Robert Crais - The Two Minute Rule

“And then the shooting started.”

Random’s face tightened.

“Yes. Then the shooting started, and you and Holman have been kicking so many rocks even divisional officers are beginning to notice. I need you to stop, Pollard. If this man starts feeling the heat we’ll lose him.”

Now Pollard understood the calls Leeds had received from Parker Center. The A-Chief had been trying to find out what she was doing and reaming Leeds to make her stop.

“How is it you know so much about what Fowler did and didn’t do? How do you know Fowler was the only one?”

Random hesitated. It was the first time he had hesitated in answering her questions. Pollard felt a knot in her stomach because she suddenly knew the answer.

She said, “You had someone inside.”

“Richard Holman was working for me.”

The icy air-conditioning grew warm. The house filled with silence, as if it was spreading from her kitchen like spilled syrup. Everything Holman had told her about his conversations with Random flickered in her head.

“You sonofabitch. You should have told him.”

“Telling him would have compromised this investigation.”

“You let the man think his son was dirty. Do you have any idea how much this has been hurting him? Do you give a shit?”

The soft flesh around Random’s eyes tightened. He wet his lips.

“Rich Holman contacted me when Fowler tried to recruit him. Rich had refused, but I convinced him to call Fowler back. I put him in with them, Ms. Pollard, so yes, I give a shit.”

Pollard went to her couch. She paid no attention to Random. She had nothing to say. She thought about Holman. She blinked hard when her eyes began to fill because she didn’t want Random to see her cry: Richie wasn’t a bad guy anymore; Richie was good. Holman wouldn’t have to apologize to Donna.

Random said, “Do you see why it had to be this way?”

“If you’re looking for absolution, forget it. Maybe it did have to be this way, Random, but you’re still an asshole. The man lost his son. All you had to do was talk to him like a human being instead of a dirtbag and none of this would be happening.”

“Will you call him? I need to get you people on board with this before it’s too late.”

Pollard laughed.

“Well, I would, but I can’t. Your guys took his cell phone at the cemetery. I have no way to reach him.”

Random clenched his jaw, but didn’t respond. Vukovich returned from the dining room saying someone would call him back, but Pollard paid no attention. She was wondering if everything she and Holman had done was pointless. The fifth man was probably already gone.

“Well, did they find the money or not? I’m guessing they must have or this suspect you’re looking for wouldn’t have killed these people.”

“We’re not sure. If the money was located, it was found after the murders.”

“They must have found the money, Random. What did they find at the Hollywood Sign?”

Random was clearly surprised.

“How did you know about that?”

“Kicking rocks, you asshole. They found something on the Thursday night, before they were murdered. Whatever they found was buried in a hole approximately twelve inches wide and eighteen inches deep. What was it?”

“Keys. They found twenty-two keys in a blue metal thermos bottle.”

“Just keys? What kind of keys?”

“Rich didn’t see them. It was Fowler who opened the thermos. He told the others what they had, but kept them in his possession.”

“There was nothing about how to find the locks?”

“Just the keys. The next day, Fowler told the others that his partner thought maybe he could figure out what the keys opened. We believe that’s why the meeting was called on the night they were murdered. The last report I got from Rich, he said everyone thought they were going to learn about the money.”

Pollard was thinking about the keys when she realized almost everything Random knew came from Rich Holman. If Fowler shared the wealth, then Rich passed it on to Random, but Fowler had protected his partner. He kept secrets. Pollard suddenly wondered if she didn’t know more about this case than Random.

“Do you know why Marchenko hid those keys at the Hollywood Sign?”

Pollard could see by his expression he didn’t have a clue. He shrugged, guessing at the reason.

“Remote. Close to his apartment.”

“Alison Whitt.”

Random was lost.

“Alison Whitt was a prostitute. Marchenko used to have sex with her up at the sign. You didn’t know this?”

Vukovich shook his head.

“That’s not possible. We interviewed everyone even remotely connected to Marchenko and Parsons. Everyone we talked to said these clowns were eunuchs. They didn’t even have male friends.”

“Holman and I learned about her from Marchenko’s mother. Random, listen to this-approximately a week before the murders, Fowler and another man went to see Marchenko’s mother. They went specifically to ask about Alison Whitt. The man with Fowler that day wasn’t Rich or Mellon or Ash. He must have been Fowler’s partner. She didn’t have a name for him, but you could work her with an artist.”

Random shot a glance at Vukovich.

“Call Fuentes. Have someone go with an artist.”

Vukovich turned away again with his cell phone as Random turned back to Pollard.

“What’s the story on Whitt?”

“Bad. She was murdered on the same night as the others. Whitt’s the connection here, Random. Holman and I learned about her from Mrs. Marchenko, but Fowler and his friend knew about Whitt before they saw Marchenko’s mother. Whitt claimed she was a registered informant, so I figured the fifth man might be her contact, but that didn’t pan out.”

“Waitaminute-how did you find out all this if Whitt was already dead?”

Pollard told him about Marki Collen and the Mayan Grille and Alison Whitt’s stories about Marchenko. Random took out a pad and made notes. When she finished, Random studied what he had written.

“I’ll check her out.”

“You won’t find anything. I had a friend at the Feeb run her name through the roster at Parker. She isn’t on your list.”

Random made a dark smile.

“Thank your friend, but I’ll check it myself.”

Random took out his phone and went to the window as he made his call. While he was talking, Vukovich returned to Pollard.

“Got word on your boy, Chee. It was a righteous bust. Bomb Squad got a tip from the Feeb and rolled in with Metro. They pulled six pounds of C-4 plastic explosive and some det cord out of his shop.”

Pollard stared at Vukovich, then looked at Random, but Random was still talking on his phone.

“The FBI put them onto this?”

“What the man said. Part of a conspiracy investigation, he said, so they rolled over to check it out.”

“When did the call go in?”

“This morning. Early sometime. Is that important?”

Pollard shook her head, feeling a numbness settle low in her legs.

“You sure it was the Feeb?”

“What the man said.”

The numbness spread up into her body.

Random finished his call, then took a business card from his wallet and brought it to Pollard.

“Holman will want to talk to me. That’s okay. Once you reach him, call me, but you have to make him understand he has to back off. That’s imperative here. You can’t tell anyone what I’ve said, and Holman can’t tell his daughter-in-law. You see why we’re playing it like this, don’t you? I hope to Christ it’s not already too late.”

Pollard nodded, but she wasn’t thinking about how Random was playing it. She waited stiffly at the door as they walked away, then turned to face the emptiness of her home. Pollard didn’t believe in coincidence. They taught it at Quantico and she had learned it over hundreds of investigations-coincidence did not occur.