Robert Crais - The Two Minute Rule

Holman couldn’t tell if she was disappointed or relieved. Either way, he didn’t give a damn except he still wanted her help.

“Listen, you want to keep it, I won’t rat you out. But just one thing-I won’t let the money keep me from finding Richie’s killer. If it gets down to a choice-keeping that money or finding out what happened-then that money is going back.”

“What about your friend, Moreno?”

“Did you listen to my messages? Yes, he loaned me the car. What’s the big deal with that?”

“Maybe he expects a cut.”

Holman was growing irritated.

“What’s up with you and Moreno? How’d you hear about him?”

“Just answer my question.”

“You haven’t asked a goddamned question. I never mentioned the money to him, but I don’t give a rat’s ass if he keeps it, either. What do you think we’re doing, planning a capital crime?”

“What I think is the police have put you and Moreno together. How would they come to do that?”

“I’ve been over to see him three or four times. Maybe they have him under surveillance.”

“Why would they be watching him if he’s gone straight?”

“Maybe they figured out he helped me find Maria Juarez.”

“Are he and Juarez connected?”

“I asked him to help. Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you Chee loaned me the fucking car. I’m not looking for the money-I’m looking for the sonofabitch who killed my son.”

Holman finished with his shoes and looked at her. She was still staring at him, so he stared back. He knew she was trying to read him, but he wasn’t sure why. She finally seemed to make up her mind and let go of the knob.

“Nobody’s keeping that money. If we find it, we’re turning it in.”

“Fine.”

“You good with that?”

“I said it was fine.”

“Your friend Chee good?”

“He loaned me the goddamned car. So far as I know he doesn’t even know about the money. You want to go see him, we’ll go. You can ask him yourself.”

Pollard studied him a moment longer, then took several sheets from the folder.

“Marchenko’s girlfriend was named Alison Whitt. She was a prostitute.”

Pollard brought over the sheets and handed them to him. Holman scanned the top sheet as Pollard talked and saw it was a copy of an LAPD records and identification document on a white female named Alison Whitt. The black-and-white reproduction of her booking photo was crude, but she looked like a kid-midwestern-fresh with light sandy hair.

“Approximately two hours before your son and the other three officers were murdered, Whitt was murdered, too.”

Pollard continued but Holman no longer heard what she was saying. Pictures were snapping through his mind that drowned her out and left him afraid: Fowler and Richie in a dark alley, faces lit by the flashes of their guns. Holman barely heard himself speak.

“Did they kill her?”

“I don’t know.”

Holman clenched his eyes, then opened them, trying to stop the pictures, but Richie’s face only grew larger, lit by the silent flash of his pistol as Pollard went on.

“Fowler called her on the Thursday they came back with the dirt. They spoke for twelve minutes that afternoon. That night was the night Fowler and Richard were out late and came back with dirty shoes.”

Holman stood and went around his bed to the air conditioner, trying to walk away from the nightmare in his head. He focused on the picture of eight-year-old Richie on his dresser, not yet a thief and a killer.

“They killed her. She told them where the money was or maybe she lied or whatever and they killed her.”

“Don’t go there yet, Holman. The police are concentrating on johns and customers she might have met on her day job. The hooking was just a sometimes thing-she was a waitress at a place on Sunset called the Mayan Grille.”

“That’s bullshit. That’s too coincidental, her getting killed on the same night like that.”

“I think it’s bullshit, too, but the guys running this case probably don’t know about her connection with Marchenko. Don’t forget the fifth man. We have five people in Fowler’s group now, and only four of them are dead. The fifth man could be the shooter.”

Holman had forgotten about the fifth man, but now he grabbed on to the thought like a life preserver. The fifth man had been trying to find Allie, too, and now everyone else was dead. He suddenly remembered Maria Juarez.

“Did you find out about Juarez’s wife?”

“I talked to a friend this morning. LAPD still maintains she fled.”

“She didn’t flee; she was taken. That guy who grabbed me took her-Vukovich-he works with Random.”

“My friend is following up. She’s trying to get the videotape Maria made of her husband. I know you told me Random said it was faked, but our people can examine it, too, and we have the best people in the world.”

Our. Like she was still with the Fed.

Holman said, “You’re still going to help me?”

She hesitated, then turned back to the door with her file.

“You’d better not be lying to me.”

“I’m not lying.”

“You’d better not be. Get yourself cleaned up. I’ll be downstairs in the car.”

Holman watched Pollard let herself out, then hurried into the shower.

THE MAYAN GRILLE was a small diner on Sunset near Fairfax that served only breakfast and lunch. Business was good. People were waiting on the sidewalk and the outside tables were packed with young, good-looking people eating pancakes and omelets. Holman hated the place as soon as he saw it and he hated the people outside. He didn’t think about it much at the time, but just looking at them filled him with disgust.

Holman hadn’t spoken as they drove toward the Mayan Grille. He had pretended to listen as Pollard filled him in about Alison Whitt, but mostly he thought about Richie. He wondered if criminal tendencies were inherited as Donna once feared or if a lousy home life could drive someone to crime. Either way, Holman figured the responsibility came back to him. Thinking these things left him feeling sullen as he followed Pollard through the crowd into the restaurant.

Inside was crowded, too. Holman and Pollard were faced with a wall of people, all waiting to be seated. Pollard had trouble seeing past the crowd, but Holman, taller than most everyone else, could see just fine. Most of the guys were dressed in baggy jeans and T-shirts, and most of the girls were wearing belly shirts that showed tattoos across the top of their butts. Everyone seemed more interested in schmoozing than eating, as most of the bused plates were full. Holman decided either none of these people had jobs or they worked in show business or both. Holman and Chee used to cruise the parking lots of places like this, looking for cars to steal.

Pollard said, “The police identified one of the waitresses, a girl named Marki Collen, as having been close to Whitt. She’s the one we want to see.”

“What if she’s not here?”

“I called to make sure. We just have to get her to talk to us. That’s not going to be easy with them being this busy.”

Pollard told him to wait, then worked her way forward to a hostess who was overseeing a sign-up sheet for the waiting customers. Holman watched them speak and saw someone who looked like a manager join them. The manager pointed toward a waitress who was helping a busboy clear a table in the rear, then shook his head. Pollard didn’t look happy when she returned.

“They got twenty people waiting to be seated, they’re shorthanded, and he won’t let her take a break. It’s going to be a while before she can talk to us. You want to go get a coffee and come back when she gets off?”