Robert Crais - The Two Minute Rule

“Sure.”

“The money in those boxes is still bagged up. You’re going to open four boxes at a time. I figure the bag in each box weighs about fifty pounds, two on each shoulder, two hundred pounds, a big guy like you oughta be able to handle that.”

Holman wasn’t listening. He was thinking about something Pollard told him when they believed Random was the fifth man-if they could put Random with Fowler they would own him. Holman decided if he could put Cecil together with the money, Cecil would never be able to explain it away or beat the conviction.

Holman said, “Twenty-two boxes at four boxes a trip. That’s six trips carrying two hundred pounds of money each time. You think they’re not going to stop me?”

“I’m thinking something is better than nothing. Anything goes wrong, just walk away. You’re not robbing the goddamned place, Holman. Just walk away.”

“What if they want to see in the bags?”

“Keep walking. We get what we get.”

Holman had a plan. He thought he could pull it off if he had enough time. Everything depended on having enough time.

“It’s going to take a long time, man. I hate being in a bank that long. I have bad memories.”

“Fuck your memories. You just think about Chee.”

Holman stared at Cecil like he was the stupidest asshole on earth. He wanted Cecil drunk with knowing the money was so close. He wanted Cecil stoned on gold.

“Fuck Chee. I’m the guy risking his ass. What’s in it for me?”

Cecil stared at him, and Holman pressed forward.

“I want half.”

Cecil blinked at him. He glanced at the bank, wet his lips, then looked back at Holman.

“You fuckin’ kidding me?”

“I am not. I figure you owe me, motherfucker, and you know why. You don’t like it, get that fuckin’ money yourself.”

Cecil wet his lips again and Holman knew he was in.

Cecil said, “The first four bags are mine. After that, every four bags you bring out, you get one.”

“Two.”

“One, then two.”

“I can live with that. You be here when I get back with the money or I’m selling your ass to the cops.”

Holman got out of the car and walked toward the bank. His stomach was cramping as if he was going to throw up, but Holman told himself he could make this thing happen if Cecil gave him enough time. Everything depended on Cecil giving him the time.

Holman held the door for a young woman leaving the bank. He smiled at her pleasantly, then stepped inside and took in his surroundings. Banks were usually busy during the lunch hour, but now it was almost four. Five customers were waiting in line for two tellers. Two manager types were at desks behind the teller cages and a young man who was probably a customer service rep manned a desk on the lobby floor. Holman knew right away this bank was a target for robberies. It had no man-trap doors at the entrance, no Plexiglas bandit barriers shielding the tellers, and no security guards. It was a robbery waiting to happen.

Holman went to the head of the customer line, glanced at the customers, then turned to the tellers and raised his voice.

“This is a motherfucking robbery. Empty the drawers. Give me the money.”

Holman checked the time. It was 3:56.

The clock was running.

LARA MYER, age twenty-six, was in the final hour of her shift as a security dispatcher at New Guardian Technologies when her computer flashed, indicating a 2-11 alarm was being received from the Grand California Bank on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. This was no big deal. The time log on her screen showed the time at 3:56:27.

New Guardian provided electronic security services for eleven area banking chains, two hundred sixty-one convenience stores, four supermarket chains, and several hundred warehouses and businesses. On any given day, half of the incoming alarms were false, triggered by power surges, computer glitches, electronic or electrical failure, or human error. Twice a week-every week-a bank teller somewhere in the greater L.A. area accidentally tripped an alarm. People are people. It happens.

Lara followed procedure.

She brought up the Grand Cal (Wilshire-BH branch) page on her screen. This page listed the managers and physical particulars of the bank (number of employees, number of teller windows, security enhancements if any, points of egress, etc). More important, the page allowed her to run a system diagnostic particular to the bank. The diagnostic would check for system problems that could trigger a false alarm.

Lara opened the diagnostic window, then clicked the button labeled CONFIRM. The diagnostic automatically reset the alarm as it searched for power anomalies, hardware malfunctions, or software glitches. If a teller had accidentally triggered the alarm, they sometimes reset at the bank, which automatically canceled and cleared the alarm.

The diagnostic took about ten seconds.

Lara watched as the confirmation appeared.

Two tellers at the Grand Cal Beverly Hills branch had triggered their silent alarms.

Lara swiveled in her chair to call over her shift supervisor.

“We got one.”

Her shift supervisor came over and read the confirmation.

“Call it in.”

Lara pressed a button on her console to dial the Beverly Hills Police Department’s emergency services operator. After she notified Beverly Hills, Lara would call the FBI. She patiently waited as the phone rang four times.

“Beverly Hills emergency services.”

“This is New Guardian operator four-four-one. We show a two-eleven in progress at Grand California Bank on Wilshire Boulevard in your area.”

“Stand by, one.”

Lara knew the emergency services operator would now have to confirm that Lara was for real and not making a crank call. No cars would be dispatched until this was done and Lara had provided all necessary information about the bank.

She glanced at the clock.

3:58:05.

HOLMAN THOUGHT it was going pretty well. No one made a break for the door or fell out with a heart attack like last time. The tellers quietly emptied their drawers. The customers stayed together in their line, watching him as if they were waiting for him to tell them what to do. All in all, they were excellent victims.

Holman said, “Everything’s going to be okay. I’ll be out of here in a few minutes.”

Holman pulled the pouch of keys from his pocket and went to the young man standing at the customer service desk. Holman tossed him the pouch.

“What’s your name?”

“Please don’t hurt me.”

“I’m not going to hurt you. What’s your name?”

“David Furillo. I’m married. We have a two-year-old.”

“Congratulations. David, these are safe-deposit box keys, box number on each key just like always. Take your master and open four of these boxes, any four, doesn’t matter. Go do that right now.”

David glanced at the women standing by the desks behind the counter. One of them was probably his boss. Holman touched David’s chin away from the woman so he was looking at Holman.

“Don’t look at her, David. Do what I say.”

David opened his desk for the master box key, then hurried toward the box room.

Holman trotted back across the lobby to the front door. He edged to the door, careful not to expose himself, and peered out. Cecil was still in the car. Holman turned back to the customers.

“Who’s got a cell phone? C’mon, I need a phone. It’s important.”

They milled around uncertainly until a young woman tentatively drew a phone from her purse.

“You can use mine, I guess.”

“Thanks, honey. Everybody stay calm. Everybody relax.”

Holman checked the time as he opened the phone. He had been in the bank two and a half minutes. He was past the window of safety.