Robert Crais - The Two Minute Rule

Pollard glanced at Cecil, but he only shrugged and shook his head. Pollard had been dreading this moment. Forty-two known serial bank robbers were operating in the city. Many of them used violence and guns, and most of them had robbed way more banks than the Beach Bum.

“Boss, he’s going to hit one of my banks. Every day he hasn’t drives up the odds that he will. We just need a little more time.”

Pollard had patterned most of the serial bandits operating in Los Angeles. She believed the Beach Bum’s pattern was more obvious than most. The banks he hit all were located at major surface intersections and had easy access to two freeways; none employed security guards, Plexiglas barriers, or bandit-trap entry doors; and all of his robberies had followed a progressive counterclockwise route along the L.A. freeway system. Pollard believed his next target would be near the Ventura/Hollywood split, and had identified six banks as likely targets. The rolling stakeout she now oversaw covered those six banks.

Leeds said, “He isn’t important enough. LAPD wants their people on gunslingers and I can’t afford to have you and Cecil tied up any longer, either. The Rock Stars hit in Torrance today.”

Pollard felt her heart sink. The Rock Stars were a takeover crew who got their name because one of them sang during their robberies. It sounded silly until you knew the singer was stoned out of his mind and strumming a MAC-10 machine pistol. The Rock Stars had killed two people during sixteen robberies.

Cecil took the radio.

“Give the girl one more day, boss. She’s earned it.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s done, Katherine. The plug has been pulled.”

Pollard was trying to decide what else to say when the second radio popped to life. The second radio was linked with Jay Dugan, the LAPD surveillance team leader assigned to the stakeout.

“Two-eleven in progress at First United. It’s going down.”

Pollard dropped the FBI radio into Cecil’s lap and snatched up her stopwatch. She hit the timer button, started her car, then radioed back to Dugan.

“Time on the lead?”

“Minute thirty plus ten. We’re rolling.”

Cecil was already filling in Leeds.

“It’s happening, Chris. We’re rolling out now. Go, lady-drive this thing.”

The First United California Bank was only four blocks away, but the traffic was heavy. The Beach Bum had at least a ninety-second jump on them and might already be exiting the bank.

Pollard dropped her car into gear and jerked into the traffic.

“Time out, Jay?”

“We’re six blocks out. Gonna be close.”

Pollard steered through traffic with one hand, blowing her horn. She drove hard toward the bank, praying they would get there in time.

Holman watched the teller empty her drawers one by one into the bag. She was stalling.

“Faster.”

She picked up the pace.

Holman glanced at the time and smiled. The second hand swept through seventy seconds. He would be out in less than two minutes.

The teller pushed the last of the cash into the bag. She was being careful not to make eye contact with the other tellers. When the last of the cash was in the bag, she waited for his instructions.

Holman said, “Cool. Just slide it across to me. Don’t shout and don’t tell anyone until I’m out the door.”

She slid the bag toward him exactly as Holman wanted, but that’s when the bank manager brought over a credit slip. The manager saw the paper bag and the teller’s expression, and that was all she needed to know. She froze. She didn’t scream or try to stop him, but Holman could tell she was scared.

He said, “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be okay.”

“Take it and go. Please don’t hurt anyone.”

The old man in the pink shirt had finished his transaction. He was passing behind Holman when the manager asked Holman not to hurt anyone. The old man turned to see what was happening and, like the manager, realized that the bank was being robbed. Unlike the manager, he shouted-

“We’re being robbed!”

His face turned bright red, then he clutched his chest and made an agonized gurgle.

Holman said, “Hey.”

The old man stumbled backwards and fell. When he hit the floor his eyes rolled and the gurgle turned into a fading sigh.

The loud woman in the muumuu screamed, “Oh my God!”

Holman snatched up the money and started toward the door, but no one was moving to help the old man.

The large woman said, “I think he’s dead! Someone call nine-one-one! I think he’s dead!”

Holman ran to the door, but then he looked back again. The old man’s red face was now dark purple and he was motionless. Holman knew the old man had suffered a heart attack.

Holman said, “Goddamnit, don’t any of you people know CPR? Someone help him!”

No one moved.

Holman knew the time was slipping away. He was already over the two-minute mark and falling farther behind. He turned back toward the door, but he just couldn’t do it. No one was trying to help.

Holman ran back to the old man, dropped to the ground, and went to work saving his life. Holman was still blowing into the old man’s mouth when a woman with a gun ran into the bank, followed by this inhumanly wide bald guy. The woman identified herself as an FBI agent and told Holman he was under arrest.

Between breaths, Holman said, “You want me to stop?”

The woman then lowered her gun.

“No,” she said. “You’re doing fine.”

Holman kept up the CPR until the ambulance arrived. He had violated the two minute rule by three minutes and forty-six seconds.

The old man survived.

HOLMAN WAS doing push-ups when someone knocked at his door. He was mechanically grinding them out, one after another, and had been for most of the morning. He had left two more messages on Pollard’s phone the previous evening and was working up his nut to call again. When he heard the knock he figured it was Perry. No one else ever came to his door.

“Hang on.”

Holman pulled on his pants, opened the door, but instead of Perry he found Pollard. He didn’t know what to make of Pollard showing up like this, so he stared at her, surprised.

She said, “We need to talk.”

She wasn’t smiling. She seemed irritated, and she was holding the folder with all the papers he had given her. Holman suddenly realized he was shirtless with his flabby, sweaty white skin, and wished he had pulled on a shirt.

“I thought you were someone else.”

“Let me in, Holman. We have to talk about this.”

Holman backed out of the door to let her pass, then glanced into the hall. Perry’s head disappeared behind the far corner. Holman turned back into his room, but left the door open. He felt embarrassed by his appearance and the shitty room and thought for sure she wouldn’t feel comfortable being inside alone with him. He pulled on a T-shirt to hide himself.

“You get my messages?”

She went back to the door and closed it, but stood with her hand on the knob.

“I did, and I want to ask you something. What are you going to do with the money?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“If we find the sixteen million. What do you want to do?”

Holman stared at her. She looked serious. Her face was intent, with her mouth pooched into a tight little knot. She looked like she had come to cut up the pie.

Holman said, “Are you kidding me?”

“I’m not kidding.”

Holman studied her a moment longer, then sat on the edge of his bed. He pulled on his shoes just to give himself something to do even though he needed a shower.

“I just want to find out what happened to my boy. We find that money, you can have it. I don’t care what you do with it.”