The Two Minute Rule

  “Sweet choice, bro—black, leather trim, a sunroof—you gonna look like a yuppie on your way to the Whole Foods. C’mon, get in. I got something else for you, too, make your life a little easier now you back in the world. Look in the console.”

  Holman didn’t know what a Whole Foods was, but he was tired of looking like he had just spent ten years in the can and he was growing worried all of this was going to take too much time. He climbed into his new car and opened the console. Inside was a cell phone.

  Chee beamed proudly.

  “Got you a cell phone, bro. This ain’t ten years ago, stoppin’ at pay phones and digging for quarters—you got to stay on the grid twenty-four seven. Instruction book’s in there with your number in it. You plug that cord into the cigarette lighter to keep it charged up.”

  Holman looked back at Chee.

  He said, “Remember when you offered to front me some cash? I hate to do it, man, you being so nice with the car and this phone, but I gotta go back on what I said. I need a pack.”

  A pack was a thousand dollars. When banks wrapped used twenties, they bundled fifty bills to a pack. A thousand dollars.

  Chee didn’t bat an eye. He studied Holman, then touched his own nose.

  “Whatever you want, homes, but I gotta ask—you back on the crank? I don’t want to help you fuck yourself up.”

  “It’s nothing like that. I got someone to help me with this thing about Richie; a professional, bro—she really knows what she’s doing. I want to be ready in case there’s expenses.”

  Holman had been both relieved and worried when Special Agent Pollard contacted him through Gail Manelli. He hadn’t held much hope he would hear from her, but he had. In typical paranoid FBI fashion, she had checked him out with both Manelli and Wally Figg at the CCC before calling him, and had refused to give him her phone number, but Holman wasn’t complaining—she had finally agreed to meet him at a Starbucks in Westwood to listen to his case. It wasn’t lost on Holman that she gave him a location near the FBI office.

  Chee squinted at him.

  “What do you mean, she? What kind of professional?”

  “The Fed who arrested me.”

  Chee’s eyes tightened even more and he waved his hands.

  “Bro! Holman, you lost your fuckin’ mind, homes?”

  “She treated me right, Chee. She went to bat for me with the AUSA, man. She helped me get a reduced charge.”

  “That’s because you damn near gave yourself up, you dumb muthuhfuckuh! I remember that bitch runnin’ into the bank, Holman! She’s gonna set you up, homes! You even fart crooked this bitch gonna send you up!”

  Holman decided not to mention that Pollard was no longer an agent. He had been disappointed when she told him, but he believed she would still have the connections and still be able to help him get answers.

  He said, “Chee, listen, I gotta go. I have to meet her. You going to be able to help me with that money?”

  Chee waved his hand again, axing away his disgust.

  “Yeah, I’ll get you the money. Don’t mention my name to her, Holman. Do not let my name pass your lips in her presence, man. I don’t want her to know I’m alive.”

  “I didn’t mention you ten years ago when they were sweating me, homes. Why would I mention you now?”

  Chee looked embarrassed and waved his hand again as he left.

  Holman familiarized himself with the Highlander and tried to figure out how to use the cell phone while he waited. When Chee returned, he handed Holman a plain white envelope and the driver’s license. Holman didn’t look in the envelope. He tucked it into the console, then looked at the license. It was a perfect California driver’s license, showing a seven-year expiration date and the state seal over Holman’s picture. A miniature version of his signature had been inserted beneath his address and description.

  Holman said, “Damn, this looks real.”

  “Isreal, bro. That’s a legitimate Cal state driver’s license number straight up in the system. You get stopped, they run that license through DMV, it’s gonna show you at your address with a brand-new driving record as of today. The magnetic strip on back? It shows just what it’s supposed to show.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  “Give me the keys to that piece of shit you been driving. I’ll have a couple of boys bring it back.”

  “Thanks, Chee. I really appreciate this.”

