

“Oh, yeah, absolutely. I told Detective Vukovich three or four hours ago I could take you there.”

“And this man you spoke with, if you saw him again, could you point him out?”

Holman met Random’s stare again, but relaxed, not making a point of it.

“Absolutely. Without a doubt. If he’s still there after all this time.”

Vukovich, smiling again, said, “Hey, you busting my balls or what?”

Random ignored Vukovich’s comment.

“So tell me, Mr. Holman, and I am very serious in asking you this question-did Maria Juarez tell you anything that would help us find her husband?”

Holman suddenly found himself liking Random. He liked the man’s intensity and his desire to find Warren Juarez.

“No, sir.”

“She didn’t know where he was hiding?”

“She said she didn’t.”

“Did she tell you why he killed the officers? Or any details of the crime?”

“She said he didn’t do it. She told me he was with her when the murders were committed. They have a little girl. She said it was the little girl’s birthday and they made a video that proved Warren was with them at the time of the murders. She said she gave it to you guys. That’s it.”

Random said, “She admitted no knowledge of her husband’s whereabouts?”

“She just kept saying he didn’t do it. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“What were you planning to do when you left her?”

“Same thing I was doing before. Talk to people to see if I could pick up something else. But then I met Mr. Vukovich.”

Vukovich laughed and changed his position against the wall.

Holman said, “Mind if I ask a question?”

Random shrugged.

“You can ask. Not saying I’ll answer, but let’s see.”

“They really have a tape?”

“She gave us a tape, but it doesn’t show what she claims that it shows. There are questions about when that tape was made.”

Vukovich said, “They didn’t have to make their video at one A.M. on Tuesday morning. We had our analyst look at it. She believes they recorded the talk show, then played it back on their VCR to use it as an alibi. You watch her video, you aren’t seeing the talk show when it originally aired; you’re seeing a recording of a recording. We believe they made their tape the morning after the murders.”

Holman frowned. He understood how such a tape could be produced, but he had also seen the fear in Maria’s eyes when he grabbed her throat. He had been eye to eye with terrified people when he was stealing cars and robbing banks, and he had left her with the sense she was telling the truth.

“Waitaminute. You’re saying she conspired with her husband?”

Random seemed about to answer, then thought better of it. He checked his watch, then stood as if lifting a great load.

“Let’s leave it at what I’ve said. This is an ongoing investigation.”

“Okay, but one more thing. Richie’s commander told me this was a personal beef between Juarez and one of the other officers, Fowler. Is that what it was?”

Random nodded at Vukovich, letting Vukovich answer.

“That’s right. It started a little over a year ago. Fowler and his trainee stopped a kid for a traffic violation. That was Jaime Juarez, Warren’s younger brother. Juarez grew belligerent. Fowler knew he was high, pulled him out of the car, and found a few crack rocks in his pants. Juarez, of course, claimed Fowler planted the stuff, but he still got hit for three years in the State. Second month in, a fight broke out between black and Latino prisoners, and Jaime was killed. Warren blamed Fowler. Went all over the Eastside saying he was going to do Fowler for killing the kid. He didn’t keep it a secret. We have a witness list two pages long of people who heard him making the threats.”

Holman took it in. He could absolutely see Juarez killing the man he blamed for his brother’s death, but that wasn’t what bothered him.

“Have you named any other suspects?”

“There are no other suspects. Juarez acted alone.”

“That doesn’t make sense, Juarez doing this by himself. How did he know they were down there? How’d he find them? How does one street dick take four armed police officers and none of them even get off a shot?”

Holman’s voice grew loud and he regretted it. Random seemed irritated. He pursed his lips, then checked his watch again as if someone or something was waiting for him. He made some kind of decision, then looked back at Holman.

“He approached them from the east using the bridge supports for cover. That’s how he got close. He was right at thirty feet away when he started shooting. He used a Benelli combat shotgun firing twelve-gauge buckshot. You know what buckshot is, Mr. Holman?”

Holman nodded. He felt sick.

“Two of the officers were shot in the back, indicating they never knew it was coming. The third officer was likely seated on the hood of his car. He jumped off, turned, and took his shot head-on. The fourth officer did manage to draw his sidearm, but he was dead before he could return fire. Don’t ask me which was your son, Mr. Holman. I won’t tell you.”

Holman felt cold. His breaths were short. Random checked his watch again.

“We know there was one shooter and only one because all the shell casings came from the same gun. It was Juarez. This video is just a half-assed attempt he made to cover his ass. As for you, we’re going to cut you free. That wasn’t a unanimous decision, but you’re free to go. We’ll arrange for a ride back to your car.”

Holman stood, but he still had questions and for the first time in his life he wasn’t in a hurry to leave a police station.

“Where are you in finding the sonofabitch? You guys have a line on him or what?”

