The Two Minute Rule

by Robert Crais

  “If you didn’t know I existed, how did you find me?”

  “Richard’s wife.”

  Holman took it in. Richie was married, and neither Richie nor Donna had told him. Levy and Clark must have been able to read him because Levy cleared his throat.

  “How long have you been incarcerated?”

  “Ten years. I’m at the end of it now. I start supervised release today.”

  Clark said, “What were you in for?”

  “Banks.”

  “Uh-huh, so you’ve had no recent contact with your son?”

  Holman cursed himself for glancing away.

  “I was hoping to get back in touch now that I’m out.”

  Clark made a thoughtful nod.

  “You could’ve called him from the correction center, couldn’t you? They give you guys plenty of freedom.”

  “I didn’t want to call while I was still in custody. If he wanted to get together I didn’t want to have to ask permission. I wanted him to see me free with the prison behind me.”

  Now it was Levy who seemed embarrassed, so Holman pushed ahead with his questions.

  “Can you tell me how Richie’s mother is doing? I want to make sure she’s okay.”

  Levy glanced at Clark, who took his cue to answer.

  “We notified Richard’s wife. Our first responsibility was her, you understand, her being his spouse? If she notified his mother or anyone else she didn’t tell us, but that was up to her. It was Mrs. Holman—Richard’s wife—who told us about you. She wasn’t sure where you were housed, so we contacted the Bureau of Prisons.”

  Levy took over.

  “We’ll bring you up to date with what we know. It isn’t much. Robbery-Homicide is handling the case out of Parker Center. All we know at this point is that Richard was one of four officers murdered early this morning. We believe the killings were some sort of ambush, but we don’t know that at this time.”

  Clark said, “Approximately one-fifty. A little before two is when it happened.”

  Levy continued on as if he didn’t mind Clark’s intrusion.

  “Two of the officers were on duty, and two were off—Richard was not on duty. They were gathered together in—”

  Holman interrupted.

  “So they weren’t killed in a shoot-out or anything like that?”

  “If you’re asking whether or not they were in a gun battle we don’t know, but the reports I have don’t indicate that to be the case. They were gathered together in an informal setting. I don’t know how graphic I should be—”

  “I don’t need graphic. I just want to know what happened.”

  “The four officers were taking a break together—that’s what I meant by informal. They were out of their cars, their weapons were holstered, and none of them radioed that a crime was in progress or a situation was developing. We believe the weapon or weapons used were shotguns.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Understand, this happened only a few hours ago. The task force has just been formed, and detectives are working right now to figure out what happened. We’ll keep you informed on the developments, but right now we just don’t know. The investigation is developing.”

  Holman shifted, and his chair made a tiny squeal.

  “Do you know who did it? You have a suspect?”

  “Not at this time.”

  “So someone just shot him, like when he was looking the other way? In the back? I’m just trying to, I don’t know, picture it, I guess.”

  “We don’t know any more, Mr. Holman. I know you have questions. Believe me, we have questions, too. We’re still trying to sort it out.”

  Holman felt as if he didn’t know any more than when he arrived. The harder he tried to think, the more he saw the boy running alongside his car, calling him a loser.

  “Did he suffer?”

  Levy hesitated.

  “I drove down to the crime scene this morning when I got the call. Richard was one of my guys. Not the other three, but Richard was one of us here at Devonshire so I had to go see. I don’t know, Mr. Holman—I want to tell you he didn’t. I want to think he didn’t even see it coming, but I don’t know.”

  Holman watched Levy and appreciated the man’s honesty. He felt a coldness in his chest, but he had felt that coldness before.

  “I should know about the burial. Is there anything I need to do?”

  Clark said, “The department will take care of that with his widow. Right now, no date has been set. We don’t yet know when they’ll be released from the coroner.”

  “All right, sure, I understand. Could I have her number? I’d like to talk to her.”

  Clark shifted backwards, and Levy once more laced his fingers on the table.

  “I can’t give you her number. If you give us your information, we’ll pass it on to her and tell her you’d like to speak with her. That way, if she wants to contact you, it’s her choice.”

  “I just want to talk to her.”

  “I can’t give you her number.”

  Clark said, “It’s a privacy issue. Our first obligation is to the officer’s family.”

  “I’m his father.”

  “Not according to his personnel file.”

  There it was. Holman wanted to say more, but he told himself to take it easy, just like when he was inside and another con tried to front him. You had to get along.

  Holman looked at the floor.

  “Okay. I understand.”

  “If she wants to call, she will. You see how it is.”

