Robert Crais - The Two Minute Rule

“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.

FBI SPECIAL AGENT Katherine Pollard (retired) stood in the kitchen of her small tract home watching the clock above her sink. When she held her breath, a perfect silence filled the house. She watched the second hand sweep silently toward the twelve. The minute hand was poised at eleven thirty-two. The second hand touched the twelve. The minute hand released like a firing pin, jumping to eleven thirty-three-

TOCK!

The snap of passing time broke the silence.

Pollard wiped a ribbon of sweat from her face as she considered the debris that had accumulated in her kitchen: cups, grape juice cartons, open boxes of Cap’n Crunch and Sugar Smacks, and bowls showing the first stages of whole milk curdled by the heat. Pollard lived in the Simi Valley, where the temperature that day-twenty-seven minutes before noon-had already notched 104 degrees. Her air conditioner had been out for six days and wasn’t likely to be fixed any time soon-Katherine Pollard was broke. She was using the heat-stroked squalor to prepare herself for the inevitable and humiliating call to beg her mother for money.