Robert Crais - The Two Minute Rule

“I’m sure of it, Mrs. Marchenko, a handsome young man like him. What did the officers want to know about her?”

“Just questions, they ask-did Anton see her a lot, where she lives, like that, but I am not going to help these people who murdered my son. I made like I don’t know her.”

“So you didn’t tell them about her?”

“I say I don’t know any girl named Allie. I am not going to help these murderers.”

“We’d like to speak with her for the article, Mrs. Marchenko. Could you give me her phone number?”

“I don’t know the number.”

“That’s okay. We can look it up. How about her last name?”

“I am not making this up. He would call her when he was here watching the television. She was so nice, a nice girl, she was laughing when he gave me the phone.”

Mrs. Marchenko had once more flushed, and Holman saw how desperately she needed them to believe her. She had been trapped in her tiny house by the death of her son, and no one was listening and no one had listened for three months and she was alone. Holman felt so bad he wanted to jump up and run, but instead he smiled and made his voice gentle.

“We believe you. We just want to talk to the girl. When was this you spoke to her?”

“Since before they murdered my Anton. It was a long time. Anton would come and we would watch the TV. Sometimes he would call her and put me on the phone, here, Mama, talk to my girl.”

Pollard pouched out her lips, thinking, then glanced at the phone at the end of Mrs. Marchenko’s couch.

“Maybe if you showed us your old phone bills we could figure out which number belongs to Allie. Then we could see if Detective Fowler treated her as badly as he treated you.”

Mrs. Marchenko brightened.

“Would that help me sue them?”

“Yes, ma’am, I think it might.”

Mrs. Marchenko pushed up from her chair and waddled out of the room.

Holman leaned toward Pollard and lowered his voice.

“Who’s this fifth guy?”

“I don’t know.”

“The papers didn’t say anything about a girlfriend.”

“I don’t know. She wasn’t on the FBI witness list, either.”

Mrs. Marchenko interrupted them by returning with a cardboard box.

“The bills I put in here after I pay them. It’s all mixed up.”

Holman settled back and watched them go through the bills. Mrs. Marchenko didn’t make many calls and didn’t phone many different numbers-her landlord, her doctors, a couple of other older women who were friends, her younger brother in Cleveland, and her son. Whenever Pollard found a number Mrs. Marchenko couldn’t identify, Pollard called the number on her cell phone, but the first three she dialed were two repairmen and a Domino’s. Mrs. Marchenko remembered the repairmen, but frowned when Pollard reached the Domino’s.

“I never have the pizza. That must have been Anton.”

The Domino’s call had been placed five months ago. The following number on the list was also a number Mrs. Marchenko couldn’t identify, but then she nodded.

“That must be Allie. I remember the pizza now. I tell Anton it has a nasty taste. When the man brought it, Anton gave me the phone when he went to the door.”

Pollard smiled at Holman.

“Well, there we go. Let’s see who answers.”

Pollard dialed the number, and Holman watched as her smile faded. She closed her phone.

“It’s no longer in service.”

Mrs. Marchenko said, “Is this bad?”

“Maybe not. I’m pretty sure we can use this number to find her.”

Pollard copied the number into her notebook along with the time, date, and duration of the call, then searched through the remaining bills, but found the number only one other time on a call placed three weeks before the first.

Pollard glanced at Holman, then smiled at Mrs. Marchenko.

“I think we’ve taken enough of your time. Thank you very much.”

Mrs. Marchenko’s face folded in disappointment.

“Don’t you want to talk about the fan and how they lied?”

Pollard stood and Holman stood with her.

“I think we have enough. We’ll see what Allie has to say and we’ll get back to you. Come on, Holman.”

Mrs. Marchenko waddled after them to the door.

“They did not have to kill my boy. I don’t believe any of those things they said. Will you put that in your story?”

“Goodbye and thank you again.”

Pollard walked out to the car, but Holman hesitated. He felt awkward just leaving.

Mrs. Marchenko said, “Anton was trying to give up. Put in your story how they murdered my son.”

Pollard was waving for him to join her, but here was this old woman with her pleading eyes, thinking they were going to help her and they were going to leave her with nothing. Holman felt ashamed of himself. He looked at the broken fan.

“You couldn’t fix it?”

“How could I get it fixed? My Anton is dead. How could I get it fixed until I sue and get the money?”

Pollard beeped the horn. Holman glanced at her, then turned back to Mrs. Marchenko.

“Let me take a look.”

Holman went back into the house and examined the fan. The safety cage was supposed to be attached at the back of the motor by a little screw, but the screw was broken. It had probably snapped when the cops knocked over the fan. The head of the screw had popped off and the body of the screw was still in the hole. It would have to be drilled and rethreaded. It would be cheaper to buy a new fan.

“I can’t fix it, Mrs. Marchenko. I’m sorry.”

“This is outrageous, what they did to my son. I am going to sue them.”

The horn beeped.

Holman went back to the door and saw Pollard waving, but he still didn’t leave. Here was this woman with her son who had robbed thirteen banks, murdered three people, and wounded four others; her little boy who had modified semiautomatic rifles to fire like machine guns, dressed up like a lunatic, and shot it out with the police, but here she was, defending her son to the last.

Holman said, “Was he a good son?”

“He came and we watched the TV.”

“Then that’s all you need to know. You hang on to that.”

Holman left her then and went to join Pollard.

WHEN HOLMAN pulled the door closed, Pollard roared back toward Union station.

“What were you doing? Why’d you go back inside?”

“To see if I could fix her fan.”

“We have something important here and you’re wasting time with that?”

“The woman thinks we’re helping her. I didn’t feel right just leaving.”

Holman felt so bad he didn’t notice that Pollard had gone silent. When he finally glanced over, her mouth was a hard line and her brow was cut by a vertical line.

He said, “What?”

“It might not have dawned on you, but I did not enjoy that. I don’t like lying to some poor woman who lost her son and I don’t like sneaking around pretending to be something I’m not. This kind of thing was easier and simpler when I was on the Feeb, but I’m not, so this is what we have. I don’t need you making me feel even worse.”

Holman stared at her. He had spent much of the night regretting he had gotten her involved, and now he felt like a moron.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Forget it. I know you didn’t.”

She was clearly in a bad mood now, but Holman didn’t know what to say. The more he thought about everything she was doing for him, the more he felt like an idiot.

“I’m sorry.”

Her mouth tightened, so he decided not to apologize again. He decided to change the subject.

“Hey, I know this Allie thing is important. Can you find her with a disconnected number?”

“I’ll have a friend of mine at the Feeb do it. They can run the number through a database that will show prior subscribers even though it’s no longer in use.”