Robert Crais - The Two Minute Rule

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.

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.