Random glanced at Vukovich. Vukovich’s face was empty. Random looked back at Holman.

“We already have him. At six-twenty this evening Warren Alberto Juarez was found dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”

Vukovich touched the underside of his chin.

“Same shotgun he used to murder your son. Straight up through here, took the top of his head off. Still had the gun in his hands.”

Random extended his hand once more. Holman felt numb with the news, but took the hand automatically.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Holman. I’m truly sorry that four officers were lost like this. It’s a goddamned shame.”

Holman didn’t respond. Here they were, keeping him here all evening, and Juarez was dead.

Holman said, “Then why in hell did you ask me if his wife knew where he was and what I would do?”

“To see if she lied to me. You know how it works.”

Holman felt himself growing angry but fought it down. Random opened the door.

“Let’s make sure we’re clear on this-don’t go back to Ms. Juarez. Her husband might be dead, but she is still the subject of an active investigation.”

“You think she was involved in the killings?”

“She helped him try to get away with it. Whether or not she knew before the fact is still to be determined. Don’t get involved in this again. We’re giving you a break because you lost your son, but that consideration ends now. If we bring you back to this room, Holman, I’ll charge you and see that you’re prosecuted. Do we understand each other?”

Holman nodded.

“Rest easy, Mr. Holman. We got the bastard.”

Random left without waiting for an answer. Vukovich peeled himself from the wall and gently slapped Holman on the back, like two guys who had been through the mill together.

“C’mon, bud. I’ll take you back to your car.”

Holman followed Vukovich out.

11

HOLMAN THOUGHT about Maria Juarez as they drove past her house on the way to his car. He looked for the remaining surveillance team but couldn’t find them.

Vukovich said, “Random means it about hassling that woman, Holman. Stay away from her.”

“You say they faked that tape I guess they faked it, but she seemed sincere to me.”

“Thank you for your expert opinion. Now tell me something-when you were waiting in line to rob those banks, did you look innocent or guilty?”

Holman let it go.

Vukovich said, “One point me, zero Holman.”

They stopped alongside the beater and Holman opened the door.

“Thanks for the ride.”

“Maybe I should take you home instead of letting you drive. You don’t even have a license.”

“First thing I hear when I get my release is that Richie was killed. I had more on my mind than the DMV.”

“Get it done. I’m not just being an asshole. You get stopped, you’re just going to end up in trouble.”

“Tomorrow. First thing.”

Holman stood in the street as he watched Vukovich drive away. He looked at Maria Juarez’s house. The windows were lit and very likely the cousins were home. Holman wondered what they were talking about. He wondered whether the police had informed her that her husband was dead. Holman told himself he didn’t care, but knowing the little house was probably filled with pain bothered him. He climbed into his car and drove home.

Holman made it back to the motel without being stopped and left Perry’s car in the alley. Perry was up and waiting when Holman entered the lobby, leaning back behind his desk with his arms folded, his legs crossed, and his face pinched. He was pulled so tight he reminded Holman of a spider waiting to launch itself on the first bug that walked by.

Perry said, “You fucked me up good. You know how much I hadda pay in back fines?”

Holman wasn’t in the best of moods, either. He walked over and put himself right at the edge of Perry’s desk.

“Fuck you and your fines. You should’ve told me I was driving around in a wanted vehicle. You rented me a piece of shit that could’ve put me back in prison.”

“Fuck you, too! I didn’t know about those tickets! Guys like you get’m driving around and don’t even tell me. Now I’m fucking stuck with the bill-two thousand four hundred eighteen dollars!”

“You should’ve told them to keep it. It’s a piece of shit.”

“They were gonna boot it and hit me for the tow and the impound. I hadda go all the way downtown in rush hour to fork over that dough.”

Holman knew Perry was dying to hit him up for a reimbursement, but he also knew Perry was worried about the repercussions. If it got back to Gail Manelli she would know that Perry was illegally and knowingly renting his vehicle to unlicensed drivers. Then he would lose out on the tenants she fed him through the Bureau of Prisons.

Holman said, “Tough shit. I was downtown, too, thanks to your fucking car. Did you bring my television today?”

“It’s up in your room.”

“It better not be stolen.”

“You’re whining like a pussy. Look, it’s up there. You gotta play with the ears. The reception is off.”

Holman started up the stairs.

“Hey. Waitaminute. I got a couple messages for you.”

Holman immediately perked up, thinking that Richie’s wife had finally called. He one-eightied back to the desk where Perry was looking nervous.

“Gail called. She wants you to call her, man.”

“Who else called?”

Perry was holding a note, but Holman couldn’t see what was on it.

Perry said, “Now, listen, you talk to Gail, don’t tell her about the goddamned car. You shouldn’t have been driving and I shouldn’t have rented it to you. Neither one of us needs that kind of trouble.”

