Robert Crais - The Two Minute Rule

Holman fell silent, and Chee shook his head.

“What the fuck are those cops doin’, homes? What you got into?”

Holman kept driving. He was thinking. He had to tell Pollard.

POLLARD CALLED IT the blood tingle. She blasted up the Hollywood Freeway, high-fiving the dashboard and pumping her fist, feeling the electric buzz in her fingers and legs that had always come with making a breakthrough in a case-the blood tingle. Now she wasn’t just covering someone else’s old case notes-the girlfriend was new. Pollard had turned a new lead and now the investigation felt totally hers.

She called April Sanders as she hit Hollywood and climbed the Cahuenga Pass.

“Hey, girl, can you talk?”

April came back whispering so softly Pollard could barely understand.

“Office. You got more donuts?”

“I have an out-of-service phone number and I’m in my car. Can you pull the subscriber for me?”

“Yeah, I think-hang on.”

Pollard smiled. She knew Sanders would be peeking out of her cubicle to make sure she wasn’t being watched.

“Yeah, sure. What is it?”

Pollard read off the number.

“Three-ten area code.”

“Stand by. I show a Verizon account for one Alison Whitt, W-HI-T-T, billed to what looks like a Hollywood POB. You want it?”

“Yeah. Go.”

The address appeared to be a private mailbox service on Sunset Boulevard.

“What was the date of termination?”

“Last week…six days ago.”

Pollard thought about it. If Fowler had discovered her number at about the time he visited Leyla Marchenko he would have been able to contact her. Maybe Fowler’s contact is why she dropped the number.

“April, see if she has a new listing.”

“Ah…hang on. No, negative. No Alison Whitt in the listings.”

Pollard found the absence of a new listing notable but not unusual. Unlisted numbers didn’t show on the regular database, so Whitt’s new number might be unlisted. Also, it was possible Whitt had taken a number under a different name or was sharing a phone billed to another party. The bad news was that none of this would help Pollard find her.

“Listen, one more thing. I hate to ask, but could you check this girl in the system?”

“The NCIC?”

“Whatever. The DMV should be fine. I’m trying to find her.”

“Is this something I should know about?”

“If it turns out to be I’ll let you know.”

Sanders hesitated, and Pollard thought she might be peeking at the office again. Running a government database check couldn’t be handled at her desk. Sanders returned to the line.

“I can’t right now. Leeds is here but I can’t see him. I don’t want him to ask what I’m doing.”

“So call me later.”

“Out.”

Pollard felt good about the progress she was making. The disconnection of Alison’s phone number so close in time to Fowler’s questioning of Mrs. Marchenko was too coincidental. Coincidences occurred, but, like all cops, Pollard had learned to be suspicious of them. She put down her phone, anxious to go through Fowler’s phone records and hear back from Sanders. If Sanders struck out, Pollard knew she could try for contact information through the mailbox service. Learning anything from the mail service would be difficult without her creds, but it left her an avenue for investigation and she found herself smiling again.

Pollard knew she might not hear back from Sanders until the end of the day, so she had her car washed, then went to Ralphs. She stocked up on food and toilet paper and bought extra treats for the boys. They ate like starving wolves and seemed to eat more every day. She found herself wondering if Holman had once bought boxes of Jujubes for his little boy, and suspected that no, he hadn’t. This left her feeling sad. Holman seemed like a pretty good guy now that she had gotten to know him, but she also knew he had been a criminal for much of his life. Every thug she ever arrested had a story-debt, drug addiction, abusive parents, no parents, learning disabilities, poverty, whatever. None of that mattered. All that mattered was whether or not you broke the law. If you did the crime, you did the time, and Holman had done the time. Pollard thought it was a shame he hadn’t had a second chance with his son.

Once she had the groceries away, she straightened the house, then sat on her living room couch with Fowler’s phone bills. She read through the outgoing numbers beginning with the date Fowler visited Mrs. Marchenko and found Alison Whitt’s phone number only a few days later. Fowler had called her on the same Thursday he and Holman’s son went out late and came home muddy. Fowler had called her, but Mrs. Marchenko claimed she did not give Fowler any information about Allie, which meant Fowler had gotten her number from another source. Pollard read through the rest of Fowler’s bills, but the Thursday call was the only time he called her. Pollard searched through Richard Holman’s bills next, but found nothing.

Pollard wondered how Fowler had learned about Alison Whitt. She reviewed the FBI’s witness list. The summaries referenced Marchenko’s landlord and neighbors, but did not include anyone named Alison Whitt. If one of the neighbors reported that Marchenko or Parsons had a girlfriend, the investigators would have followed the trail and named her in the witness list, but just the opposite had occurred-the neighbors uniformly stated that neither man had friends, girlfriends, or other visitors to their apartment. Yet somehow Fowler had learned of Whitt before he visited Mrs. Marchenko. Maybe the fifth man had known. Maybe the fifth man’s phone number was somewhere in Fowler’s bills.

Pollard was still thinking about it when her doorbell rang. She pushed the papers together, went to the door, and squinted through the peephole. It was still too early for her mother to bring the boys home.

Leeds and Bill Cecil were at the door, Leeds scowling at something down the street. He didn’t look happy. He frowned at his watch, rubbed his chin, then rang her bell again.

Though Cecil had been to her home on several occasions when she and Marty entertained, Leeds had never been to her house. She had not seen him outside the office since she left the Feeb.

He was reaching to ring the bell again when Pollard opened the door.

“Chris, Bill, this is-what a surprise.”

Leeds didn’t look particularly happy to see her. His blue suit hung loose off his hunched frame and he towered over her like a spindly scarecrow who no longer liked his job. Cecil stood a halfstep behind him, expressionless.

Leeds said, “I would think so. May we come in?”

“Of course. Absolutely.”

She stepped out of the way to let them in, but she didn’t know what to do or say. Leeds entered first. As Cecil passed, he raised his eyebrows, warning her Leeds was in a mood. Pollard moved to join Leeds in the living room.

“I’m stunned. Were you in the area?”

“No, I came up here to see you. This is very nice, Katherine. You have a lovely home. Are your boys here?”

“No. They’re at camp.”

“Too bad. I would have liked to meet them.”

Pollard felt the creepy sensation of being a child again in the presence of her father. Leeds looked around as if he was inspecting her house, while Cecil stood just inside the door. Leeds finished his slow tour of the living room and settled on her like a sinking ship finding rest on the bottom.

He said, “Have you lost your mind?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why on earth would you get involved with a convicted criminal?”

Pollard felt the blood rush to her face as her stomach knotted. She started to open her mouth, but he shook his head, stopping her.

“I know you’re helping Max Holman.”