Robert Crais - The Two Minute Rule

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.

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.

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.