Holman reached for the slip.

“I’m not going to say anything. Who was the other call?”

Holman snagged the slip and Perry let him have it.

“Some woman from a cemetery. She said you’d know what it was about.”

Holman read the note. It was an address and phone number.

Richard Holman

42 Berke Drive #216

LA, CA 90024

310-555-2817

Holman had guessed that Richie paid for his mother’s burial, but this confirmed it.

“Did anyone else call? I was expecting another call.”

“Just this. Unless they called while I was off paying those goddamned fines for you.”

Holman put the slip of paper into his pocket.

“I’m gonna need the car again tomorrow.”

“Don’t say anything to Gail, for Christ’s sake.”

Holman didn’t bother answering. He went upstairs, turned on the television, and waited for the eleven o’clock news. The television was a small American brand that was twenty years out of date. The picture wavered with hazy ghosts. Holman fought with the antennas trying to make the ghosts go away, but they didn’t. They grew worse.

12

THE NEXT MORNING, Holman climbed out of bed at a quarter past five. His back hurt from the crappy mattress and a fitful night’s sleep. He decided he either had to sandwich a board between the mattress and springs or pull the mattress onto the floor. The beds at Lompoc were better.

He went down for a paper and chocolate milk, then returned to his room to read the newspaper accounts of last night’s developments.

The newspaper reported that three boys had discovered Juarez’s body in an abandoned house in Cypress Park less than one mile from Juarez’s home. The newspaper showed a picture of the three boys posing outside a dilapidated house with police officers in the background. One of the officers looked like Random, but the photo was too grainy for Holman to be sure. Police stated that a neighbor living near the abandoned house reported hearing a gunshot early during the morning following the murders. Holman wondered why the neighbor hadn’t called the police when he first heard the shot, but let it go. He knew from personal experience that people heard things all the time they didn’t report; silence was a thief’s best friend.

Statements made by both the boys and officers at the scene described Juarez as having been seated on the floor with his back to a wall and a twelve-gauge shotgun clutched in his right hand. A representative of the coroner’s office stated that death appeared instantaneous from a massive head wound fired upward through the deceased’s jaw. Holman knew from Random’s description that the shotgun was short, so Juarez could easily have tucked it up under his chin. Holman pictured the body and decided Juarez’s finger had been caught in the trigger guard or else the shotgun would have kicked free. The buckshot would have blown out the top of his head and likely taken most of his face with it. Holman could picture the body easily enough, but something about it troubled him and he wasn’t sure why. He continued reading.

The article spent a few paragraphs explaining the connection between Warren Juarez and Michael Fowler, but offered nothing Holman hadn’t learned from Random and Vukovich. Holman knew men serving life sentences because they killed other men for offenses much less than the death of a sibling; veteranos who didn’t regret a day of their time because their notion of pride had demanded no other response. Holman was thinking of these men when he realized what bothered him about the nature of Juarez’s death. Suicide didn’t jibe with the man Maria Juarez had described. Random had suggested that Juarez and his wife made the video the morning after the murders. If Random was right, Juarez had committed the murders, spent the next morning giving his daughter donkey rides and mugging for the camera, then fled to the abandoned house where he had grown so despondent that he killed himself. Mugging and donkey rides didn’t add up to suicide. Juarez would have had the admiration of his homies for avenging his brother’s death and his daughter would have been protected by them like a queen. Juarez had plenty to live for even if he had to spend the rest of his life behind bars.

Holman was still thinking about it when the six A.M. news opened with the same story. He put aside the paper to watch taped coverage of the press conference that had been held the night before while Holman was being interrogated. Assistant Chief Donnelly did most of the talking again, but this time Holman recognized Random in the background.

Holman was still watching when his phone rang. The sudden noise startled him and he lurched as if he had been shocked. This was the first phone call he had received since he was arrested in the bank. Holman answered tentatively.

“Hello?”

“Bro! I thought you was in jail, homes! I heard you got busted!”

Holman hesitated, then realized what Chee meant.

“You mean last night?”

“MuthuhfuckinHolman! What you think I mean? The whole neighborhood saw you get hooked up, homes! I thought they violated your ass! Whatchu do over there?”

“I just talked to the lady. No law against knocking on a door.”

“Muthuhfuckin’ muthuhfucker! I oughta come over there kick your ass myself, worryin’ me like this! I got your back, homes! I got your back!”

“I’m okay, bro. They just talked to me.”

“You need a lawyer? I can set you up.”

“I’m okay, man.”

“You kill her old man?”

“I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

“I thought for sure that was you, homes.”

“He killed himself.”

“I didn’t believe that suicide shit. I figured you took his ass out.”

Holman didn’t know what to say, so he changed the subject.

“Hey, Chee. I’ve been renting a guy’s car for twenty dollars a day and it’s killing me. Could you set me up with some wheels?”