  “Sure.”

  Holman couldn’t remember the number at the motel where he would be living. Levy walked him out to the reception area where Wally gave them the number, and Levy promised to call when they knew something more. Holman thanked him for his time. Getting along.

  When Levy was heading back inside, Holman stopped him.

  “Captain?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Was my son a good officer?”

  Levy nodded.

  “Yes, sir. Yes, he was. He was a fine young man.”

  Holman watched Levy walk away.

  Wally said, “What did they say?”

  Holman turned away without answering and walked out to the car. He watched police officers entering and leaving the building as he waited for Wally to catch up. He looked up at the heavy blue sky and at the nearby mountains to the north. He tried to feel like a free man, but he felt like he was still up in Lompoc. Holman decided that was okay. He had spent much of his life in prison. He knew how to get along in prison just fine.

  3

  HOLMAN’S NEW HOME was a three-story building one block off Washington Boulevard in Culver City, sandwiched between the Smooth Running Transmission Repair Service and a convenience store protected by iron bars. The Pacific Gardens Motel Apartments had been one of six housing suggestions on a list Gail Manelli provided when it was time for Holman to find a place to live. It was clean, cheap, and located on a no-transfer bus route Holman could use to get to his job.

  Wally pulled up outside the front entrance and turned off his car. They had stopped by the CCC so Holman could sign his papers and pick up his things. Holman was now officially on supervised release. He was free.

  Wally said, “This isn’t any way to start, man, not your first day back with news like this. Listen to me—if you want a few more days at the house you can stay. We can talk this out. You can see one of the counselors.”

  Holman opened the door but didn’t get out. He knew Wally was worried about him.

  “I’ll get settled, then I’ll call Gail. I still want to get to the DMV today. I want to get a car as soon as I can.”

  “It’s a blow, man, this news. Here you are back in the world, and already you have this to deal with. Don’t let it beat you, man. Don’t yield to the dark side.”

  “No one’s going to yield.”

  Wally searched Holman’s eyes for some kind of reassurance, so Holman tried to look reassuring. Wally didn’t seem to buy it
.

  “You’re going to have dark times, Max—black moments like you’re trapped in a box with the air running out. You’ll pass a hundred liquor stores and bars, and they’re going to prey on your mind. If you feel weak, you call me.”

  “I’m okay, Wally. You don’t have to worry.”

  “Just remember you have people pulling for you. Not everyone would’ve went down the way you went down, and that shows you got a strong natural character. You’re a good man, Max.”

  “I gotta go, Wally. There’s a lot to do.”

  Wally put out his hand.

  “I’m a call away, twenty-four seven.”

  “Thanks, bro.”

  Holman took his bag of clothes from the back seat, climbed out of the car, and waved as Wally drove away. Holman had arranged for one of the eight studio apartments at the Pacific Gardens. Five of the six other tenants were civilians, and one, like Holman, was on supervised release. Holman wondered if the civilians got a break on rent for living with criminals. Holman figured they were probably Section Eight Housing recipients and lucky to have a roof over their heads.

  Something wet hit Holman’s neck and he glanced up. The Pacific Gardens didn’t have central air. Window units hung over the sidewalk, dripping water. More water hit Holman on the face, and this time he stepped to the side.

  The manager was an elderly black man named Perry Wilkes, who waved when he saw Holman enter. Even though the Pacific Gardens called itself a motel, it didn’t have a front desk like a real motel. Perry owned the building and lived in the only ground-floor apartment. He manned a desk that filled a cramped corner of the entry so he could keep an eye on the people who came and left.

  Perry glanced at Holman’s bag.

  “Hey. That all your stuff?”

  “Yeah, this is it.”

  “Okay then, you’re officially a resident. You get two keys. These are real metal keys, so if you lose one you’re gonna lose your key deposit.”

  Holman had already filled out the rental agreement and paid his rent two weeks in advance along with a one-hundred-dollar cleaning fee and a six-dollar key deposit. When Holman first looked at the place, Perry had lectured him on noise, late-night doings, smoking pot or cigars in the rooms, and making sure his rent was paid on time, which meant exactly two weeks in advance on the dot. Everything was set so all Holman had to do was show up and move in, which is the way Gail Manelli and the Bureau of Prisons liked it.

  Perry took a set of keys from his center drawer and handed them to Holman.

  “This is for two-oh-six, right at the top in front here. I got one other empty right now up on the third floor in back, but you look at two-oh-six first—it’s the nicest. If you want to see the other I’ll let you take your pick.”

