17
POLLARD WASN’T sure why she agreed to help Holman, but she was in no hurry to drive back to Simi Valley. Westwood was twenty degrees cooler and her mother would take care of the boys when they got home from camp, so it was like having a day off from the rest of her life. Pollard felt as if she had been paroled.
She walked to Stan’s Donuts and ordered one plain all-American round-with-a-hole glazed donut—no sprinkles, jelly, candy, or chocolate; nothing that would cut into the silky taste of melted sugar and warm grease. Pollard’s ass needed a donut like a goldfish needed a bowling ball, but she hadn’t been to Stan’s since she left the Bureau. When Pollard was working out of the Westwood office, she and another agent named April Sanders had snuck away to Stan’s at least twice a week. Taking their donut break, they called it.
The woman behind the counter offered a donut off the rack, but a fresh batch was coming out of the fryer, so Pollard opted to wait. She brought Holman’s file to one of the outside tables to read while she waited, but found herself thinking about Holman. Holman had always been a big guy, but the Holman she arrested had been thirty pounds thinner with shaggy hair, a deep tan, and the bad skin of a serious tweaker. He didn’t look like a criminal anymore. Now, he looked like a forty-something man who was down on his luck.
Pollard suspected the police had answered Holman’s questions as best they could, but he was reluctant to accept the facts. She had worked with grieving families during her time with the Feeb, and all of them had seen only questions in that terrible place of loss where no good answers exist. The working truth of every criminal investigation was that not all the questions could be answered; the most any cop hoped for was just enough answers to build a case.
Pollard finally turned to Holman’s envelope and read through the articles. Anton Marchenko and Jonathan Parsons, both thirty-two years old, were unemployed loners who met at a fitness center in West Hollywood. Neither was married nor had a significant other. Parsons was a Texan who had drifted to Los Angeles as a teenage runaway. Marchenko was survived by his widowed mother, a Ukrainian immigrant who, according to the paper, was both cooperating with the police and threatening to sue the city. At the time of their deaths, Marchenko and Parsons shared a small bungalow apartment in Hollywood’s Beachwood Canyon where police discovered twelve pistols, a cache of ammunition in excess of six thousand rounds, an extensive collection of martial arts videos, and nine hundred ten thousand dollars in cash.
Pollard had no longer been on the job when Marchenko and Parsons blazed their way through thirteen banks, but she had followed the news about them and grew jazzed reading about them now. Reading about their bank hits filled Pollard with the same edgy juice she had known on the job. Pollard felt real for the first time in years, and found herself thinking about Marty. Her life since his death had been a nonstop struggle between mounting bills and her desire to single-handedly raise her boys. Having lost their father, Pollard had promised herself they would not also lose their mother to day care and nannies. It was a commitment that had left her feeling powerless and vague, especially as the boys grew older and their expenses mounted, but just reading about Marchenko and Parsons revived her.
Marchenko and Parsons had committed thirteen robberies over a nine-month period, all with the same method of operation: They stormed into banks like an invading army, forced everyone onto the floor, then dumped the cash drawers from the teller stations. While one of them worked the tellers, the other forced the branch manager to open the vault.
The articles Holman had copied included blurry security stills of black-clad figures waving rifles, but witness descriptions of the two men had been sketchy and neither was identified until their deaths. It wasn’t until the eighth robbery that a witness described their getaway vehicle, a light blue foreign compact car. The car wasn’t described again until the tenth robbery, when it was confirmed as being a light blue Toyota Corolla. Pollard smiled when she saw this, knowing the Bank Squad would have been high-fiving each other in celebration. Professionals would have used a different car for each robbery; use of the same car indicated that these guys were lucky amateurs. Once you knew they were riding on luck, you knew their luck would run out.
“Donuts ready. Miss? Your donuts are ready.”
Pollard glanced up.
“What?”
“The hot donuts are ready.”
