The Two Minute Rule

by Robert Crais

  ALSO BY ROBERT CRAIS

  The Forgotten Man

  The Last Detective

  Hostage

  Demolition Angel

  L.A. Requiem

  Indigo Slam

  Sunset Express

  Voodoo River

  Free Fall

  Lullaby Town

  Stalking the Angel

  The Monkey’s Raincoat

  SIMON & SCHUSTER

  Rockefeller Center

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2006 by Robert Crais

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  SIMON& SCHUSTERand colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Crais, Robert.

  The two minute rule / Robert Crais.

  p. cm.

  I. Title.

  PS3553.R264T88 2006

  813'.54—dc22 2005057476

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7432-8915-3

  ISBN-10: 0-7432-8915-3

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Dedicated to the memory of

  Detective Terry Melancon, Jr.

  Baton Rouge Police Department

  August 10, 2005

  Hero.

  “Thank you, Mr. Policeman.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many people helped with the research and writing of this novel and must be thanked.

  In the FBI’s Los Angeles Field Office, Supervisory Special Agent John H. McEachern (boss of the L.A. Field Office’s legendary Bank Squad) and Special Agent Laura Eimiller (FBI Press and Public Relations) were generous with their time and patient with my questions. Errors and purposeful alterations in description and procedure are my responsibility.

  Assistant United States Attorney Garth Hire of the Los Angeles AUSA office was similarly helpful in the matters of federal sentencing guidelines and federal incarceration, and by pointing the way toward additional research in these areas. Again, the inconsistencies between actual fact and what is depicted in this novel are my responsibility.

  Former Special Agent Gerald Petievich of the United States Secret Service provided facts and history about the Hollywood Sign and Mount Lee, as well as additional insights into criminal behavior.

  Christina Ruano counseled me regarding all things Latin—from East L.A. locations to gang lore and language, as well as providing engineering information about the Los Angeles River channel and downtown bridges.

  Finally, special thanks and appreciation must be extended to my editor, Marysue Rucci, who worked with insight and diligence to help me realize the innate integrity of Max Holman.

  PROLOGUE

  MARCHENKO AND PARSONS circled the bank for sixteen minutes, huffing Krylon Royal Blue Metallic to regulate the crystal as they worked up their nut. Marchenko believed Royal Blue Metallic gave them an edge in the bank, made them fierce and wild-eyed, Royal Blue being a warrior’s color; Parsons just enjoyed the spacey out-of-body buzz, like being separated from the world by an invisible membrane.

  Marchenko suddenly slapped the dash, his wide Ukrainian face purple and furious, and Parsons knew they were on.

  Marchenko screamed, “Let’s get this bitch DONE!”

  Parsons jerked the charging bolt on his M4 rifle as Marchenko swerved their stolen Corolla into the parking lot. Parsons was careful not to place his finger on the trigger. It was important not to fire the weapon until Marchenko gave the word, Marchenko being the leader of their little operation, which was fine by Parsons. Marchenko had made them both millionaires.

  They turned into the parking lot at seven minutes after three that afternoon, and parked near the door. They pulled on black knit ski masks as they had twelve times before, rapped their gloved fists together in a flash of esprit de corps, now both shouting in unison like they meant it—

  “Get this bitch DONE!”

  They pushed out of the car, the two of them looking like black bears. Marchenko and Parsons were both decked out in matching black fatigues, boots, gloves, and masks; they wore load-bearing gear over armored vests they had bought on eBay, with so many extra magazines for their rifles bristling from their vests that their already bloated bodies looked swollen. Parsons carried a large nylon bag for the money.

  Broad daylight, as obvious as two flies in a bowl of milk, Marchenko and Parsons sauntered into the bank like two WWF wrestlers casually entering the ring.

  Parsons never once thought the police might show up or that they would be caught. The first couple of times they took over a bank he had worried, but this was their thirteenth armed bank robbery, and robbing banks had turned out to be the easiest money either of them had ever made: these banking people, they flat out just gave you the money, and security guards were a thing of the past; banks didn’t employ rent-a-cops anymore because the liability costs were too high—all you had to do was step through the doors and take what you wanted.

  As they entered the bank, a woman in a business suit was on her way out. She blinked at them in their black commando gear and guns, and she tried to reverse course, but Marchenko grabbed her face, kicked her legs out from under her, and pushed her down to the floor. Then he raised his rifle and shouted as loud as he could.

  “This is a robbery, you muthuhfuckuhs! We OWN this fuckin’ bank!”

  That being Parsons’ cue, he raked the ceiling with two horrific bursts from his rifle that knocked loose ceiling tiles and shattered three rows of lights. Shrapnel, debris, and ricochets spattered the walls and pinged off desks. Spent casings streamed from his rifle, tinkling like silverware at a furious feast. The noise of his automatic weapon’s fire was so loud in the enclosed space that Parsons never heard the tellers scream.

  Their thirteenth bank robbery had officially begun. The clock was running.

