The Two Minute Rule

  Holman didn’t respond. Here they were, keeping him here all evening, and Juarez was dead.

  Holman said, “Then why in hell did you ask me if his wife knew where he was and what I would do?”

  “To see if she lied to me. You know how it works.”

  Holman felt himself growing angry but fought it down. Random opened the door.

  “Let’s make sure we’re clear on this—don’t go back to Ms. Juarez. Her husband might be dead, but she is still the subject of an active investigation.”

  “You think she was involved in the killings?”

  “She helped him try to get away with it. Whether or not she knew before the fact is still to be determined. Don’t get involved in this again. We’re giving you a break because you lost your son, but that consideration ends now. If we bring you back to this room, Holman, I’ll charge you and see that you’re prosecuted. Do we understand each other?”

  Holman nodded.

  “Rest easy, Mr. Holman. We got the bastard.”

  Random left without waiting for an answer. Vukovich peeled himself from the wall and gently slapped Holman on the back, like two guys who had been through the mill together.

  “C’mon, bud. I’ll take you back to your car.”

  Holman followed Vukovich out.

  11

  HOLMAN THOUGHT about Maria Juarez as they drove past her house on the way to his car. He looked for the remaining surveillance team but couldn’t find them.

  Vukovich said, “Random means it about hassling that woman, Holman. Stay away from her.”

  “You say they faked that tape I guess they faked it, but she seemed sincere to me.”

  “Thank you for your expert opinion. Now tell me something—when you were waiting in line to rob those banks, did you look innocent or guilty?”

  Holman let it go.

  Vukovich said, “One point me, zero Holman.”

  They stopped alongside the beater and Holman opened the door.

  “Thanks for the ride.”

  “Maybe I should take you home instead of letting you drive. You don’t even have a license.”

  “First thing I hear when I get my release is that Richie was killed. I had more on my mind than the DMV.”

  “Get it done. I’m not just being an asshole. You get stopped, you’re just going to end up in trouble.”

  “Tomorrow. First thing.”

  Holman stood in the street as he watched Vukovich drive away. He looked at Maria Juarez’s house. The windows were lit and very likely the cousins were home. Holman wondered what they were talking about. He wondered whether the police had informed her that her husband was dead. Holman told himself he didn’t care, but knowing the little house was probably filled with pain bothered him. He climbed into his car and drove home.

  Holman made it back to the motel without being stopped and left Perry’s car in the alley. Perry was up and waiting when Holman entered the lobby, leaning back behind his desk with his arms folded, his legs crossed, and his face pinched. He was pulled so tight he reminded Holman of a spider waiting to launch itself on the first bug that walked by.

  Perry said, “You fucked me up good. You know how much I hadda pay in back fines?”

  Holman wasn’t in the best of moods, either. He walked over and put himself right at the edge of Perry’s desk.

  “Fuck you and your fines. You should’ve told me I was driving around in a wanted vehicle. You rented me a piece of shit that could’ve put me back in prison.”

  “Fuck you, too! I didn’t know about those tickets! Guys like you get’m driving around and don’t even tell me. Now I’m fucking stuck with the bill—two thousand four hundred eighteen dollars!”

  “You should’ve told them to keep it. It’s a piece of shit.”

  “They were gonna boot it and hit me for the tow and the impound. I hadda go all the way downtown in rush hour to fork over that dough.”

  Holman knew Perry was dying to hit him up for a reimbursement, but he also knew Perry was worried about the repercussions. If it got back to Gail Manelli she would know that Perry was illegally and knowingly renting his vehicle to unlicensed drivers. Then he would lose out on the tenants she fed him through the Bureau of Prisons.

  Holman said, “Tough shit. I was downtown, too, thanks to your fucking car. Did you bring my television today?”

  “It’s up in your room.”

  “It better not be stolen.”

  “You’re whining like a pussy. Look, it’s up there. You gotta play with the ears. The reception is off.”

  Holman started up the stairs.

  “Hey. Waitaminute. I got a couple messages for you.”

  Holman immediately perked up, thinking that Richie’s wife had finally called. He one-eightied back to the desk where Perry was looking nervous.

  “Gail called. She wants you to call her, man.”

  “Who else called?”

  Perry was holding a note, but Holman couldn’t see what was on it.

  Perry said, “Now, listen, you talk to Gail, don’t tell her about the goddamned car. You shouldn’t have been driving and I shouldn’t have rented it to you. Neither one of us needs that kind of trouble.”

  Holman reached for the slip.

  “I’m not going to say anything. Who was the other call?”

  Holman snagged the slip and Perry let him have it.

  “Some woman from a cemetery. She said you’d know what it was about.”

  Holman read the note. It was an address and phone number.

  Richard Holman

  42 Berke Drive #216

  LA, CA 90024

  310-555-2817

  Holman had guessed that Richie paid for his mother’s burial, but this confirmed it.

  “Did anyone else call? I was expecting another call.”

  “Just this. Unless they called while I was off paying those goddamned fines for you.”

  Holman put the slip of paper into his pocket.

  “I’m gonna need the car again tomorrow.”