Pollard had been so involved in the articles she lost track of time. She went inside, collected her donut with a cup of black coffee, then went back to her table to resume reading.
Marchenko and Parsons ran out of luck on their thirteenth robbery.
When they entered the California Central Bank in Culver City to commit their thirteenth armed robbery, they did not know that LAPD Robbery Special detectives, Special Investigations officers, and patrol officers were surveilling a three-mile corridor stretching from downtown L.A. to the eastern edge of Santa Monica. When Marchenko and Parsons entered the bank, all five tellers tripped silent alarms. Though the news story did not contain the specifics, Pollard knew what happened from that point: The bank’s security contractor notified the LAPD, who in turn alerted the surveillance team. The team converged on the bank to take positions in the parking lot. Marchenko exited the bank first. In most such cases, the robber had three typical moves: He surrendered, he tried to escape, or he retreated into the bank, whereupon a negotiation ensued. Marchenko chose none of the above. He opened fire. The surveillance teams—armed with 5.56mm rifles—returned fire, killing Marchenko and Parsons at the scene.
Pollard finished the last article and realized her donut had grown cold. She took a bite. It was delicious even cold, but she paid little attention.
Pollard skimmed through the articles covering the murders of the four officers, then found what appeared to be several cover sheets from LAPD reports about Marchenko and Parsons. Pollard found this curious. Such reports were from the Detective Bureau, but Richard Holman had been a uniformed patrol officer. LAPD detectives used patrol officers to assist in searches and one-on-one street interviews after a robbery, but those jobs didn’t require access to reports or witness statements, and patrol officers rarely stayed involved after the first day or two following a robbery. Marchenko and Parsons had been dead for three months and their loot had been recovered. She wondered why LAPD was maintaining an investigation three months after the fact and why it included patrol officers, but she felt she could learn the answer easily enough. Pollard had gotten to know several LAPD Robbery detectives during her time on the squad. She decided to ask them.
Pollard spent a few minutes recalling their names, then phoned the LAPD’s information office for their current duty assignments. The first two detectives she asked for had retired, but the third, Bill Fitch, was currently assigned to Robbery Special, the elite robbery unit operating out of Parker Center.
When she got Fitch on the phone, he said, “Who is this?”
Fitch didn’t remember her.
“Katherine Pollard. I was on the Bank Squad with the FBI. We worked together a few years ago.”
She rattled off the names of several of the serial bandits they had worked: the Major League Bandit, the Dolly Parton Bandit, the Munchkin Bandits. Serial bandits were given names when they were unknown subjects because the names made them easier to talk about. The Major League Bandit had always worn a Dodgers cap; the Dolly Parton Bandit, one of only two female bank bandits Pollard had worked, had been an ex-stripper with huge breasts; and the Munchkin Bandits had been a takeover team of little people.
Fitch said, “Oh, sure, I remember you. I heard you quit the job.”
“That’s right. Listen, I have a question for you about Marchenko and Parsons. You got a minute?”
“They’re dead.”
“I know. Are you guys still running an open case?”
Fitch hesitated, and Pollard knew this to be a bad sign. Though the FBI and the LAPD bank teams enjoyed a great working relationship, the rules stated you didn’t shar
e information with private citizens.
He said, “Are you back with the Feeb?”
“No. I’m making a personal inquiry.”
“What does that mean, personal inquiry? Who are you working for?”
“I’m not working for anyone—I’m making an inquiry for a friend. I want to find out if the four officers killed last week were working on Marchenko and Parsons.”
Pollard could almost see his eyes roll by the tone that came to his voice.
“Oh, now I get it. Holman’s father. That guy is being a real pain in the ass.”
“He lost his son.”
“Listen, how in hell did he get you involved in this?”
“I put him in prison.”
Fitch laughed, but then his laughter stopped as if he had flipped a switch.
“I don’t know what Holman is talking about and I can’t answer your questions. You’re a civilian.”
