Robert Crais - The Two Minute Rule

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.