Robert Crais - The Two Minute Rule

“Put down the file, Katherine. What you’re doing now is a federal crime.”

“Murdering four police officers is a crime. So is murdering a registered federal informant named Alison Whitt-”

Pollard held out the file.

“Is she your informant, Chris?”

Leeds glanced at Delaney, then hesitated. Delaney was her witness. Pollard went on.

“She’s in your file-Alison Whitt. She was a friend of Marchenko’s. An agent in this office knew that because he knew her. That same agent was involved with Mike Fowler and the other officers in trying to find the sixteen million dollars.”

Leeds glanced at Delaney again, but now Pollard read his hesitancy in a different light. He didn’t seem threatening; now, he was curious.

“What kind of proof do you have?”

She nodded toward the file with all of Holman’s notes and articles and documents.

“It’s all in there. You can call an LAPD detective named Random. He’ll back me up. Alison Whitt was murdered on the same night as the four officers. She was murdered by the person named in her file.”

Leeds stared at her.

“You think it’s me, Katherine?”

“I think it could be.”

Leeds nodded, then slowly smiled.

“Look.”

Pollard skimmed the last few entries on the cover sheet until she found the name.

The name she found was Special Agent William J. Cecil.

Bill Cecil.

One of the kindest men she had ever known.

HOLMAN CRUISED three mall parking lots before he found a red Jeep Cherokee similar to the one he had stolen. Swapping plates with the same make, model, and color vehicle was a trick Holman learned when he stole cars for a living-now if an officer checked Holman’s plate, the vehicle report wouldn’t show that his Jeep had been stolen.

Holman switched the plates, then headed for Culver City. He did not like the idea of returning to his apartment, but he needed the money and the gun. He didn’t even have change to call Perry to see if anyone had come around. Holman kicked himself for not asking Pollard to loan him a few bucks, but it hadn’t occurred to him until later. And this stolen Jeep was clean. He searched the floorboards, seats, console, and cushions, and found nothing-not even trash.

The lunch-hour crush was beginning to ease when Holman reached the Pacific Gardens. He circled the block, looking for loiterers and people waiting in parked cars. Pollard had made good points about the confusing nature of Random’s actions, but whatever their intentions Holman was certain they would come for him again. He circled the block twice more, then parked up the street, watching the motel for almost twenty minutes before he decided to make his move.

Holman left the Jeep on the street alongside the motel and entered through the rear by Perry’s room. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, but heard and saw nothing unusual. Perry wasn’t at his desk.

Holman moved back to Perry’s room and rapped lightly at the door. Inside the room, Perry answered.

“What is it?”

Holman kept his voice low.

“It’s me. Open up.”

Holman heard Perry cursing, but soon the door opened enough for Perry to see out. His pants were bunched around his thighs. Only Perry would answer a door this way.

“I was on the goddamned crapper. What is it?”

“Has anyone been here looking for me?”

“Like who?”

“Like anyone. I thought some people might come around.”

“That woman?”

“No, not her.”

“I’ve been out there all mornin’ til my bowels started to move. I didn’t see anyone.”

“Okay, Perry. Thanks.”

Holman returned to the lobby, then crept up the stairs. When he reached the second floor, he checked the hall in both directions but the hall was empty. Holman didn’t stop at his room; he went directly to the utility closet and eased open the door. Holman pushed the mops out of the way and reached into the wall beneath the water valve. The wad of cash and the gun were still behind the pipe. Holman was fishing them out when the muzzle of a gun dug hard behind his left ear.

“Leave go whatever you’ve got, boy. Nothing better come out of there but your hand.”

Holman didn’t move. He didn’t even turn to look, but went rigid with his hand in the wall.

“Pull that hand out slow and empty.”

Holman showed his hand, opening his fingers wide so the man could see.

“That’s good. Now stand there while I cop a feel.”

The man felt Holman’s waist and his crotch and the seat of his pants, then checked down along the inside of his legs to his ankles.

“All right then. You and I have a little problem, but we’re gonna work it out. Turn around slow.”

Holman turned as the man stepped back, giving himself room to react if Holman tried something. Holman saw a bald light-skinned black man wearing a blue suit. The man slipped his pistol into his coat pocket, but held on to it, showing Holman it was ready to go. It took a minute before Holman recognized him.

“I know you.”

“That’s right. I helped put your ass away.”

Holman remembered-FBI Special Agent Cecil had been with Pollard that day in the bank. Holman wondered if Pollard had sent him, but the way Cecil was holding the gun told him Cecil was not here as his friend.

“Am I under arrest?”

“Here’s what we’re going to do-we’re going down those stairs like we’re the best buddies in the world. That old man down there says anything or tries to stop us, you tell him you’ll see him later and keep walking. We get outside, you’ll see a dark green Ford parked out front. You get in. You do anything but what I’m telling you, I’ll kill you in the street.”

Cecil stepped out of the way and Holman went down the stairs and got into the Ford, wondering what was happening. He watched Cecil cross in front of the car, then get in behind the wheel. Cecil took the pistol from his pocket and held it in his lap with his left hand as he pulled away from the curb. Holman studied him. Cecil’s breath was fast and shallow and his face sheened with sweat. His eyes were large, darting between traffic and Holman like a man watching for snakes. He looked like a man who had stolen a car and was trying to get away.

Holman said, “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Going to get us sixteen million dollars.”

Holman tried to show nothing, but his right eye watered as the skin surrounding it flickered. Cecil was the fifth man. Cecil had killed Richie. Holman glanced at the gun. When he looked up Cecil was watching him.

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, yeah, I was in with them, but I didn’t have anything to do with those killings. Me and your boy were partners until Juarez lost his mind. Sonofabitch went nuts killing everybody, figuring he could keep the money, I guess. That’s why I took him out. I took him out for killing those people.”

Holman knew Cecil was lying. He saw it in how Cecil made eye contact, arching his eyebrows and nodding his head to fake sincerity. Fences and dope dealers had lied to Holman the same way a hundred times. Cecil was trying to play him, but Holman didn’t understand why. Something had driven Cecil into revealing himself and now the man clearly had a plan that included Holman.

Images of Cecil under the bridge flashed in Holman’s head like a shotgun in the darkness: Cecil cutting loose at point-blank range, the white-gold plume, Richie falling…

Holman glanced at the gun again, wondering if he could get it or push it aside. Holman wanted the sonofabitch-everything he had done since that morning in the CCC when Wally Figg told him Richie was dead had led to finding this man. If Holman could keep from being shot he might be able to punch Cecil out, but then where would he be? He would have to shoot Cecil right there or the cops would come and Cecil would flash his creds-who would they believe? Cecil would split while Holman was trying to talk himself out of a squad car.