Robert Crais - The Two Minute Rule

“Fowler approached Marchenko’s mother about a girl named Allie. He knew Allie and Anton Marchenko were linked, and asked Mrs. Marchenko about her.”

“What did Mrs. Marchenko tell him?”

“She denied knowing the girl.”

“What did she tell you?”

“She gave us the first name and allowed us to look through her phone bills to find the number.”

“You mean you and the Hero?”

Pollard closed her eyes again.

“Yeah, me and Holman.”

“Huh.”

“Stop.”

“When were the four officers killed that night?”

Pollard knew where Sanders was going and had already considered it.

“One thirty-two. A shotgun pellet broke Mellon’s watch at one thirty-two, so they know the exact time.”

“So it was possible Fowler and these guys killed the girl earlier. They had time to kill her, then get to the river.”

“It’s also possible someone else killed the girl, then went to the river to kill the four officers.”

“Where was the Hero that night?”

Pollard had already thought of that, too.

“He has a name, April. Holman was still in custody. He wasn’t released until the next day.”

“Lucky him.”

“Listen, April, can you get the police report on Alison Whitt?”

“Already have it. I’ll fax you a copy when I get home. I don’t want to do it from here.”

“Thanks, babe.”

“You and the Hero. Man, that’s a shiver.”

Pollard put down the phone and returned to her living room. Her home didn’t seem quiet anymore, but she knew the sounds now came from her heart. She considered the papers on her couch, thinking more papers would soon be added. The Holman file was growing. A girl had been murdered before his release and now Holman believed the police were lying about Maria Juarez. She wondered again if Maria Juarez was going to turn up dead and whether the fifth man would have something to do with it.

Pollard thought about the timing and found herself hoping that Holman’s son had nothing to do with murdering Alison Whitt. She had seen him struggle with the guilt he felt about his son’s death and agonize over the growing evidence that his son had been involved in an illegal scheme to recover the stolen money. Holman would be crushed if his son was a murderer.

Pollard knew she had to tell him about Alison Whitt and find out more about Maria Juarez. Pollard picked up the phone, but hesitated. Leeds’ appearance had taken a toll. His comments about her going Indian had left her feeling foolish and ashamed of herself. She hadn’t gone Indian, but she had been thinking about Holman in ways that disturbed her. Even Sanders had laughed. You and the Hero. Man, that’s a shiver.

Pollard had to call him, but not just yet. She tossed the phone back onto the couch and went back through the kitchen into the garage. It was hotter than hell even though the sun was down and night had fallen. She waded around bicycles, skateboards, and the vacuum cleaner to a battered grey file cabinet layered with dust. She hadn’t opened the damned thing in years.

She pulled the top drawer and found the folder containing her old case clippings. Pollard had saved press clippings from her cases and arrests. She had almost tossed the stuff a hundred times, but now was glad she hadn’t. She wanted to read about him again. She needed to remember why the Times had called him the Hero Bandit, and why he deserved a second chance.

She found the clip and smiled at the headline. Leeds had thrown the paper across the room and cursed the Times for a week, but Pollard had smiled even then. The headline read: Beach Bum a Hero.

Pollard read the clippings at her kitchen table and remembered how they had met…

The Beach Bum Bandit

The woman ahead of him shifted irritably, making a disgusted grunt as she glanced at him for the fourth time. Holman knew she was working herself up to say something, so he ignored her. It didn’t do any good. She finally pulled the trigger.

“I hate this bank. Only three tellers, and they move like sleepwalkers. Why three tellers when they have ten windows? Shouldn’t they hire more people, they see a line like this? Every time I come here it sucks.”

Holman kept his eyes down so the bill of his cap blocked his face from the surveillance cameras.

The woman spoke louder, wanting the other people in line to hear.

“I have things to do. I can’t spend all day in this bank.”

Her manner was drawing attention. Everything about her drew attention. She was a large woman wearing a brilliant purple muumuu, orange nails, and an enormous shock of frizzy hair. Holman crossed his arms without responding and tried to become invisible. He was wearing a faded Tommy Bahama beachcomber’s shirt, cream-colored Armani slacks, sandals, and a Santa Monica Pier cap pulled low over his eyes. He was also wearing sunglasses, but so were half the people in line. This was L.A.

The woman harrumphed again.

“Well, finally. It’s about time.”

An older man with pickled skin in a pink shirt moved to a teller. The large woman went next, and then it was Holman’s turn. He tried to even his breathing, and hoped the tellers couldn’t see the way he was sweating.

“Sir, I can help you over here.”

The teller at the end of the row was a brisk woman with tight features, too much makeup, and rings on her thumbs. Holman shuffled to the window and stood as close as he could. He was carrying a sheet of paper folded in half around a small brown paper bag. He put the note and the bag on the counter in front of her. The note was composed of words he had clipped from a magazine. He waited for her to read it.

THIS IS A ROBBERY

PUT YOUR CASH IN

THE BAG

Holman spoke softly so his voice wouldn’t carry.

“No dye packs. Just give me the money and everything’s cool.”

Her tight features hardened even more. She stared at him and Holman stared back; then she wet her lips and opened her cash drawer. Holman glanced at the clock behind her. He figured she had already pressed a silent alarm with her foot and the bank’s security company had been alerted. An ex-con Holman knew cautioned him you only had two minutes to get the cash and get out of the bank. Two minutes wasn’t long, but it had been long enough eight times before.

FBI Special Agent Katherine Pollard stood in the parking lot of the Ralphs Market in Studio City sweating in the afternoon sun. Bill Cecil, in the passenger seat of their anonymous beige g-ride, called out to her.

“You’re gonna get heatstroke.”

“All this sitting is killing me.”

They had been in the parking lot since eight-thirty that morning, a half hour before the banks in the area opened for business. Pollard’s butt was killing her, so she got out of the car every twenty minutes or so to stretch her muscles. When she got out, she left the driver’s-side window down to monitor the two radios on her front seat even though Cecil remained in the car. Cecil was the senior agent, but he was only on hand to assist. The Beach Bum Bandit was Pollard’s case.

Pollard bent deep at the hips, touching her toes. Pollard hated stretching in public with her big ass, but they had been hovering in the Ralphs lot for three days, praying the Beach Bum would strike again. Leeds had dubbed this one the Beach Bum Bandit because he wore sandals and a Hawaiian shirt, and had shaggy hair pulled back into a ponytail.

A voice crackled from one of the radios.

“Pollard?”

Cecil said, “Hey, lady, that’s the boss.”

It was Leeds on the FBI channel.

Pollard dropped into her car and scooped up the radio.

“Hey, boss, I’m up.”

“LAPD wants their people on something else. I agree. I’m pulling the plug on this.”