Robert Crais - The Two Minute Rule

“How long will it take?”

“It’s computers. Milliseconds.”

“Why wasn’t she on the witness list?”

“Because they didn’t know about her, Holman. Duh.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s why this is important. They didn’t know about her, but Fowler did. That means he learned about her from some other source.”

“Fowler and the new guy.”

Pollard glanced over at him.

“Yeah, and the new guy. I’m looking forward to talking with this girl, Holman. I want to find out what she told them.”

Holman grew thoughtful. They were driving west on Main Street toward the river. He was thinking about what she might have told them, too.

“Maybe she told them to meet her under the bridge to cut up the money.”

Pollard didn’t look at him. She was silent for a moment and then she shrugged.

“We’ll see. I’ll go back through his phone bills to see if and when they made contact, and I’ll see if we can find her. I’ll call you later with whatever I find.”

Holman watched her drive, feeling even more guilty that she would be spending her afternoon with this.

“Listen, I want to thank you again for going to all this trouble. I didn’t mean to put my foot in it back there.”

“You’re welcome. Forget it.”

“I know you already said no, but I’d like to pay you something. At least gas money since you won’t let me drive.”

“If we have to get gas I’ll let you pay. Will that make you feel better?”

“I’m not trying to be a pain. I just feel bad with you putting in so much time.”

Pollard didn’t respond.

“Your husband doesn’t mind you spending all this time?”

“Let’s not talk about my husband.”

Holman sensed he had stepped over a line with her, so he backed off and fell silent. He had noticed she didn’t wear a ring the first time he saw her at Starbucks, but she had mentioned her kids so he didn’t know what to make of it. Now he regretted bringing it up.

They drove on without speaking. As they crossed the river, Holman tried to see the Fourth Street Bridge, but it was too far away. He was surprised when Pollard suddenly spoke.

“I don’t have a husband. He’s dead.”

“Sorry. It was none of my business.”

“It sounds worse than it was. We were separated. We were on our way to a divorce we both wanted.”

Pollard shrugged, but still didn’t look at him.

“How about you? How’d it go between you and your wife?”

“Richie’s mom?”

“Yeah.”

“We never got married.”

“Typical.”

“If I could go back and do it all over again I would have married her, but that was me. I didn’t learn my lesson until I was in prison.”

“Some people never learn, Holman. At least you figured it out. Maybe you’re ahead of the curve.”

Holman had been spiraling down into the inevitable funk, but when he glanced over he saw Pollard smiling.

She said, “I can’t believe you went back to fix her fan.”

Holman shrugged.

“That was cool, Holman. That was very, very cool.”

Holman watched Union Station swing into view and realized he was smiling, too.

HOLMAN DIDN’T immediately leave Union Station when Pollard dropped him off. He waited until she had gone, then walked across to Olvera Street. A Mexican dance troop garbed in brilliant feathers was performing Toltec dances to the rhythms of a beating drum. The drumbeats were fast and primitive, and the dancers soared around each other so quickly they appeared to be flying.

Holman watched for a while, then bought a churro and moved through the crowd. Tourists from all over the world crowded the alleys and shops, buying sombreros and Mexican handicrafts. Holman drifted among them. He breathed the air and felt the sun and enjoyed the churro. He wandered along a row of shops, stopping in some when the notion struck him and bypassing others. Holman felt a lightness he hadn’t known in a while. When long-term convicts were first released they often experienced a form of agoraphobia-a fear of open spaces. The prison counselors had a special name for this type of agoraphobia when they attributed it to convicts-the fear of life. Freedom gave a man choices and choices could be terrifying. Every choice was a potential failure. Every choice could be another step back toward prison. Choices as simple as leaving a room or asking for directions could leave a man humiliated and unable to act. But now Holman felt the lightness and knew he was putting the fear behind him. He was becoming free again and it felt good.

It occurred to him he could have asked Pollard to join him for lunch. Since she wasn’t letting him pay for her time he should have offered to buy her a sandwich. He imagined the two of them having a French Dip at Philippe’s or a taco plate at one of the Mexican restaurants, but then he realized he was being stupid. She would have taken it wrong and probably wouldn’t have seen him again. Holman told himself to be careful with stuff like that. Maybe he wasn’t as free as he thought.

Holman no longer felt hungry, so he picked up his car and was heading for home when his phone rang. He hoped it was Pollard, but the caller ID window showed it was Chee. Holman opened the phone.

“Hey, bro.”

“Where are you, Holman?”

Chee’s voice was quiet.

“On my way home. I just left Union Station.”

“Come see me, bro. Drop around the shop.”

Holman wasn’t liking how Chee sounded.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Just come see me, okay?”

Holman was certain that something was wrong and he wondered if it had to do with Random.

“Are you all right?”

“I’ll be waiting.”

Chee hung up without waiting for an answer.

Holman picked up the freeway and headed south. He wanted to call Chee back, but he knew Chee would have already told him if he wanted to say it over the phone, and that worried him even more.

When he reached Chee’s shop he pulled into the lot and was parking his car when Chee came out. As soon as Holman saw him he knew it was bad. Chee’s face was grim, and he didn’t wait for Holman to park. He motioned Holman to stop, then climbed into the passenger seat.

“Let’s take a little drive, bro. Swing on around the block.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Just drive, bro. Get away from this place.”

As they pulled into traffic, Chee swiveled his head left and right as if searching the surrounding cars. He adjusted the outside passenger mirror so he could see behind them.

He said, “It was the cops told you Maria Juarez went on the run?”

“Yeah. They put out a warrant.”

“That’s bullshit, man. They fed you bullshit.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She didn’t go on the run, bro. The fuckin’ cops took her.”

“They said she split. They put out a warrant.”

“Night before last?”

“Yeah, it would’ve been-yeah, the night before last.”

“Their warrant can kiss my ass. They bagged her in the middle of the night. Some people over there, they saw it happen, ese. They heard the noise and saw these two muthuhfuckuhs shove her in a car.”

“A police car?”

“A car car.”

“How do they know it was the police?”

“It was that red-haired guy, homes-that same fuckin’ guy who jumped you. That’s how they know. These are the people who told me that you got bagged, homes! They said it was the same fuckin’ guy who grabbed you.”

Holman drove in silence for a while. The red-haired man was Vukovich, and Vukovich worked for Random.

“They get the plate?”

“No, man, that time of night?”

“What kind of car?”

“Dark blue or brown Crown Victoria. You tell me anyone who drives a Crown Vic but the cops?”