“Sure, bro, whatever you want.”

“I don’t have a driver’s license.”

“I can take care of you. All we need is the picture.”

“A real one from the DMV.”

“I got you covered, bro. I even got the camera.”

In the day, Chee had fabricated driver’s licenses, green cards, and Social Security cards for his uncles. Apparently, he still had the skills.

Holman made arrangements to stop by later, then hung up. He showered and dressed, then pushed his remaining clothes into a grocery bag, intending to find a Laundromat. It was six-fifty when he left his room.

Richie’s address was a four-story courtyard apartment south of Wilshire Boulevard in Westwood near UCLA. Since the address dated from Donna’s burial almost two years before, Holman had spent much of the night worried that Richie had moved. He debated using the phone number, but Richie’s wife had not called, so it was clear she wanted no contact. If Holman phoned now and reached her, she might refuse to see him and might even call the police. Holman figured his best chance was to catch her early and not warn her he was coming. If she still lived there.

The building’s main entrance was a glass security door that required a key. Mailboxes were on the street side of the door, along with a security phone so guests could call to be buzzed in by the tenants. Holman went to the boxes and searched through the apartment numbers, hoping to find his son’s name on 216.

He did.

HOLMAN.

Donna had given the boy Holman’s name even though they weren’t married, and seeing it now moved him. He touched the name-HOLMAN-thinking, this was my son. He felt an angry ache in his chest and abruptly turned away.

Holman waited by the security door for almost ten minutes until a young Asian man with a book bag pushed open the door on his way out to class. Holman caught the door before it closed and let himself in.

The interior courtyard was small and filled with lush bird-of-paradise plants. The inside of the building was ringed with exposed walkways which could be reached by a common elevator that opened into the courtyard or by an adjoining staircase. Holman used the stairs. He climbed to the second floor, then followed the numbers until he found 216. He knocked lightly, then knocked again, harder, wrapping himself in a numbness that was designed to protect him from his own feelings.

A young woman opened the door, and his numbness was gone.

Her face was focused and contained, as if she was concentrating on something more important than answering the door. She was slight, with dark eyes, a thin face, and prominent ears. She was wearing denim shorts, a light green blouse, and sandals. Her hair was damp, as if she wasn’t long from the shower. Holman thought she looked like a child.

She stared at him with curious indifference.

“Yes?”

“I’m Max Holman. Richie’s father.”

Holman waited for her to unload. He expected her to tell him what a rotten bastard and lousy father he was, but the indifference vanished and she canted her head as if seeing him for the first time.

“Ohmigod. Well. This is awkward.”

“It’s awkward for me, too. I don’t know your name.”

“Elizabeth. Liz.”

“I’d like to talk with you a little bit if you don’t mind. It would mean a lot to me.”

She suddenly opened the door.

“I have to apologize. I was going to call, but I just-I didn’t know what to say. Please. Come in. I’m getting ready for class, but I have a few minutes. There’s some coffee-”

Holman stepped past her and waited in the living room as she closed the door. He told her not to go to any trouble, but she went to her kitchen anyway and took two mugs from the cupboard, leaving him in her living room.

“This is just so weird. I’m sorry. I don’t use sugar. We might have Sweeta-”

“Black is fine.”

“I have nonfat milk.”

“Just black.”

It was a large apartment, with the living room, a dining area, and the kitchen all sharing space. Holman was suddenly overcome by being in Richie’s home. He had told himself to be all business, just ask his questions and get out, but now his son’s life was all around him and he wanted to fill himself with it: A mismatched couch and chair faced a TV on a pedestal stand in the corner; racks cluttered with CDs and DVDs tipped against the wall-Green Day, Beck, Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back; a gas fireplace was built into the wall, its mantel filled with rows of overlapping pictures. Holman let himself drift closer.

“This is a nice place,” he said.

“It’s more than we can afford, but it’s close to campus. I’m getting my master’s in child psychology.”

“That sounds real good.”

Holman felt like a dummy and wished he could think of something better to say.

“I just got out of prison.”

“I know.”

Stupid.

The pictures showed Richie and Liz together, alone, and with other couples. One shot showed them on a boat; another wearing flare-bright parkas in the snow; in another, they were at a picnic where everyone wore LAPD T-shirts. Holman found himself smiling, but then he saw a picture of Richie with Donna and his smile collapsed. Donna had been younger than Holman, but in the picture she looked older. Her hair was badly colored and her face was cut by deep lines and shadows. Holman turned away, hiding from the memories and the sudden flush of shame, and found Liz beside him with the coffee. She offered a cup, and Holman accepted it. He shrugged to encompass the apartment.

“You have a nice place. I like the pictures. It’s like getting to know him a little bit.”