  Lynn Phelps, the third woman waiting in line for a teller, startled at the sound of the gunfire like everyone else, then dropped to the floor. She grabbed the legs of the woman standing behind her, pulled her down, then carefully checked the time. Her Seiko digital showed three-oh-nine, exactly. Nine minutes after three. Time would be critical.

  Mrs. Phelps, sixty-two years old, was overweight, dowdy, and a retired sheriff’s deputy from Riverside, California. She had moved to Culver City with her new husband, a retired Los Angeles police officer named Steven Earl Phelps, and had been a customer at this branch for only eight days. She was unarmed, but would not have reached for her weapon if she had been carrying it. Lynn Phelps knew the two A-holes robbing her bank were not professionals by the way they wasted time waving their guns and cursing rather than getting down to the business of stealing money. Professionals would have immediately grabbed the managers and had the tellers dump their drawers. Professionals knew that speed was life. These A-holes were clearly amateurs. Worse, they were amateurs who were armed to the teeth. Professionals wanted to get out alive; amateurs would kill you.

  Lynn Phelps checked the time again. Three-ten. One minute had passed, and these two idiots were still waving their guns. Amateurs.

  Marchenko shoved a Latino man into a counter laden with deposit slips. The man was short and dark, with baggy work clothes streaked with white paint and dust. His hands were dusty and white, too. Parsons thought the guy had probably been installing drywall before he came to the bank. The poor bastard probably didn’t speak English, either, but they didn’t
have time for language lessons.

  Marchenko screamed, “Get your fucking ass DOWN!”

  With that, Marchenko butt-stroked the guy with his rifle. The man’s head split and he slumped onto the counter, but he didn’t go down, so Marchenko hit him again, knocking him to the floor. Marchenko spun away, his voice furious and his eyes bulging out of the ski mask.

  “Everybody stay on the floor. Anyone gives us any shit you better kiss your ass good-bye. C’mere, you fat cow!”

  Parsons’ job was easy. He kept an eye on everyone, and kept an eye on the door. If new people walked in, he grabbed them and shoved them down. If a cop walked in, he would ace the fucker. That’s the way it worked. And he shook down the tellers while Marchenko went for the key.

  Banks kept their cash in two places, the teller drawers and the cash locker in the vault. The manager had the key to the cash locker.

  While Marchenko got the customers on the floor, Parsons whipped out his nylon bag and confronted the tellers. It was an easy mid-afternoon scene: four tellers, all young Asian and Middle Eastern women, and an older broad at a desk behind the tellers who was probably the manager. Another banker who was probably a loan officer or assistant manager sat at one of the two desks on the public side of the tellers.

  Parsons made his voice fierce like Marchenko and waved his gun. His gun scared the shit out of these chicks.

  “Stand away from the counter! Step back, goddamnit! Stand up! Don’t get down, fuckin’ bitch! Stand UP!”

  One of the tellers, already crying, had dropped to her knees, the dumb bitch. Parsons leaned across the counter, jabbing his gun at her.

  “Get up, you stupid bitch!”

  Behind him, Marchenko had pulled the desk jockey to his feet, screaming for the manager.

  “Which one of you has the key? Goddamnit, who’s the manager? I gotta fuckin’ cap your ass, I will!”

  The woman at the desk behind the tellers stepped forward, identifying herself as the manager. She raised both hands to show her palms, walking slowly forward.

  “You can have the money. We’re not going to resist you.”

  Marchenko shoved the one he had down, then stalked around the pass-through behind the tellers. While he took care of his end, Parsons ordered the tellers to step forward to their stations and warned them not to trip the alarms under their counters. He told them to dump their drawers on their desks and leave out the fuckin’ dye packs. He held his rifle in his right hand and the bag in his left. He ordered them to put their cash into the bag. Their hands shook as they did it. Each and every one of them trembled. Their fear gave Parsons an erection.

  He had a problem with the stupid bitch on the floor. She wouldn’t get up. She didn’t seem able to control her legs or even to hear his commands. He wanted to jump over the counter and beat the bitch silly until the next teller offered to empty her drawer.

  Parsons said, “Do it. Come over here and give me the money.”

  While the helpful teller bagged the cash, a man with short grey hair and weathered skin entered the bank. Parsons saw him only because he noticed one of the tellers looking at the man. When Parsons glanced over, the man was already turning to leave.

  The rifle jerked up with a life of its own and three rounds ripped out with a short sharp brrp. The tellers screamed as the man windmilled and fell. Parsons didn’t give it another thought. He glanced at the people on the floor to make sure no one was trying to get up, then turned back to the tellers.

  “Give me the goddamned money.”

  The last teller had put her money into his bag when Marchenko returned from the vault. His bag bulged large. The real money was always in the vault.

  Parsons said, “We cool?”

  Marchenko smiled behind his mask.

  “We’re golden.”

  Parsons zipped his bag closed. If a dye pack exploded the money would be ruined, but the nylon bag would protect him from the color. Sometimes the dye packs were on timers and sometimes they were on proximity fuses that were triggered when you left the bank. If a dye pack went off, the cops would be looking for anyone wearing indelible colored ink.

  With the money, they stood together, looking back at the bank and the people on the floor.