“Holman’s son told his wife he was working on something.”
“Marchenko and Parsons are dead. Don’t call me again, ex-Agent Pollard.”
The phone went dead in her ear.
Pollard sat with her dead phone and cold donut, reviewing their conversation. Fitch had repeatedly told her Marchenko and Parsons were dead, but he hadn’t denied that an investigation was ongoing. She wondered why and thought she might know how to find out. She opened her cell phone again and called April Sanders.
“Special Agent Sanders.”
“Guess where I am.”
Sanders lowered her voice. This had always been Sanders’ habit when taking a personal call. They hadn’t spoken since Marty’s death and Pollard was pleased to see that Sanders hadn’t changed.
“Oh my God—is that really you?”
“Are you in the office?”
“Yeah, but not much longer. Are you here?”
“I’m at Stan’s with your name on a dozen donuts. Send down a badge.”
The Federal Building in Westwood was headquarters for the eleven hundred FBI agents serving Los Angeles and the surrounding counties. It was a single steel-and-glass tower set amid acres of parking lots on some of the most expensive real estate in America. The agents often joked that the United States could retire its national debt by converting their offices to condos.
Pollard parked in the civilian lot, then cleared the lobby security station to wait for her escort. It was no longer enough for someone to call down a pass. Pollard couldn’t just board an elevator and punch the button for any of the eight floors occupied by the FBI; visitors and agents had to swipe their security cards and enter a valid badge number before the elevator would move.
A few moments later an elevator opened and a civilian employee stepped out. He recognized Pollard by the box from Stan’s and held the door.
“Miss Pollard?”
“That’s me.”
“You going to Banks, right?”
“That’s right.”
Officially, it was known as the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Los Angeles Field Office, Bank Squad, but the agents who worked there called it Banks. Pollard’s escort showed her to the thirteenth floor, then let her through a code-locked door. Pollard hadn’t been through the door in eight years. She felt as if she had never left.
The Bank Squad occupied a large modern office space cut into spacious cubicles by sea-green partitions. The offices were neat, clean, and corporate, and might have belonged to an insurance firm or a FORTUNE 500 company except for the mug shots of L.A.’s ten most wanted bank robbers hanging on the wall. Pollard smiled when she saw the mug shots. Someone had stuck Post-it notes on the top three suspects, naming them Larry, Moe, and Curly.
Los Angeles and the surrounding seven counties were hit by an average of more than six hundred bank robberies every year—which meant three bank robberies each and every business day, five days per week, fifty-two weeks per year (bank robbers kicked back on Saturday and Sunday when most banks were closed). So many banks were being robbed that most of the ten elite Special Agents who worked Banks were always out in the field at any given time and today was no different. Pollard saw only three people when she entered. A bald, light-skinned African-American agent named Bill Cecil was locked in conversation with a young agent Pollard didn’t recognize. Cecil smiled when he saw her as April Sanders rushed forward.
Sanders, looking panicked, covered her mouth in case lip-readers were watching. Sanders was a profound paranoid. She believed her calls were monitored, her e-mails were read, and the women’s bathroom was bugged. She believed the men’s bathroom was bugged, too, but that didn’t concern her.
She whispered, “I should have warned you. Leeds is here.”
Christopher Leeds was the Bank Squad supervisor. He had run the squad with a brilliant hand for almost twenty years.
Pollard said, “You don’t have to whisper. I’m okay with Leeds.”
“Shh!”
“No one’s listening, April.”
They both glanced around to find Cecil and his partner cupping their ears, listening. Pollard laughed.
“Stop it, Big Bill.”
Big Bill Cecil slowly rose to his feet. Cecil was not a tall man; he was called Big Bill because he was wide. He had been on the Bank Squad longer than anyone except Leeds.
“Good to see you, lady. How are those babies?”