Her eyes never left him and and now Holman felt watched. Her being a psych major, he wondered if she was analyzing him.

She suddenly lowered the cup.

“You look like him. He was a little taller but not much. You’re heavier.”

“I got fat.”

“I didn’t mean fat. Richard was a runner. That’s all I meant.”

Her eyes filled then, and Holman didn’t know what to do. He raised a hand, thinking to touch her shoulder, but he was afraid he might scare her. Then she pulled herself together and rubbed her eyes clear with the flat of her free hand.

“I’m sorry. This really sucks. This so really sucks. Listen-”

She rubbed her eye again, then held out her hand.

“It’s good to finally meet you.”

“You really think I look like him?”

She made a thin smile.

“Clones. Donna always said the same thing.”

Holman changed the subject. If they got into talking about Donna he would start crying, too.

He said, “Listen, I know you have to get to class and all, but can I ask you a couple of questions about what happened? It won’t take long.”

“They found that man who killed them.”

“I know. I’m just trying to…I talked to Detective Random. Have you met him?”

“Yes, I’ve spoken with him and Captain Levy. Levy was Richard’s commander.”

“Right. I’ve spoken with him, too, but I still have some questions about how this could happen.”

“Juarez blamed Mike for what happened to his brother. Do you know that whole story?”

“Yeah, it’s in the paper. You knew Sergeant Fowler?”

“Mike was Richard’s training officer. They were still really good friends.”

“Random told me that Juarez had been making threats ever since his brother was killed. Was Mike worried about it?”

She frowned as she thought about it, trying to remember, then shook her head.

“Mike never seemed worried about anything. It wasn’t like I saw him that often, just every couple of months or so, but he didn’t seem worried about anything like this.”

“Did Richie maybe mention that Mike was worried?”

“The first I heard about this gang business was when they issued the warrant. Richard never said anything, but he wouldn’t have. He never brought that kind of thing home.”

Holman figured if some guy was shooting off his mouth and making threats, he would pay the guy a visit. He would let the guy have his shot straight up or put the guy in his place, but either way he would deal with it. He wondered if that’s what the four officers were doing that night, making a plan to deal with Juarez, only Juarez got the jump on them. It seemed possible, but Holman didn’t want to suggest it to Elizabeth.

Instead, Holman said, “Fowler probably didn’t want to worry anyone. Guys like Juarez are always threatening policemen. Cops get that all the time.”

Elizabeth nodded, but her eyes began to redden again and Holman knew he had made a mistake. She was thinking that this time it wasn’t just threats-this time the guy like Juarez had gone through with it and now her husband was dead. Holman quickly changed the subject.

“Another thing I’m wondering about-Random told me Richie wasn’t on duty that night?”

“No. He was here working. I was studying. He went out to meet the guys sometimes, but never that late. He told me he had to go meet them. That’s all he said.”

“Did he say he was going to the river?”

“No. I just assumed they would meet at a bar.”

Holman took that in, but it still didn’t help him.

“I guess what’s bothering me is how Juarez found them. The police haven’t been able to explain that yet. It’d be tough to follow someone into that riverbed and not be seen. So I’m thinking maybe if they went down there all the time-you know, a regular thing-maybe Juarez heard about it and knew where to find them.”

“I just don’t know. I can’t believe they went down there all the time and he didn’t tell me about it-it’s so far out of the way.”

Holman agreed. They could have sat around getting drunk anywhere, but they had gone down into a deserted, off-limits place like the riverbed. This implied they didn’t want to be seen, but Holman also knew that cops were like anyone else-they might have gone down there just for the thrill of being someplace no one else could go, like kids breaking into an empty house or climbing up to the Hollywood Sign.

Holman was still thinking it through when he recalled something she mentioned earlier and he asked her about it.

“You said he almost never went out late like that, but on that night he did. What was different about that night?”

She seemed surprised, but then her face darkened and a single vertical line cut her forehead. She glanced away, then looked back and seemed to be studying him. Her face was still, but Holman felt the furious motion of wheels and cogs and levers behind her eyes as she struggled with her answer.

She said, “You.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You were being released the next day. That’s what was different that night, and we both knew it. We knew you were being released the next day. Richard never spoke about you with me. Do you mind me telling you these things? This is just so awful, what we’re going through right now. I don’t want to make it worse for you.”

“I asked you. I want to know.”

She went on.

“I tried talking to him about you-I was curious. You’re his father. You were my father-in-law. When Donna was still alive we both tried-but he just wouldn’t. I knew your release date was coming up. Richard knew, but he still wouldn’t talk about it, and I knew it was bothering him.”

Holman was feeling sick and cold.

“Did he say something, how it was bothering him?”

She cocked her head again, then put down her cup and turned away.

“Come see.”

