Robert Crais - The Two Minute Rule

Holman trotted back to the door to check Cecil, then held out his arm to read the number on the inside of his forearm.

He called Pollard.

LEEDS HAD cautioned Pollard that Cecil’s connection to Alison Whitt did not ensure a conviction, so they were making arrangements to see if Mrs. Marchenko could pick Cecil’s picture from a six-pack. In the moments when Leeds was placing his call to Random, Pollard had tried to reach Holman by phoning his apartment. When she got no answer, she phoned Perry Wilkes, who told her Holman had been there but had since departed. Wilkes was able to offer no other information.

Alison Whitt’s informant registration form indicated Cecil had first recruited and used her as an informant three years earlier. Cecil had learned of Whitt while investigating the involvement of a onetime singer turned B-level movie star who was suspected of bankrolling a gang of South Central dealers in their dope importation business. In lieu of being arrested for prostitution and possession, Whitt agreed to provide ongoing information about the singer’s contacts with certain gang members. Cecil stated in her registration document that Whitt provided regular and accurate information that aided the prosecution.

Now Pollard was sitting in a cubicle outside Leeds’ office when her phone rang. Hoping it was Holman or Sanders, she checked the caller ID, but did not recognize the number. She decided to let it go to her voice mail, then grudgingly changed her mind.

Holman said, “It’s me.”

“Thank God! Where are you?”

“I’m robbing a bank.”

“Hang on-”

Pollard called out to Leeds.

“I’ve got Holman! Holman’s on the phone-”

Leeds left his desk as Pollard returned to the call. He stood in the door, murmuring into his phone as he watched her.

Pollard said, “The fifth man is an FBI agent named Bill Cecil. He was-”

Holman interrupted her.

“I know. He’s in a green Ford Taurus outside the bank right now. He’s waiting for me-”

Now Pollard interrupted him.

“Whoa, waitaminute. I thought you were kidding.”

“I’m in the Grand California on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. Marchenko stashed the money here in safe-deposit boxes. Cecil had the keys-that’s what they found at the Sign-”

“Why are you robbing the bank?”

Leeds frowned.

“What is he doing?”

Pollard waved him quiet as Delaney came over to watch.

Holman was saying, “You know a faster way to get the cops here? We flushed him, Katherine-Cecil had the keys, but he was scared to get the money. I’ve been inside three and a half minutes. The police will be here soon.”

Pollard cupped the phone, glancing at Leeds and Delaney.

“Grand California on Wilshire in B.H. See if they’re reporting a two-eleven.”

She returned to Holman as Delaney ran to call the FBI dispatcher.

“Has anyone been hurt?”

“It’s nothing like that. I want you to tell the cops what’s happening. I figure they won’t listen to me.”

“Max, this is a bad idea.”

“I want the cops to catch him with the money in his possession. He was scared to come in, so I’m gonna bring the money to him-”

“Where’s Cecil now?”

“Parked outside. He’s waiting for the money.”

“Green Taurus?”

“Yeah.”

Pollard cupped the phone and spoke again to Leeds.

“Cecil’s in a green Ford Taurus in front of the bank.”

Leeds relayed the information to Random as Delaney returned, excited.

“Beverly Hills confirms a two-eleven alarm at the location. Units en route.”

Pollard went back to Holman.

“Holman, listen, Cecil is dangerous. He’s already killed six people-”

“He made the mistake of killing my son.”

“Stay in the bank, okay? Do not go outside. This is dangerous and I’m not just talking about Cecil-the responding officers don’t know you’re a good guy. They will not know-”

“You know.”

Holman hung up.

In that instant the line died. A pressure swelled in Pollard as if she was being crushed from the inside out, but she pushed through it and struggled to her feet.

“I’m going to the bank.”

“Let Beverly Hills handle it. You don’t have enough time.”

Pollard ran as fast as she could.

BILL CECIL watched the bank, nervously tapping his foot. The car was in Park, the engine was running, the air conditioner was blowing cold. Cecil sweated as he imagined what was happening inside the bank.

First, Holman would have to make bullshit conversation with the customer service rep. If the dude already had a customer, Holman would have to wait. Cecil thought Holman should be smart enough to come wave or something, let him know if that was the case, but so far he hadn’t. Cecil took this as a good sign, but that didn’t make the waiting any easier.

Next up, the customer rep would bring Holman into the box vault, and he might be one of those lazy laid-back bastards who walked in slow motion.

Once they were inside, Holman would have to sign the ledger while the rep unlocked the master locks on each of the four boxes. The small ones always had an inner steel contents box you could slide in and out, keep your insurance and wills and stuff together, but not the big boxes. The big boxes were just big empty boxes. Holman would use his keys to make sure everything unlocked okay, but he wouldn’t open the boxes until the rep had stepped out.

So then he would pull the money bags, close and relock the boxes, and amble on out of the bank. He’d probably have to say something cute to the rep, but after that it was only ten seconds to the door.

Cecil figured-start to finish without having to wait for another customer-that the entire process should take six minutes. Holman had been in the bank for four minutes, maybe four and a half. No reason to worry.

Cecil tapped his pistol on the lower edge of the steering wheel, thinking he would go peek through the door in another ten seconds.

HOLMAN CLOSED the phone, then glanced out the front door again, worried the police would arrive too soon. It was almost impossible for police to respond in two minutes, but every second after that gave them more time to reach the scene. Holman had now been in the bank two minutes longer than any of his robberies except the one in which he was arrested. He thought back. It had taken Pollard almost six minutes to arrive and they had been on a rolling stakeout, waiting and ready to go. Holman still had a few seconds.

He went back to the customers and returned the girl’s phone.

“Everyone okay? Everybody still cool?”

A man in his forties with wire-rimmed glasses said, “Are we hostages?”

“No one is a hostage. Just stay cool. I’ll be outta your hair in a minute.”

Holman called toward the vault.

“Hey, David! How we doin’ in there?”

David’s voice came from the vault.

“They’re open.”

“You people just stay where you are. The police are on the way.”

Holman trotted across the lobby to the vault. David had four large safe-deposit boxes open and had dragged four nylon gym bags into the center of the floor. Three were blue and one was black.

David said, “What’s in the bags?”

“Somebody’s bad dream. You stay in here, bud. You’ll be safe in here.”

Holman lifted the bags one by one, hooking the straps over his shoulders. Felt heavier than fifty pounds.

David said, “What about these other keys?”

“You keep’m.”

Holman staggered out of the vault and immediately noticed that two of the customers were missing.

The girl who had loaned him her phone pointed at the door.