  “Don’t mention my name to that cop, Holman. You keep me out of this.”

  “You’re out of it, Chee. You were never in it.”

  Chee put his hands on the Highlander’s door and leaned into the window, his eyes fierce.

  “I’m just sayin’, is all. Don’t trust this woman, Holman. She put you in the joint once, bro. Don’t trust her.”

  “I gotta go.”

  Chee stepped back, watching Holman with disgusted eyes, and Holman heard him mutter.

  “Hero Bandit, my goddamned ass.”

  Holman pulled out into traffic, thinking he hadn’t been called the Hero Bandit in years.

  16

  HOLMAN ARRIVED fifteen minutes early and seated himself at a table with a clear view of the door. He wasn’t sure he would recognize Agent Pollard, but more importantly he wanted her to have an unobstructed view of him when she entered. He wanted her to feel safe.

  The Starbucks was predictably crowded, but Holman knew this was one of her reasons for choosing it as their meeting place. She would feel safer with other people around and probably believed he would be intimidated by their proximity to the Federal Building.

  Holman settled in, expecting her to be late. She would arrive late to establish her authority and to make sure he understood the power in this situation was hers. Holman didn’t mind. He had trimmed his hair that morning, shaved twice to get a close shave, and polished his shoes. He had handwashed his clothes the night before and rented Perry’s iron and ironing board for two dollars so he would appear as unthreatening as possible.

  Holman was watching the entrance at twelve minutes after the hour when Agent Pollard finally entered. He wasn’t sure it was Pollard at first. The agent who arrested him had been bony and angular, with a thin face and light, short-cropped hair. This woman was heavier than he remembered, with dark hair to her shoulders. The longer hair was nice. She wore a straw-colored jacket over slacks and a dark shirt and sunglasses. Her expression gave her away. The serious game-face expression screamed FED. Holman wondered if she practiced it on the way over.

  Holman placed his hands palms down on the table and waited for her to notice him. When she finally saw him Holman offered a smile, but she did not return it. She stepped between the people waiting for their lattes and approached the empty chair opposite him.

  She said, “Mr. Holman.”

  “Hi, Agent Pollard. Okay if I stand? It’d be polite, but I don’t want you to think I’m attacking you or anything. Could I get you a cup of coffee?”

  Holman kept his hands on the table, letting her see them, and smiled again. She still didn’t return the smile or offer her hand. She took her seat, brusque and all business.

  “You don’t have to stand and I don’t have time for the coffee. I want to make sure you understand the ground rules here—I’m happy you completed your term and you’re set up with a job and all that—congratulations. I mean that, Holman—congratulations. But I want you to understand—even though Ms. Manelli and Mr. Figg vouched for you, I’m here out of respect for your son. If you abuse that respect in any way, I’m gone.”

  “Yes, ma’am. If you want to pat me down or anything, it’s okay.”

  “If I thought you would try something like that I wouldn’t have come. Again, I’m sorry about your son. That’s a terrible loss.”

  Holman knew he wouldn’t have long to make his case. Pollard was already antsy, and probably not happy she had agreed to see him. Cops never had contact with the criminals they arrested. It just wasn’t done. Most criminals—even true mental defectives—knew better than to s
eek out the officers who had arrested them, and those few who did usually found themselves rearrested or dead. During their one and only phone conversation, Pollard had tried to reassure him that the murder scenario the police described and their conclusions regarding Warren Juarez were reasonable, but she had had only a passing familiarity with the case and hadn’t been able to answer his torrent of questions or see the evidence he had amassed. Reluctantly, she had finally agreed to familiarize herself with the news reports and let him present his case in person. Holman knew she hadn’t agreed to see him because she believed the police might be wrong; she was doing it to help a grieving father with the loss of his son. She probably felt he had earned the face time for the way he went down, but the face time would be the end of her consideration. Holman knew he only had one shot, so he had saved his best hook for last, the hook he hoped she could not resist.