He followed her back to a bedroom that was arranged as an office. Two desks were set up, one for him and one for her. The first desk, hers, was stacked with textbooks and binders and paperwork. Richie’s desk was backed into a corner where corkboards were fixed to the adjoining walls. The corkboards were covered with so many clippings and Post-it notes and little slips of paper they overlapped each other like scales on a fish. Liz brought him to Richie’s desk and pointed out the clippings.

“Take a look.”

Shootout Ends Crime Spree, Takeover Bandits Stopped, Bystander Killed in Robbery. The articles Holman skimmed were about a pair of takeover lunatics named Marchenko and Parsons. Holman had heard about them in Lompoc. Marchenko and Parsons dressed like commandos and shot up the banks before escaping with their loot.

She said, “He became fascinated with bank robberies. He clipped stories and pulled articles off the Internet and spent all of his time in here with this stuff. It doesn’t take a doctorate to figure out why.”

“Because of me?”

“Wanting to know you. A way of being close to you without being close to you was my guess. We knew you were approaching your release date. We didn’t know if you would try to contact us or if we should contact you or what to do about you. It was pretty clear he was working out his anxiety about you.”

Holman felt a flush of guilt and hoped she was wrong.

“Did he say that?”

Elizabeth didn’t look at him. Her face had closed, and now she stared at the clippings and crossed her arms.

“He wouldn’t. He never talked about you with me or his mother, but when he told me he was going to see the guys, he had been in here all evening. I think he needed to talk to them. He couldn’t talk to me about it, and now look-now look.”

Her face tightened even more with the hardness that anger brings. Holman watched her eyes fill, but was too scared to touch her.

He said, “Hey-”

She shook her head and Holman took it as a warning-like maybe she sensed he wanted to comfort her-and Holman felt even worse. Her neck and arms were bowstrings pulled taut by her anger.

“Goddamnit, he just had to go out. He had to go. Goddamnit-”

“Maybe we should go back in the living room.”

She closed her eyes, then shook her head again, but this time she was telling him she was all right-she was fighting the terrible pain and determined to kill it. She finally opened her eyes and finished her original thought.

“Sometimes it’s easier for a man to show what he feels is a weakness to another male rather than to a female. It’s easier to pretend it’s work than to deal honestly with the emotions. I think that’s what he did that night. I think that’s why he died.”

“Talking about me?”

“No, not you, not specifically-these bank robberies. That was his way of talking about you. The work was like an extra duty assignment. He wanted to be a detective and move up the ladder.”

Holman glanced at Richie’s desk, but he didn’t feel comforted. Copies of what looked like official police reports and case files were spread over the desk. Holman skimmed the top pages and realized that everything was about Marchenko and Parsons. A small map of the city was push-pinned to the board with lines connecting small X’s numbered from 1 to 13 to make a rough pattern. Richie had gone so far as to map their robberies.

Holman suddenly wondered if Richie and Liz believed he had been like them.

He said, “I robbed banks, but I never did anything like this. I never hurt anyone. I wasn’t anything like these guys.”

Her expression softened.

“I didn’t mean it like that. Donna told us how you got caught. Richard knew you weren’t like them.”

Holman appreciated her effort, but the wall was filled with clippings about two degenerates who got off by pistol-whipping their victims. It didn’t take a doctorate.

Liz said, “I don’t want to be rude, but I have to finish getting ready or I’ll end up blowing off class.”

Holman reluctantly turned away, then hesitated.

“He was working on this before he went out?”

“Yeah. He had been here all evening.”

“Were those other guys on the Marchenko thing, too?”

“Mike, maybe. He talked with Mike about it a lot. I don’t know about the others.”

Holman nodded, taking a last look at his dead son’s workplace. He wanted to read everything on Richie’s desk. He wanted to know why a uniformed officer with only a couple of years on the job was involved in a major investigation and why his son had left home in the middle of the night. He had come here for answers, but now had more questions.

Holman turned away for the final time.

“They haven’t told me about the arrangements yet. For his funeral.”

He hated to ask and hated it even more when the hardness again flashed across her face. But then she fought it back and shook her head.

“They’re having a memorial for the four of them this Saturday at the Police Academy. The police haven’t released them for burial. I guess they’re still…”

Her voice faded, but Holman understood why. These officers had been murdered. The medical examiner was probably still gathering evidence and they couldn’t be buried until all of the tests and fact-finding were complete.

Elizabeth suddenly touched his arm.

“You’ll come, won’t you? I would like you to be there.”

Holman felt relieved. He had been worried she might try to keep him away from the services. It also wasn’t lost on him that neither Levy nor Random had told him about the memorial.

“I would like that, Liz. Thank you.”

She stared up at him for a moment, then lifted on her toes to kiss Holman’s cheek.

“I wish it had been different.”

Holman had spent the past ten years wishing everything had been different.

