Robert Crais - The Two Minute Rule

She read on with interest-

The police believe they have identified the murderer but I still have questions and cannot get answers. I believe the police hold my status as a convicted criminal against me and that is why they will not listen. As you are an FBI Special Agent I am hoping you will get these answers for me. That is all I want.

My son was a good man. Not like me. Please call me if you will help. You can also talk to my BOP release supervisor, who will vouch for me.

Sincerely yours,

Max Holman

Beneath his name, Holman had written his home phone, the phone number of the Pacific Gardens office, and his work number. Below his phone numbers he had written Gail Manelli’s name and number. Pollard glanced at the clipping again and flashed on her own boys, older, and hoped she would never get the news Max Holman had now gotten. It had been bad enough when she was informed about Marty, even though their marriage was over and they were well on their way to a divorce. In that singular moment, their bad times had vanished and she felt as if she had lost a piece of herself. For Holman, losing his son, it must have been worse.

Pollard suddenly felt a rush of irritation and pushed the letter and the clipping aside, her nostalgic feelings for Holman and the day she bagged him gone. Pollard believed what all cops eventually learned-criminals were degenerate assholes. You could bag them, house them, dope them, and counsel them, but criminals never changed, so it was almost certain that Holman was running some kind of scam and just as certain that Pollard had almost fallen for it.

Thoroughly pissed, she scooped up the phone and the bills, then shut down her car and stormed through the heat to her house. She had humiliated herself by asking her mother for the money, then humiliated herself a second time by falling for Holman’s sob story. Now she had to beg the snotty repairman to drag his ass out here to make her nightmare house livable. Pollard was all the way inside and dialing the repairman when she put down the phone, returned to her car, and retrieved Max Holman’s miserable, stupid-ass letter.

She called the repairman, but then she called Gail Manelli, Holman’s release supervisor.

HOLMAN FOUND Chee behind the counter in his East L.A. shop along with a pretty young girl who smiled shyly when Holman entered. Chee’s face split into a craggy smile, his teeth brown with the morning’s coffee.

Chee said, “Yo, homes. This is my youngest baby, Marisol. Sweetie, say hi to Mr. Holman.”

Marisol told Holman it was a pleasure to meet him.

Chee said, “Baby, have Raul come up here, would you? In my office. Here, bro, c’mon inside.”

Marisol used an intercom to summon Raul as Holman followed Chee into his office. Chee closed the door behind them, shutting her out.

Holman said, “Pretty girl, Chee. Congratulations.”

“What you smilin’ at, bro? You better not be thinking bad thoughts.”

“I’m smiling at the notorious Lil’ Chee calling his daughter ‘sweetie.’”

Chee went to a file drawer and pulled out a camera.

“Girl is my heart, bro, that one and the others. I thank God every day for the air she breathes and the ground beneath her feet. Here-stand right there and look at me.”

“You get me lined up with a ride?”

“Am I the Chee? Let’s get you squared up with this license.”

Chee positioned Holman before a dark blue wall, then lined up the camera.

“Digital, baby-state of the art. Goddamnit, Holman, this ain’t a mug shot-try not to look like you want to kill me.”

Holman smiled.

“Shit. You look like you’re passing a stone.”

The flash went off as someone knocked at the door. A short, hard-eyed young man stepped inside. His arms and face were streaked with grease from working in the body shop. Chee studied the digital image in the camera, then grudgingly decided it would do. He tossed the camera to the new guy.

“California DL, date of issue is today, no restrictions. You don’t wear glasses, do you, Holman, now you got some age?”

“No.”

“No restrictions.”

Raul glanced at Holman.

“Gonna need an address, his date of birth, the stats, and a signature.”

Chee took a pad and pen from his desk and handed them to Holman.

“Here. Put down your height and weight, too. Sign your name on a separate page.”

Holman did what he was told.

“How long before I get the license? I have an appointment.”

“Time you leave with the car, bro. It won’t take long.”

Chee had a brief conversation with Raul in Spanish, then Holman followed him out through the shop into a parking area where a row of cars was waiting. Chee eyeballed the beater.

“Man, no wonder you got pinched. That thing got ‘work release’ written all over it.”

“Can you have someone bring it back to the motel for me?”

“Yeah, no problem. Here’s what I got for you over here-a nice Ford Taurus or this brand-new Highlander, either one carry you in boring middle-class style. Both these vehicles are registered to a rental company I own without wants, warrants, or-unlike that piece of shit you driving now-traffic citations. You get stopped, I rented you the car. That’s it.”

Holman had never seen a Highlander before. It was black and shiny, and sat high on its big tires. He liked the idea of being able to see what was coming.

“The Highlander, I guess.”

“Sweet choice, bro-black, leather trim, a sunroof-you gonna look like a yuppie on your way to the Whole Foods. C’mon, get in. I got something else for you, too, make your life a little easier now you back in the world. Look in the console.”

Holman didn’t know what a Whole Foods was, but he was tired of looking like he had just spent ten years in the can and he was growing worried all of this was going to take too much time. He climbed into his new car and opened the console. Inside was a cell phone.

Chee beamed proudly.

“Got you a cell phone, bro. This ain’t ten years ago, stoppin’ at pay phones and digging for quarters-you got to stay on the grid twenty-four seven. Instruction book’s in there with your number in it. You plug that cord into the cigarette lighter to keep it charged up.”

Holman looked back at Chee.

He said, “Remember when you offered to front me some cash? I hate to do it, man, you being so nice with the car and this phone, but I gotta go back on what I said. I need a pack.”

A pack was a thousand dollars. When banks wrapped used twenties, they bundled fifty bills to a pack. A thousand dollars.

Chee didn’t bat an eye. He studied Holman, then touched his own nose.

“Whatever you want, homes, but I gotta ask-you back on the crank? I don’t want to help you fuck yourself up.”

“It’s nothing like that. I got someone to help me with this thing about Richie; a professional, bro-she really knows what she’s doing. I want to be ready in case there’s expenses.”

Holman had been both relieved and worried when Special Agent Pollard contacted him through Gail Manelli. He hadn’t held much hope he would hear from her, but he had. In typical paranoid FBI fashion, she had checked him out with both Manelli and Wally Figg at the CCC before calling him, and had refused to give him her phone number, but Holman wasn’t complaining-she had finally agreed to meet him at a Starbucks in Westwood to listen to his case. It wasn’t lost on Holman that she gave him a location near the FBI office.

Chee squinted at him.

“What do you mean, she? What kind of professional?”

“The Fed who arrested me.”

Chee’s eyes tightened even more and he waved his hands.

“Bro! Holman, you lost your fuckin’ mind, homes?”