  He opened the envelope in which he kept his growing collection of clippings and documents, and shook out the thick sheaf of papers.

  He said, “Did you have a chance to review what happened?”

  “Yes, I did. I read everything that appeared in the Times. Can I speak bluntly?”

  “That’s what I want—to get your opinion.”

  She settled back and laced her fingers in her lap, her body language telling him she wanted to get through this as quickly as possible. Holman wished she would take off the sunglasses.

  “All right. Let’s start with Juarez. You described your conversation with Maria Juarez and expressed your doubt that Juarez would have killed himself after the murders, correct?”

  “That’s right. Here’s a guy with a wife and kid, why would he kill himself like that?”

  “If I had to guess, which is all I’m doing here, I’d say Juarez was huffing, living on crank, probably smoking the rock. Guys like this always get loaded before they pull the trigger. The drugs would contribute to paranoia and possibly even a psychotic break, which would explain the suicide.”

  Holman had already considered this.

  “Would the autopsy report show all that?”

  “Yes—”

  “Could you get the autopsy report?”

  Holman saw her mouth tighten. He warned himself not to interrupt her again.

  “No, I can’t get the autopsy report. I’m just offering you a plausible explanation based on my experience. You were troubled by the suicide, so I’m explaining how it was possible.”

  “Just so you know, I asked the police to let me talk to the coroner or somebody, but they said no.”

  Her mouth remained firm, but now her laced fingers tightened.

  “The police have legal issues, like the right to privacy. If they opened their files, they could be sued.”

  Holman decided to move on and fingered through his papers until he found what he wanted. He turned it so she could see.

  “The newspaper ran this diagram of the crime scene. See how they drew in the cars and the bodies? I went down there to see for myself—”

  “You went down into the riverbed?”

  “When I was stealing cars—that was before I got into banks—I spent time down in those flats. That’s what it is—flat. The bed on either side of the channel is an empty expanse of concrete like a parking lot. Only way you can get down there is by the service drive the maintenance people use.”

  Pollard leaned forward to follow what he was saying on the map.

  “All right. What’s your point?”

  “The drive comes down the embankment right here in full view of where the officers were parked. See? The shooter had to come down this drive, but if he came down the drive, they would have been able to see him.”

  “It was one in the morning. It was dark. Besides, that thing probably isn’t drawn to scale.”

  Holman took out a second map, one he had made himself.

  “No, it’s not, so I made this one myself. The service drive was way more visible from under the bridge than the newspaper drawing made it seem. And something else—there’s a gate here at the top of the drive, see? You have to either climb the fence or cut the lock. Either way would make a helluva lot of noise.”

  Holman watched Pollard compare the two drawings. She appeared to be thinking about it, and thinking was a good thing. Thinking meant she was becoming involved. But finally she sat back again and shrugged.

  “The officers left the gate open when they drove down.”

  “I asked the cops how the gate was found, but they wouldn’t tell me. I don’t think Richie and those other officers would have left it open. If you leave the gate open, you take the chance a security patrol might see it and then you’re screwed. We always closed the gate and ran the chain back through, and I’ll bet that’s what Richie and those other guys did, too.”

  Pollard sat back.

  “When you were stealing cars.”

  Holman was setting her up for the hook and he thought he was doing pretty well. She was following his logic train even though she didn’t know where he was going. He felt encouraged.

  “If the gate was closed, the shooter had to open it or go over it, and that makes noise. I know those guys were drinking but they only had a six-pack. That’s four grown men and a six-pack—how drunk could they be? If Juarez was stoned like you suggested, how quiet could he be? Those officers would have heard something.”

  “What are you saying, Holman? You think Juarez didn’t do it?”

  “I’m saying it didn’t matter what the officers heard. I think they knew the shooter.”

  Now Pollard crossed her arms, the ultimate signal she was walling him off. Holman knew he was losing her, but he was ready with his hook and she would either go for it or pass.

