Robert Crais - The Two Minute Rule

“So think about that other man, Mrs. Marchenko. Try to remember what he looked like. He didn’t look like this man?”

“No.”

“Can you describe him?”

“He looked like a man. I don’t know. A dark suit, I think.”

Holman suddenly wondered if the fifth man might have been Vukovich.

“Did he have red hair?”

“He was wearing a hat. I don’t know. I told you, I not pay attention.”

Holman’s certainty at nailing Random fell apart like a dream shattered by an alarm clock. Holman was still on the run; Chee was still in jail; Maria Juarez was still a prisoner. Holman snatched the clipping from Pollard and stalked over to Mrs. Marchenko. She jerked backwards as if she thought he might hit her, but Holman didn’t care. He pointed at Random’s picture.

“Are you sure it wasn’t him?”

“Wasn’t him.”

“Max, stop it.”

“How about if I told you he was the sonofabitch who shot your son? Would it look like him then?”

Pollard pushed up from the couch, rigid and angry.

“That’s enough, Max. That’s it.”

Mrs. Marchenko’s bulldog face hardened.

“Was him? Was he the one killed Anton?”

Pollard took the clipping and pushed Holman toward the door.

“No, Mrs. Marchenko. I’m sorry. He didn’t have anything to do with Anton’s death.”

“Then why he say that? Why he say a thing like that?”

Holman stalked out of the house and didn’t stop until he reached the street. He felt like an asshole. He was angry and confused and ashamed of himself all over again, and when Pollard came out she looked furious.

Holman said, “I’m sorry. How could it not be Random? It had to be Random! He’s what ties this all together.”

“Shut up. Just stop. All right, so the fifth man wasn’t Random or Vukovich. We know he wasn’t your son or Mellon or Ash, but he had to be somebody.”

“Random had three or four other guys with him at that house. Maybe it was one of them. Maybe Random has the whole fucking police department working for him.”

“We still have Alison Whitt-”

She already had her cell phone out and was speed-dialing a number.

“If Random was her contact officer, we can still-”

She held up a hand, cutting him off as the person she called answered.

“Yeah, it’s me. What did you get on Alison Whitt?”

Holman waited, watching as Pollard stiffened. Holman knew it was bad even before Pollard lowered the phone. He could read it in the way her shoulders dipped. Pollard stared at him for a moment, then shook her head.

“Alison Whitt was not a registered informant with the Los Angeles Police Department.”

“So what do we do?”

Pollard didn’t answer right away. He knew she was thinking. He was thinking, too. He should have expected it. He knew better than to expect anything to work out.

Pollard finally answered.

“I have her arrest record at my house. I can see who the arresting officers were. Maybe we were wrong in thinking she was a registered informant. Maybe she was just feeding some guy on the sly and I’ll recognize a name.”

Holman smiled, and, again, it was more for himself than her. He took in the lines of her face and the way her hair fell, and remembered again the first time he saw her, pointing a gun at him in the bank.

“I’m sorry I got you into this.”

“We are not finished with this. We’re close, Max. Random is all over both sides of this crazy thing and all we need is the one missing piece to have it make sense.”

Holman nodded, but he felt only loss. He had tried to play this the right way, the way you’re supposed to play it when you live within the law, but the right way hadn’t worked out.

“You’re a special person, Agent Pollard.”

Her face tightened and she was that young agent again.

“My name is Katherine. Call me by my goddamn name.”

Holman wanted to hold her again. He wanted to hold her close and kiss her, but doing so could only be wrong.

“Don’t help me anymore, Katherine. You’ll only get hurt.”

Holman started toward his car, and now Pollard followed him.

“Waitaminute. What are you going to do?”

“Get new stuff and drop off the grid. They had me and they’re going to come for me again. I can’t let that happen.”

He got into his car, but she stood inside the door and wouldn’t let him close it. Holman tried to ignore her. He wedged his screwdriver into the busted ignition and twisted it to start the engine. Pollard still didn’t get out of the way.

“What are you going to do for money?”

“Chee gave me some money. I have to go, Katherine. Please.”

“Holman!”

Holman looked up at her. Pollard stepped back, then closed the door. She leaned into the window and touched his lips with hers. Holman closed his eyes. He wanted it to go on forever, but knew, like every other good thing in his life, it would not last. When he opened his eyes again, she was watching him.

She said, “I’m not going to quit.”

Holman pulled away. He told himself not to look back. He had learned the hard way that looking back was when you got into trouble, so he told himself not to look, but he glanced in the mirror anyway and saw her in the street, watching him, this incredible woman who had almost been part of his life.

Holman wiped his eyes.

He stared ahead.

He drove.

They hadn’t been able to put the pieces together, but that no longer seemed to matter. Holman was not going to let them get away with Richie’s murder.

POLLARD WAS FURIOUS. Marki had used all the right terms in relating what Whitt told her about being an informant-the registration, the cap, the approval; civilians didn’t know these things unless they knew them firsthand, so Pollard still believed Whitt had been telling the truth.

Pollard one-handed a call back to Sanders as she blasted up the Hollywood Freeway. She hadn’t wanted to get into it in front of Holman, but now she wanted details.

“Hey, it’s me. Can you still talk?”

“What’s wrong?”

“This girl was an informant. I want you to check again.”

“Hey. Whoa. I’m doing you a favor, remember? Leeds would have my ass if he found out.”

“I’m sure this girl wasn’t lying. I believe her.”

“I know you believe her. I can hear your belief coming through the phone, but she wasn’t on the list. Look-maybe some cop was paying her out of his own pocket. That happens all the time.”

“If somebody was using her off the books she wouldn’t have known about payouts being capped and having to be approved. Think about it, April-she was the real thing and she had a cop backing her.”

“Listen to me: She was not on the list. I’m sorry.”

“Maybe she’s under an alias. Check her arrest record for-”

“Now you’re being stupid. Nobody gets paid under an alias.”

Pollard drove in silence for a while, embarrassed by her desperation.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“You know I’m right. What’s going on with you, girl?”

“I was sure.”

“She was a whore. Whores lie. That’s what they do-you’re my best lover, you made me come so good. C’mon, Kat. She made it sound good for her friend because she can make anything sound good. That’s what they do.”

Pollard felt ashamed of herself. Maybe it was Holman. Maybe she needed it to work out for him so badly she had lost her common sense.

“I’m sorry I freaked out on you.”

“Just bring me some more donuts. I’m starting to lose weight. You know I like to keep my weight up.”

Pollard couldn’t even bring herself to smile. She closed her phone and brooded about it as she drove home, her thoughts swinging between her disappointment that Alison Whitt had lied about being an informant and her surprise that Mrs. Marchenko had not identified Random as the fifth man.