Cecil had always called her lady. When Pollard first joined the squad, Leeds—then as now—was as much a nightmare tyrant as he was brilliant. Cecil had taken her under his wing, counseled and consoled her, and taught her how to survive Leeds’ exacting demands. Cecil was one of the kindest men she had ever known.
“They’re good, Bill, thanks. You’re getting fat.”
Cecil eyed the donut box.
“I’m about to get fatter. One of those has my name on it, I hope.”
Pollard held the box for Cecil and his partner, who introduced himself as Kevin Delaney.
They were still chatting when Leeds came around the corner. Delaney immediately returned to his desk and Sanders went back to her cubicle. Cecil, who was ripe for his pension, turned his letterbox smile on his boss.
“Hey, Chris. Look who came to visit.”
Leeds was a tall humorless man known for immaculate suits and his brilliance in patterning serial bandits. Serial robbers were hunted in much the same way as serial killers. They were profiled to establish their patterns, and once their patterns were recognized, predictions were made as to when and where they would strike again. Leeds was a legendary profiler. Banks were his passion, and the agents who worked on the squad were his handpicked children. Everyone arrived before him; no one left until Leeds left. And Leeds rarely left. The workload was horrendous, but the FBI’s L.A. Bank Squad was the top of the game, and Leeds knew it. Working with the squad was an honor. When Pollard resigned, Leeds had taken it as a personal rejection. The day she cleared her desk, he refused to speak to her.
Now he studied her as if he couldn’t place her, but then he nodded.
“Hello, Katherine.”
“Hey, Chris. I stopped by to say hello. How’ve you been?”
“Busy.”
He glanced across the room at Sanders.
“I want you with Dugan in Montclair. He needs help with the one-on-ones. You should have left ten minutes ago.”
One-on-ones were the face-to-face interviews of possible witnesses. Local shopkeepers, workmen, and pedestrians were questioned in hopes they could provide a description of the suspects or their vehicle.
Sanders peeked over the top of her cubicle.
“On it, boss.”
He turned to Cecil and tapped his watch.
“Meeting. Let’s go.”
Cecil and Delaney hurried toward the door, but Leeds turned back to Pollard.
He said, “I appreciated the card. Thank you.”
“I was sorry when I heard.”
Leeds’ wife had died three years ago, almost two months exactly after Marty. When Pollard heard, she had written a short
note. Leeds had never responded.
“It was good to see you, Katherine. I hope you still feel you made the right decision.”
Leeds didn’t wait for her to respond. He followed Cecil and Delaney out the door like a grave digger on his way to church.
Pollard brought the donuts to Sanders’ cubicle.
“Man, some things never change.”
Sanders reached for the box.
“I wish I could say the same about my ass.”
They laughed and enjoyed the moment, but then Sanders frowned.
“Shit, you heard what he said. I’m sorry, Kat, I gotta roll.”
“Listen, I didn’t stop by just to bring donuts. I need some information.”
Sanders looked suspicious, then lowered her voice again.
“We should eat. Eating will distort our voices.”
“Yeah, let’s eat.”
They fished out a couple of donuts.
Pollard said, “Did you guys close the Marchenko and Parsons case?”
Sanders spoke with her mouth full.
“They’re dead, man. Those guys were iced. Why you want to know about Marchenko and Parsons?”
Pollard knew Sanders would ask, and had worried over how she should answer. Sanders had been on the squad when they tracked and busted Holman. Even though Holman had earned their respect with how he went down, many of the agents had grown resentful because of the publicity he got when the Times dubbed him the Hero Bandit. Within the squad, Holman’s name had been the Beach Bum Bandit because of his dark tan, Tommy Bahama shirts, and shades. Bank robbers were not heroes.
She said, “I took a job. Raising two kids is expensive.”
Pollard didn’t want to lie, but she didn’t see any other way around it. And it wasn’t like it was totally a lie. It was almost the truth.
Sanders finished her first donut and started a second.
“So where are you working?”
“It’s a private job, banking security, that kind of thing.”