He thanked her again when she let him out, then returned to his car. He wondered if Random would attend the memorial. Holman had questions. He expected Random to have answers.

13

THE MEMORIAL SERVICE was held in the auditorium at the Los Angeles Police Department’s Police Academy in Chavez Ravine, which was set between two hills outside the Stadium Way entrance to Dodger Stadium. Years earlier, the Dodgers erected their own version of the Hollywood Sign on the hill separating the academy from the stadium. It read THINK BLUE, the Dodger color being blue. When Holman saw the sign that morning it struck him as a fitting reminder of the four dead officers. Blue was also the LAPD color.

Liz had invited Holman to accompany her and her family to the service, but Holman had declined. Her parents and sister had flown down from the Bay area, but Holman felt uncomfortable with them. Liz’s father was a physician and her mother was a social worker; they were educated, affluent, and normal in a way Holman admired, but they reminded him of everything he was not. When Holman passed the gate to Dodger Stadium, he recalled how he and Chee had often cruised the parking lot for cars to steal during the middle innings. Liz’s father probably had memories of all-night study sessions, frat parties, and proms, but the best Holman could manage were memories of stealing and getting high.

Holman parked well off the academy grounds and walked up Academy Road, following directions Liz had provided. The academy’s parking lot was already full. Cars lined both sides of the street and people were streaming uphill into the academy. Holman glanced over their faces, hoping to spot Random or Vukovich. He had phoned Random three times to discuss what he learned from Liz, but Random had not returned his calls. Holman figured Random had dismissed him, but Holman wasn’t content with being dismissed. He still had questions and he still wanted answers.

Liz had told him to meet them in the rock garden outside the auditorium. The flow of foot traffic led him up through the center of the academy to the garden, where a large crowd of people stood in small groups. Camera crews taped the crowd while reporters interviewed local politicians and the LAPD’s top brass. Holman felt self-conscious. Liz had lent him one of Richie’s dark suits but the pants were too tight, so Holman wore them unfastened beneath his belt. He had sweat through the suit even before he reached the garden and now he felt like a wino in hand-me-down threads.

Holman found Liz and her family with Richie’s commander, Captain Levy. Levy shook Holman’s hand, then took them to meet the other families. Liz seemed to sense Holman’s discomfort and hung back as Levy led them through the crowd.

“You look good, Max. I’m glad you’re here.”

Holman managed a smile.

Levy introduced them to Mike Fowler’s widow and four sons, Mellon’s wife, and Ash’s parents. All of them seemed drained, and Holman thought Fowler’s wife was probably sedated. Everyone treated him politely and with respect, but Holman still felt conspicuous and out of place. He caught the others staring at him several times and-each time-he flushed, certain they were thinking, That’s Holman’s father, the criminal. He felt more embarrassed for Richie than for himself. He had managed to shame his son even in death.

Levy returned a few minutes later, touched Liz on the arm, then led them inside through open double doors. The floor of the auditorium was filled with chairs. A dais and podium had been erected on the stage. Large photographs of the four officers were draped with American flags. Holman hesitated at the doors, glanced back at the crowd, and saw Random with three other men at the edge of the crowd. Holman immediately reversed course. He was halfway to Random when Vukovich suddenly blocked his way. Vukovich was wearing a somber navy suit and sunglasses. It was impossible to see his eyes.

Vukovich said, “It’s a sad day, Mr. Holman. You’re not still driving without a license, are you?”

“I’ve called Random three times, but he hasn’t seen fit to return my calls. I have more questions about what happened that night.”

“We know what happened that night. We told you.”

Holman glanced past Vukovich at Random. Random was staring back, but then resumed his conversation. Holman looked back at Vukovich.

“What you told me doesn’t add up. Was Richie working on the Marchenko and Parsons investigation?”

Vukovich studied him for a moment, then turned away.

“Wait here, Mr. Holman. I’ll see if the boss has time to talk to you.”

Word was spreading that it was time to be seated. The people in the rock garden were making their way to the auditorium but Holman stayed where he was. Vukovich went over to Random and the three men. Holman guessed they were high-level brass, but didn’t know and didn’t care. When Vukovich reached them, Random and two of the men glanced back at Holman, then turned their backs and continued talking. After a moment, Random and Vukovich came over. Random didn’t look happy, but he offered his hand.

“Let’s step to the side, Mr. Holman. It’ll be easier to talk when we’re out of the way.”

Holman followed them to the edge of the garden, Random on one side of him and Vukovich on the other. Holman felt like they were shaking him down.

When they were away from the other people, Random crossed his arms.

“All right, I understand you have some questions?”

Holman described his conversation with Elizabeth and the enormous collection of material pertaining to Marchenko and Parsons he had found on Richie’s desk. He still didn’t buy the explanation the police put forth about Juarez. The bank robberies seemed a more likely connection if Richie was involved in the investigation. Holman floated his theory, but Random shook his head even before Holman finished.

