Robert Crais - The Two Minute Rule

“This is going to be tough sledding. I told you how they’re coming down on us.”

“Parker Center is coming down on you. Whitt’s murder is being handled on the divisional level out of Hollywood Station. You might still be able to get some cooperation.”

“All right. Okay, yeah, I’ll see what I can do. You really think this is cop-on-cop murder?”

“That’s the way it’s shaping up.”

“You can’t sit on this, for Christ’s sake. You’re a civilian. You’re talking about murder.”

“When I have something that stands up I’ll give it to you. You can bring it forward through the FBI. Now one more thing-”

“Jesus, more?”

“I want this on record with you. Mike Fowler left a pair of dirty boots on the patio in his backyard. Soil and vegetation samples should be taken from his boots and compared with samples from the summit above the Hollywood Sign.”

“The Hollywood Sign? Why the friggin’ sign?”

“That’s where I am. Marchenko and Parsons hid something related to their robberies up here. I believe Fowler and Richard Holman came here searching for it, and I believe they found something. If you end up bringing this thing forward, you’ll want to see if the soil samples match.”

“Okay. I’m on it. You keep me advised, okay? Stay in touch.”

“Let me know when you get something on Whitt.”

Pollard ended the call, then retrieved the incoming message. It was Peter Williams’ assistant, calling from Pacific West Bank.

“Mr. Williams has arranged for you to access the files you requested. You’ll have to read them here on our premises during normal business hours. Please contact me or our chief security officer, Alma Wantanabe, to make the arrangements.”

Pollard put away her phone and felt like pumping her fist. Williams had delivered and now everything was coming together. Pollard sensed they were close to making a breakthrough and wanted to read the Pacific West files as quickly as possible.

She turned toward Holman and saw he was now squatting beside the hole. She hurried over.

She said, “What are you doing?”

“Putting the dirt back. Someone could break a leg.”

Holman was slowly pushing dirt back into the hole with measured mechanical motions.

“Well, stop playing in the dirt and let’s go. Pacific West has a copy of the police summaries. This is good, Holman. If we can match your cover sheets with the reports, we’ll know what Random took from your son’s desk.”

Holman stood as if he were made of lead and started back down the trail. Pollard related what she had learned about Maria Juarez’s videotape. She considered this development telling, and grew annoyed when Holman didn’t react.

She said, “Did you hear me?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re getting close, Holman. We catch a break with these reports or with Whitt being an informant, and everything will come together. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

Pollard got pissed off when he didn’t answer. She was about to say something when Holman finally spoke.

He said, “I guess they did it.”

Pollard realized what was bothering him, but she wasn’t sure what to say. Holman had probably been holding out hope his son wasn’t a bad cop but now that hope was gone.

“We still have to find out what happened.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry, Max.”

Holman kept walking.

When they reached the car, Holman got in without a word, but Pollard tried to be encouraging. She turned the car around and headed back down the canyon into Hollywood, telling him what she hoped to find when they reached Pacific West Bank.

He said, “Listen, I don’t want to go to Chinatown. I’d like you to bring me home.”

Pollard felt another flash of irritation. She felt bad for Holman with what he was going through, but here he was with the big shoulders filling the other side of her car like a giant depressed lump, not even looking at her. He reminded her of herself when she sat in the kitchen staring at the goddamned clock.

She said, “We won’t be at the bank that long.”

“I have something else to do. Just drop me home first.”

They were on Gower heading south to the freeway, stopped at a traffic light. Pollard planned to hop on the 101 for an easy slide into Chinatown.

“Holman, listen, we are close, okay? We are really close to making this case happen.”

He didn’t look at her.

“We can make it happen later.”

“Goddamn it, we’re halfway to Chinatown. If I have to bring you to Culver City it’s really out of the way.”

“Forget it. I’ll ride the fuckin’ bus.”

Holman suddenly pushed open the door and stepped out into traffic. Pollard was caught off guard, but she jammed on the brake.

“Holman!”

Horns blew as Holman trotted across traffic.

“Holman! Would you come back here? What are you doing?”

He didn’t look at her. He kept walking.

“Get back in the car!”

He walked south on Gower toward Hollywood. The cars behind her leaned on their horns and Pollard finally crept forward. She watched Holman walking, wondering what he so badly wanted to do. He no longer moved like a zombie or seemed depressed. Pollard thought he looked furious. She had seen his expression on men before, and it frightened her. Holman looked like he wanted to kill someone.

Pollard didn’t turn onto the freeway. She let the traffic flow around her, then eased to the curb, letting Holman walk, but keeping him in sight.

Holman hadn’t lied about taking the bus. Pollard watched him board a westbound bus on Hollywood Boulevard. Following it was a pain in the ass because it stopped at damn near every corner. Each time it stopped she had to wedge her Subaru to the curb even when there was no place to park, then crane her head to see past pedestrians and vehicles in case Holman got off.

When Holman reached Fairfax he finally stepped off, then caught a Fairfax bus heading south. He stayed on the Fairfax bus to Pico, then changed buses again, once more heading west. Pollard believed Holman was going home like he had said, but she couldn’t be sure and didn’t want to lose him, so she followed him, furious at herself for wasting so much time.

Holman left the bus two blocks from his motel. Pollard was worried he might see her, but he never once looked around. Pollard found that odd, as if he had no awareness of his surroundings or maybe he no longer cared.

When he reached his motel she expected him to go inside, but he didn’t. He continued around the side and got into his car, and then she was following him again.

Holman picked up Sepulveda Boulevard and dropped south through the city. Pollard stayed five or six cars back, following him steadily south until Holman surprised her. He stopped near a freeway off-ramp and bought a bouquet of flowers from one of the vendors who haunt the ramps.

Pollard thought, what in hell is he doing?

She found out a few blocks later when Holman arrived at the cemetery.

THE LATE-MORNING sun was breathtakingly hot as Holman turned onto the cemetery grounds. Polished head markers caught the light like coins strewn onto the grass, and the immaculate rolling lawn was so bright Holman squinted behind his sunglasses. The outside temperature gauge on his dashboard showed 98 degrees. The dashboard clock showed 11:19. Holman caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and froze-in that instant, he saw the dated Ray-Ban Wayfarers with his hair shaggy over the temples and was his younger self; the same Holman who ran wild with Chee, doing dope and stealing cars until his life spun out of control. Holman took off the Wayfarers. He must have been stupid, buying the same glasses.

With the midweek morning and the heat, only a few other visitors were scattered throughout the cemetery. A burial was taking place on the far side of the grounds, but only the one, with a small crowd of mourners gathered around a tent.