  He said, “Have you heard of two bank hitters named Marchenko and Parsons?”

  Holman watched her stiffen and knew she was finally interested. Now she wasn’t just being nice or killing time until she could jump up and run. She took off her sunglasses. He saw that the skin around her eyes had grown papery. She had changed a lot since he had last seen her, but something beyond her appearance was different that he couldn’t quite place.

  She said, “I’ve heard of them. And?”

  Holman placed the map Richie made showing Marchenko’s and Parsons’ robberies in front of her.

  “My son did this. His wife, Liz, let me make a copy.”

  “It’s a map of their robberies.”

  “The night he died, Richie got a call from Fowler, and that’s when he left. He was going to meet Fowler to talk about Marchenko and Parsons.”

  “Marchenko and Parsons are dead. That case would have closed three months ago.”

  Holman peeled off copies of the articles and reports he found on Richie’s desk and put them in front of her.

  “Richie told his wife they were working on the case. His desk at home, it was covered with stuff like this. I asked the police what Richie was doing. I tried to see the detectives who worked on Marchenko and Parsons, but no one would talk to me. They told me what you just told me, that the case was closed, but Richie told his wife he was going to see Fowler about it, and now he’s dead.”

  Holman watched Pollard skim through the pages. He watched her mouth work, like maybe she was chewing the inside of her lip. She finally looked up, and he thought her eyes were webbed with way too many lines for such a young woman.

  She said, “I’m not sure what you want from me.”

  “I want to know why Richie was working on a dead case. I want to know how Juarez was connected to a couple of bank hitters. I want to know why my son and his friends let someone get close enough to kill them. I want to know who killed them.”

  Pollard stared at him and Holman stared back. He did not let his eyes show hostility or rage. He kept that part hidden. She wet her lips.

  “I guess I could make a couple of calls. I’d be willing to do that.”

  Holman returned all his papers to the envelope, then wrote his new cell number on the cover.

  “This is everythin
g I found in the library on Marchenko and Parsons, and what was in the Times about Richie’s death and some of the stuff from his house. I made copies. That’s my new cell number, too. You should have it.”

  She looked at the envelope without touching it. Holman sensed she was still struggling with the decision she had already made.

  He said, “I don’t expect you to do this for free, Agent Pollard. I’ll pay you. I don’t have much, but we could work out a payment plan or something.”

  She wet her lips again. Holman wondered at her hesitation, but then she shook her head.

  “That won’t be necessary. It might take a few days, but I just have to make a few calls.”

  Holman nodded. His heart was hammering, but he kept his excitement hidden along with the fear and the rage.

  “Thanks, Agent Pollard. I really appreciate this.”

  “You probably shouldn’t call me Agent Pollard. I’m not a Special Agent anymore.”

  “What should I call you?”

  “Katherine.”

  “Okay, Katherine. I’m Max.”

  Holman held out his hand, but Pollard did not accept it. She picked up the envelope instead.

  “This doesn’t mean I’m your friend, Max. All it means is I think you deserve answers.”

  Holman lowered his hand. He was hurt, but wouldn’t show it. He wondered why she had agreed to waste her time if she felt that way about him, but he kept these feelings hidden, also.

  “Sure. I understand.”

  “It’ll probably be a few days before you hear from me.”

  “I understand.”

  Holman watched her walk out of the Starbucks. She picked up speed as she passed through the crowd, then hurried away down the sidewalk. He was still watching her when he remembered the feeling that something was different about her and now he realized what—

  Pollard seemed afraid. The young agent who arrested him ten years ago had been fearless, but now she had changed. Thinking these things made him wonder how much he had changed, too, and whether or not he still had what it took to see this thing through.

  Holman got up and stepped out into the bright Westwood sun, thinking it felt good to no longer be alone. He liked Pollard even if she seemed hesitant. He hoped she wouldn’t get hurt.