  “Don’t say anything to Gail, for Christ’s sake.”

  Holman didn’t bother answering. He went upstairs, turned on the television, and waited for the eleven o’clock news. The television was a small American brand that was twenty years out of date. The picture wavered with hazy ghosts. Holman fought with the antennas trying to make the ghosts go away, but they didn’t. They grew worse.

  12

  THE NEXT MORNING, Holman climbed out of bed at a quarter past five. His back hurt from the crappy mattress and a fitful night’s sleep. He decided he either had to sandwich a board between the mattress and springs or pull the mattress onto the floor. The beds at Lompoc were better.

  He went down for a paper and chocolate milk, then returned to his room to read the newspaper accounts of last night’s developments.

  The newspaper reported that three boys had discovered Juarez’s body in an abandoned house in Cypress Park less than one mile from Juarez’s home. The newspaper showed a picture of the three boys posing outside a dilapidated house with police officers in the background. One of the officers looked like Random, but the photo was too grainy for Holman to be sure. Police stated that a neighbor living near the abandoned house reported hearing a gunshot early during the morning following the murders. Holman wondered why the neighbor hadn’t called the police when he first heard the shot, but let it go. He knew from personal experience that people heard things all the time they didn’t report; silence was a thief’s best friend.

  Statements made by both the boys and officers at the scene described Juarez as having been seated on the floor with his back to a wall and a twelve-gauge shotgun clutched in his right hand. A representative of the coroner’s office stated that death appeared instantaneous from a massive head wound fired upward through the deceased’s jaw. Holman knew from Random’s description that the shotgun was short, so Juarez could easily have tucked it up under his chin. Holman pictured the body and decided Juarez’s finger had been caught in the
trigger guard or else the shotgun would have kicked free. The buckshot would have blown out the top of his head and likely taken most of his face with it. Holman could picture the body easily enough, but something about it troubled him and he wasn’t sure why. He continued reading.

  The article spent a few paragraphs explaining the connection between Warren Juarez and Michael Fowler, but offered nothing Holman hadn’t learned from Random and Vukovich. Holman knew men serving life sentences because they killed other men for offenses much less than the death of a sibling; veteranos who didn’t regret a day of their time because their notion of pride had demanded no other response. Holman was thinking of these men when he realized what bothered him about the nature of Juarez’s death. Suicide didn’t jibe with the man Maria Juarez had described. Random had suggested that Juarez and his wife made the video the morning after the murders. If Random was right, Juarez had committed the murders, spent the next morning giving his daughter donkey rides and mugging for the camera, then fled to the abandoned house where he had grown so despondent that he killed himself. Mugging and donkey rides didn’t add up to suicide. Juarez would have had the admiration of his homies for avenging his brother’s death and his daughter would have been protected by them like a queen. Juarez had plenty to live for even if he had to spend the rest of his life behind bars.

  Holman was still thinking about it when the sixA.M. news opened with the same story. He put aside the paper to watch taped coverage of the press conference that had been held the night before while Holman was being interrogated. Assistant Chief Donnelly did most of the talking again, but this time Holman recognized Random in the background.

  Holman was still watching when his phone rang. The sudden noise startled him and he lurched as if he had been shocked. This was the first phone call he had received since he was arrested in the bank. Holman answered tentatively.

  “Hello?”

  “Bro! I thought you was in jail, homes! I heard you got busted!”

  Holman hesitated, then realized what Chee meant.

  “You mean last night?”

  “MuthuhfuckinHolman! What you think I mean? The whole neighborhood saw you get hooked up, homes! I thought they violated your ass! Whatchu do over there?”

  “I just talked to the lady. No law against knocking on a door.”

  “Muthuhfuckin’ muthuhfucker! I oughta come over there kick your ass myself, worryin’ me like this! I got your back, homes! I got your back!”

  “I’m okay, bro. They just talked to me.”

  “You need a lawyer? I can set you up.”

  “I’m okay, man.”

  “You kill her old man?”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

  “I thought for sure that was you, homes.”

  “He killed himself.”

  “I didn’t believe that suicide shit. I figured you took his ass out.”

  Holman didn’t know what to say, so he changed the subject.

  “Hey, Chee. I’ve been renting a guy’s car for twenty dollars a day and it’s killing me. Could you set me up with some wheels?”

  “Sure, bro, whatever you want.”

  “I don’t have a driver’s license.”

  “I can take care of you. All we need is the picture.”

  “A real one from the DMV.”

  “I got you covered, bro. I even got the camera.”

  In the day, Chee had fabricated driver’s licenses, green cards, and Social Security cards for his uncles. Apparently, he still had the skills.

  Holman made arrangements to stop by later, then hung up. He showered and dressed, then pushed his remaining clothes into a grocery bag, intending to find a Laundromat. It was six-fifty when he left his room.

  Richie’s address was a four-story courtyard apartment south of Wilshire Boulevard in Westwood near UCLA. Since the address dated from Donna’s burial almost two years before, Holman had spent much of the night worried that Richie had moved. He debated using the phone number, but Richie’s wife had not called, so it was clear she wanted no contact. If Holman phoned now and reached her, she might refuse to see him and might even call the police. Holman figured his best chance was to catch her early and not warn her he was coming. If she still lived there.