“They weren’t investigating Marchenko and Parsons. Marchenko and Parsons are dead. That case was closed three months ago.”

“Richie told his wife he had an extra duty assignment. She thought Mike Fowler might have been involved in it, too.”

Random looked impatient. The auditorium was filling.

“If your son was looking into Marchenko and Parsons he was doing so as a hobby or maybe as an assignment for a class he was taking, but that’s all. He was a uniformed patrol officer. Patrol officers aren’t detectives.”

Vukovich nodded.

“What difference would it make one way or the other? That case was closed.”

“Richie was home that night. He was home all evening until he got a call and went to meet his friends at one in the morning. If I was him and my buddies called that time of night just to go drinking I would have blown them off-but if we’re doing police work, then maybe I would go. If they were under the bridge because of Marchenko and Parsons, it might be connected with their murder.”

Random shook his head.

“Now isn’t the time for this, Mr. Holman.”

“I’ve been calling, but you haven’t returned my calls. Now seems like a pretty damn good time to me.”

Random seemed to be studying him. Holman thought the man was trying to gauge his strength and weaknesses the same way he would gauge a suspect he was interrogating. He finally nodded, as if he had come to a decision he didn’t enjoy.

“Okay, look, you know what the bad news is? They went down there to drink. I’m going to tell you something now, but if you repeat it and it gets back to me I’ll deny I said it. Vuke?”

Vukovich nodded, agreeing that he would deny it, too.

Random pursed his lips like whatever he was about to say was going to taste bad and lowered his voice.

“Mike Fowler was a drunk. He’s been a drunk for years and he was a disgraceful police officer.”

Vukovich glanced around to make sure no one was listening and looked uncomfortable.

“Take it easy, boss.”

“Mr. Holman needs to understand. Fowler radioed he was going to take a break, but he wasn’t supposed to be drinking and he had no business telling those younger officers to meet him in an off-limits location. I want you to keep this in mind, Holman-Fowler was a supervisor. He was supposed to be available to the patrol officers in his area when they needed his assistance, but he decided to go drinking instead. Mellon was on duty, too, and knew better, but he was a mediocre officer, also-he wasn’t even in his assigned service division. Ash was off duty, but he wasn’t in the running for Officer of the Year, either.”

Holman sensed that Random was sweating him, but he didn’t know why and he didn’t like it.

“What are you telling me, Random? What does any of this have to do with Marchenko and Parsons?”

“You’re looking for a reason to understand why those officers were under the bridge, so I’m telling you. I blame Mike Fowler for what happened, him being a supervisor, but no one was down there solving the crime of the century. They were problem officers with shit records and a crappy attitude.”

Holman felt himself flush. Levy had told him Richie was an outstanding officer…one of the best.

“Are you telling me that Richie was a rotten cop? Is that what you’re saying?”

Vukovich held up a finger.

“Take it easy, bud. You’re the one who asked.”

Random said, “Sir, I didn’t want to tell you any of this. I had hoped I wouldn’t have to.”

The throbbing in Holman’s head spread to his shoulders and arms, and he wanted to knuckle up. All the deep parts of him wanted to throw fists and beat down Random and Vukovich for saying that Richie was rotten, but Holman wasn’t like that anymore. He told himself he wasn’t like that. He forced down his anger and spoke slowly.

“Richie was working on something about Marchenko and Parsons. I want to know why he had to talk to Fowler about it at one in the morning.”

“What you need to do is concentrate on making good your release and let us do our jobs. This conversation is over, Mr. Holman. I suggest you settle down and pay your respects.”

Random turned away without another word and moved with the crowd into the auditorium. Vukovich stayed with Holman a moment longer before following.

Holman didn’t move. He felt as if he would shatter from the horrendous rage that had suddenly made him brittle. He wanted to scream. He wanted to jack a Porsche and burn through the city as fast as it would go. He wanted to get high and suck down a bottle of the finest tequila and scream at the night.

Holman went to the double doors but could not enter. He watched people taking their seats without really seeing them. He saw the four dead men staring at him from their giant pictures. He felt Richie’s dead two-dimensional eyes.

Holman turned away and walked fast back to his car, sweating hard in the heat. He stripped off Richie’s jacket and tie and unbuttoned his shirt, tears filling his eyes with great hot drops that came as if they were being crushed from his heart.

Richie wasn’t bad.

He wasn’t like his father.

Holman wiped the snot from his face and walked faster. He didn’t believe it. He wouldn’t let himself believe it.

My son is not like me.

Holman swore to himself he would prove it. He had already asked the last and only person he trusted for help and had been waiting to hear back from her. He needed her help. He needed her and he prayed she would answer.