Robert Crais - The Two Minute Rule

“I’ll have to fax it to you.”

Pollard left the building with Sanders, then went to her car. It was one forty-five. Her mother would be hammering the boys to clean their room and the day was still young. Pollard had an idea how she could find out what she wanted to know, but she would need Holman’s help. She found his cell number on the envelope and placed the call.

AFTER HOLMAN left Agent Pollard he returned to his Highlander and called Perry to let him know what was happening with the Mercury.

“A couple of guys are bringing back your car. They’ll put it in the alley.”

“Waitaminute. You let some other asshole drive my car? Where you get off doing something like that?”

“I got a new set of wheels, Perry. How else could I get your car back?”

“That bastard better not pick up a ticket or I’m making you pay.”

“I got a cell phone, too. Let me give you the number.”

“Why? In case I gotta call to say your fuckin’ friends have stolen my car?”

Holman gave him the number, then got off the line. Perry was wearing him out.

Holman walked around Westwood looking for a place to have lunch. Most of the restaurants he passed looked too dressy. Holman was feeling self-conscious about his appearance since meeting with Agent Pollard. Even though he had ironed his clothes, he knew they looked cheap. They were prison clothes, bought from secondhand shops with prison money, ten years behind the style. Holman stopped outside a Gap and watched the kids going in and out with big Gap bags. He could probably set himself up with a new pair of jeans and a couple of shirts, but spending Chee’s money on clothes bothered him, so he talked himself out of it. A block later he bought a pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarers from a street vendor for nine dollars. He liked the way he looked in them, but didn’t realize until he was two blocks away that they were the same style glasses he wore when he was robbing banks.

Holman found a Burger King across the street from the UCLA main gate, settled in with a Whopper and fries and the instruction manual for his new cell phone. He set up his voice mail and was programming the list of numbers he’d been keeping in his wallet into the phone’s memory when the phone made a chiming sound. Holman thought he had caused the chime by pressing the wrong button, then realized he was getting a call. It took him a moment to remember to answer by pressing the Send key.

He said, “Hello?”

“Holman, it’s Katherine Pollard. I have a question for you.”

Holman wondered if anything was wrong. She had left him only an hour ago.

“Okay. Sure.”

“Have you met or spoken with Fowler’s widow?”

“Yeah. I met her at the memorial.”

“Good. We’re going to go see her.”

“Right now?”

“Yeah. I have the free time now, so now would be good. I want you to meet me back in Westwood. There’s a mystery bookstore on Broxton just south of Weyburn with a parking structure next door. Park in the structure and meet me outside the bookstore. I’ll do the driving.”

“Okay, sure, but why are we going to see her? Did you find out something?”

“I’ve asked two people if LAPD was running an investigation and they both denied it, but I think it’s possible something was going on. She might be able to tell us.”

“Why do you think Fowler’s wife knows?”

“Your son told his wife, didn’t he?”

The simplicity of that notion impressed Holman.

“Should we call her or something? What if she isn’t home?”

“You never call them, Holman. When you call, they always say no. We’ll take our chances. How long before you can get back to Westwood?”

“I’m already there.”

“Then I’ll see you in five.”

Holman hung up, regretting that he hadn’t bought new clothes at the Gap.

When Holman stepped out of the parking structure, Pollard was waiting in front of the bookstore in a blue Subaru with the windows raised and the engine running. It was several years old and needed a wash. He climbed into the passenger side and pulled the door closed.

He said, “Man, you got back to me really fast.”

She tore away from the curb.

“Yeah, thanks, now listen-we have three things to cover with this woman: Was her husband participating in some kind of investigation involving Marchenko and Parsons? Did he tell her why he left the house to meet your son and the others that night, and what they were going to do? And, in either of the above conversations or at any other time, did he mention Marchenko and Parsons being connected with Frogtown or any other gang? Got it? That should tell us what you need to know.”

Holman stared at her.

“Is this what it was like when you were on the Feeb?”

“Don’t call it the Feeb, Holman. I can call it the Feeb, but I don’t want to hear that kind of disrespect from you.”

Holman turned to stare out the window. He felt like a child whose hand had been slapped for chewing with his mouth open.

She said, “No sulking. Please don’t sulk, Holman. I’m hitting this fast because we have a lot of ground to cover and I don’t have much time. You came to me, remember?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Okay. She lives up in Canoga Park. Take us about twenty minutes if we stay ahead of the traffic.”

Holman was irritated, but he liked that she had taken the lead and was pushing forward. He took it as a sign of her experience and professionalism.

“So why do you think something is going on even though your friends said the case was closed?”

Pollard swiveled her head like a fighter pilot on patrol, then gunned the Subaru onto the 405, heading north. Holman held on, wondering if she always drove like this.

She said, “They never recovered the money.”

“The papers said they got nine hundred thousand in Marchenko’s apartment.”

“Chump change. Those guys netted over sixteen mil in their heists. It’s missing.”

Holman stared at her.

“That’s a lot of money.”

“Yeah.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“What happened to it?”

“No one knows.”

They climbed the 405 out of Westwood toward the Sepulveda Pass. Holman turned in his seat to look out at the city. The city stretched away from him as far as he could see.

He said, “All that money is just…out there?”

“Don’t mention the money to this woman, okay, Holman? If she mentions it, fine, then we’ve learned something, but the idea here is that we want to find out what she knows. We don’t want to put ideas in her head. That’s called witness contamination.”

Holman was still thinking about the sixteen million dollars. His biggest single take had been three thousand, one hundred, and twenty-seven dollars. The combined take from all nine of his robberies had been eighteen thousand, nine hundred, and forty-two dollars.

“You think they were trying to find the money?”

“Finding money isn’t the LAPD’s job. But if they had a lead to someone who had knowingly received stolen money or was holding it for Marchenko and Parsons or was in possession of the stolen cash, then, yeah, it would be their job to conduct an investigation.”

They were steaming north out of the mountains and across the Ventura Interchange. The San Fernando Valley spread out before them to the east and west, and north to the Santa Susana Mountains, a great flat valley filled with buildings and people. Holman kept thinking about the money. He couldn’t get the sixteen million out of his head. It might be anywhere.

Holman said, “They were trying to find the money. You can’t let that much money just go.”

Pollard laughed.

“Holman, you wouldn’t believe how much dough we lose. Not with guys like you who we bag alive-you bag a guy, he’ll give it up if he has any left, trying to cut a deal-but the takeover guys like Marchenko and Parsons who get killed? One-point-two here, five hundred thousand there, just gone, and no one ever finds it. No one who reports it, anyway.”