  The building’s main entrance was a glass security door that required a key. Mailboxes were on the street side of the door, along with a security phone so guests could call to be buzzed in by the tenants. Holman went to the boxes and searched through the apartment numbers, hoping to find his son’s name on 216.

  He did.

  HOLMAN.

  Donna had given the boy Holman’s name even though they weren’t married, and seeing it now moved him. He touched the name— HOLMAN—thinking, this was my son. He felt an angry ache in his chest and abruptly turned away.

  Holman waited by the security door for almost ten minutes until a young Asian man with a book bag pushed open the door on his way out to class. Holman caught the door before it closed and let himself in.

  The interior courtyard was small and filled with lush bird-of-paradise plants. The inside of the building was ringed with exposed walkways which could be reached by a common elevator that opened into the courtyard or by an adjoining staircase. Holman used the stairs. He climbed to the second floor, then followed the numbers until he found 216. He knocked lightly, then knocked again, harder, wrapping himself in a numbness that was designed to protect him from his own feelings.

  A young woman opened the door, and his numbness was gone.

  Her face was focused and contained, as if she was concentrating on something more important than answering the door. She was slight, with dark eyes, a thin face, and prominent ears. She was wearing denim shorts, a light green blouse, and sandals. Her hair was damp, as if she wasn’t long from the shower. Holman thought she looked like a child.

  She stared at him with curious indifference.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Max Holman. Richie’s father.”

  Holman waited for her to unload. He expected her to tell him what a rotten bastard and lousy father he was, but the indifference vanished and she canted her head as if seeing him for the first time.

  “Ohmigod. Well. This is awkward.”

  “It’s awkward for me, too. I don’t know your name.”

  “Elizabeth. Liz.”

  “I’d like to talk with you a little bit if you don’t mind. It would mean a lot to me.”

  She suddenly opened the door.

  “I have to apologize. I was going to call, but I just—I didn’t know what to say. Please. Come in. I’m getting ready for class, but I have a few minutes. There’s some coffee—”

  Holman stepped past her and waited in the living room as she closed the door. He told her not to go to any trouble, but she went to her kitchen anyway and took two mugs from the cupboard, leaving him in her living room.

  “This is just so weird. I’m sorry. I don’t use sugar. We might have Sweeta—”

  “Black is fine.”

  “I have nonfat milk.”

  “Just black.”

  It was a large apartment, with the living room, a dining area, and the kitchen all sharing space. Holman was suddenly overcome by being in Richie’s home. He had told himself to be all business, just ask his questions and get out, but now his son’s life was all around him and he wanted to fill himself with it: A mismatched couch and chair faced a TV on a pedestal stand in the corner; racks cluttered with CDs and DVDs tipped against the wall—Green Day, Beck, Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back ; a gas fireplace was built into the wall, its mantel filled with rows of overlapping pictures. Holman let himself drift closer.

  “This is a nice place,” he said.

  “It’s more than we can afford, but it’s close to campus. I’m getting my master’s in child psychology.”

  “That sounds real good.”

  Holman felt like a dummy and wished he could think of something better to say.

  “I just got out of prison.??
?

  “I know.”

  Stupid.

  The pictures showed Richie and Liz together, alone, and with other couples. One shot showed them on a boat; another wearing flare-bright parkas in the snow; in another, they were at a picnic where everyone wore LAPD T-shirts. Holman found himself smiling, but then he saw a picture of Richie with Donna and his smile collapsed. Donna had been younger than Holman, but in the picture she looked older. Her hair was badly colored and her face was cut by deep lines and shadows. Holman turned away, hiding from the memories and the sudden flush of shame, and found Liz beside him with the coffee. She offered a cup, and Holman accepted it. He shrugged to encompass the apartment.

  “You have a nice place. I like the pictures. It’s like getting to know him a little bit.”

  Her eyes never left him and and now Holman felt watched. Her being a psych major, he wondered if she was analyzing him.

  She suddenly lowered the cup.

  “You look like him. He was a little taller but not much. You’re heavier.”

  “I got fat.”

  “I didn’t mean fat. Richard was a runner. That’s all I meant.”

  Her eyes filled then, and Holman didn’t know what to do. He raised a hand, thinking to touch her shoulder, but he was afraid he might scare her. Then she pulled herself together and rubbed her eyes clear with the flat of her free hand.

  “I’m sorry. This really sucks. This so really sucks. Listen—”

  She rubbed her eye again, then held out her hand.

  “It’s good to finally meet you.”

  “You really think I look like him?”

  She made a thin smile.

  “Clones. Donna always said the same thing.”

  Holman changed the subject. If they got into talking about Donna he would start crying, too.

  He said, “Listen, I know you have to get to class and all, but can I ask you a couple of questions about what happened? It won’t take long.”

  “They found that man who killed them.”

  “I know. I’m just trying to…I talked to Detective Random. Have you met him?”