  Marchenko, as always, shouted his signature farewell.

  “Don’t get up, don’t look up. If you look up, I’m gonna be the last fuckin’ thing you see.”

  When he turned for the door, Parsons followed, not even glancing at the man he had killed, anxious to get out and get home and count their money. When they reached the door, Parsons turned for a last glance to make sure everyone was still on the floor, and, like always, they were—

  —because robbing banks was so goddamned easy.

  Then he followed Marchenko into the light.

  Lynn Phelps checked her watch as the two robbers stepped out the door. It was three-eighteen; nine minutes since the two bozos with their black costumes and big guns had entered the bank. Professional bank robbers knew they had less than two minutes to make their robbery and get away. Two minutes was the minimum amount of time it took for a bank employee to trigger a silent alarm, for that alarm to register at the security firms that banks hired to monitor such things, and for the police to respond once they were notified a robbery was in progress. Every second past two minutes increased the odds that a bank robber would be caught. A professional would leave a bank when the clock struck two whether he had the money or not. Lynn Phelps knew these guys were amateurs, dicking around in the bank for nine minutes. Sooner or later they would get bagged.

  Lynn Phelps stayed on the floor and waited. The time clicked over. Ten minutes. She grunted.

  Lynn Phelps did not know for certain what was waiting outside, but she had a good idea.

  Parsons backed out of the bank, making sure the people they had just robbed didn’t rush up behind them. Backing out, he bumped into Marchenko, who had stopped only a few feet from the door when the amplified voice echoed across the parking lot.

  “Police! Do not move. Stand absolutely still.”

  Parsons absorbed the scene in a heartbeat: Two nondescript sedans were parked across the parking lot, and a black-and-white police car was blocking the drive. A beat-up Econoline van was on the street behind the black-and-white. Hard-looking men in plainclothes were set up behind the vehicles, aiming pistols, shotguns, and rifles. Two uniformed officers were at either end of their radio car.

  Parsons said, “Wow.”

  He did not feel afraid or any great surprise, though his heart was pounding. Marchenko raised his rifle without hesitation and opened fire. The movement of Marchenko’s gun was like the okay sign. Parsons opened up, too. Their modified M4s operated flawlessly, hosing out streams of bullets. Parsons felt light punches in his stomach, chest, and left thigh, but barely noticed them. He dumped his magazine, jammed in another, and recharged. He swung toward the black-and-white, rattled off a stream, then swung back toward the nondescript sedans as Marchenko fell. Marchenko didn’t stagger or spin or any of that; he dropped like a puppet with cut strings.

  Parsons wasn’t sure where to go or what to do except keep shooting. He stepped over Marchenko’s body, then saw that one of the men behind the sedans had a rifle very much like his own. Parsons lined up, but not quite in time. Bullets snapped through his vest and staggered him. The world was suddenly grey and hazy, and his head buzzed with a feeling far different than the Royal Blue Metallic. Parsons didn’t know it, but his right lung had been destroyed and his aorta had burst. He sat down hard on his ass but did not feel the impact. He slumped backwards, but did not feel his head strike the concrete. He realized that all of it had gone terribly wrong, but he still did not believe he was dying.

  Shapes and shadows floated above him, but he did not know what they were and did not care. Parsons thought about the money as his abdominal cavity filled with blood and his blood pressure dropped. His last thoughts were of the money, the cash, all those perfect green bills they had stolen and stashe
d, each dollar a wish and a fantasy, millions of unfulfilled wishes that were beyond his reach and moving farther away. Parsons had always known that robbing banks was wrong, but he had enjoyed it. Marchenko had made them rich. And they had been rich.

  Parsons saw their money.

  It was waiting for them.

  Then Parsons went into cardiac arrest, his breathing stopped, and only then did his dreams of the money vanish on the hot bright street in Los Angeles.

  Long past their two minutes, Parsons and Marchenko had run out of time.

  PART ONE

  86 DAYS LATER

  1

  “YOU’RE NOT TOO OLD. Forty-six isn’t old, these days. You got a world of time to make a life for yourself.”

  Holman didn’t answer. He was trying to decide how best to pack. Everything he owned was spread out on the bed, all neatly folded: four white T-shirts, three Hanes briefs, four pairs of white socks, two short-sleeved shirts (one beige, one plaid), one pair of khaki pants, plus the clothes he had been wearing when he was arrested for bank robbery ten years, three months, and four days ago.

  “Max, you listening?”

  “I gotta get this stuff packed. Lemme ask you something—you think I should keep my old stuff, from before? I don’t know as I’ll ever get into those pants.”

  Wally Figg, who ran the Community Correctional Center, which was kind of a halfway house for federal prisoners, stepped forward to eye the pants. He picked them up and held them next to Holman. The cream-colored slacks still bore scuff marks from when the police had wrestled Holman to the floor in the First United California Bank ten years plus three months ago. Wally admired the material.

  “That’s a nice cut, man. What is it, Italian?”

  “Armani.”

  Wally nodded, impressed.

  “I’d keep’m, I was you. Be a shame to lose something this nice.”