  “This is one of the rooms looking at the street?”

  “That’s right. In front here right at the top. Set you up with a nice little view.”

  “Those air conditioners drip water on people walking past.”

  “I’ve heard that before and I didn’t give a shit then, either.”

  Holman went up to see his room. It was a simple studio with dingy yellow walls, a shopworn double bed, and two stuffed chairs covered in a threadbare floral print. Holman had a private bath and what Perry called a kitchenette, which was a single-burner hot plate sitting on top of a half-size refrigerator. Holman put his bag of clothes at the foot of the bed, then opened the refrigerator. It was empty, but gleamed with cleanliness and a fresh bright light. The bathroom was clean, too, and smelled of Pine-Sol. Holman cupped his hand under the tap and drank, then looked at himself in the mirror. He had worked up a couple of mushy bags under his eyes and crow’s-feet at the corners. His short hair was dusty with grey. He couldn’t remember ever looking at himself up at Lompoc. He didn’t look like a kid anymore and probably never had. He felt like a mummy rising from the dead.

  Holman rinsed his face in the cool water, but realized too late that he had no towels and nothing with which to dry himself, so he wiped away the water with his hands and left the bathroom wet.

  He sat on the edge of his bed and dug through his wallet for phone numbers, then called Gail Manelli.

  “It’s Holman. I’m in the room.”

  “Max. I am so sorry to hear about your son. How are you doing?”

  “I’m dealing. It’s not like we were close.”

  “He was still your son.”

  A silence developed because Holman didn’t know what to say. Finally he said something because he knew she wanted him to.

  “I just have to keep my eye on the ball.”

  “That’s right. You’ve come a long way and now is no time to backslide. Have you spoken to Tony yet?”

  Tony was Holman’s new boss, Tony Gilbert, at the Harding Sign Company. Holman had been a part-time employee for the past eight weeks, training for a full-time position that he would begin tomorrow.

  “No, not yet. I just got up to the room. Wally took me up to Chatsworth.”

  “I know. I just spoke with him. Were the officers able to tell you anything?”

  “They didn’t know anything.”

  “I’ve been listening to the news stories. It’s just terrible, Max. I’m so sorry.”

  Holman glanced around his new room, but saw he had no television or radio.

  “I’ll have to check it out.”

  “Were the police helpful? Did they treat you all right?”

  “They were fine.”

  “All right, now listen—if you need a day or two off because of this, I can arrange it.”

  “I’d rather jump on the job. I think getting busy would be good.”

  “If you change your mind, just let me know.”

  “Listen, I want to get to the DMV. It’s getting late and I’m not sure of the bus route. I gotta get the license so I can start driving again.”

  “All right, Max. Now you know you can call me anytime. You have my office and my pager.”

  “Listen, I really want to get to the DMV.”

  “I’m sorry you had to start with this terrible news.”

  “Thanks, Gail. Me, too.”

  When Gail finally hung up Holman picked up his bag of clothes. He removed the top layer of shirts, then fished out the picture of his son. He stared at Richie’s face. Holman, not wanting to pock the boy’s head with pinholes, had fashioned a frame out of maple scraps in the Lompoc woodworking shop and fixed the picture to a piece of cardboard with carpenter’s glue. They wouldn’t let inmates have glass in prison. You had glass, you could make a weapon. Broken glass, you could kill yourself or someone else. Holman set the picture on the little table between the two ugly chairs, then went downstairs to find Perry at his desk.

  Perry was tipped back in his chair, almost like he was waiting for Holman to turn the corner from the stairs. He was.

  Perry said, “You have to lock the deadbolt when you leave. I could hear you didn’t lock the deadbolt. This isn’t the CCC. You don’t lock your room, someone might steal your stuff.”

  Holman hadn’t even thought to lock his door.

  “That’s a good tip. After so many years, you forget.”

  “I know.”

  “Listen, I need some towels up there.”

  “I didn’t leave any?”

  “No.”

  “You look in the closet? Up on the shelf?”

  Holman resisted his instinct to ask why towels would be in the closet and not in the bathroom.

  “No, I didn’t think to look in there. I’ll check it out. I’d like a television, too. Can you help me with that?”

  “We don’t have cable.”

  “Just a TV.”

  “Might have one if I can find it. Cost you an extra eight dollars a month, plus another sixty security deposit.”

  Holman didn’t have much of a nest egg. He could manage the extra eight a month, but the security deposit would bite pretty deep into his available cash. He figured he would need that cash for other things.

 
; “That sounds steep, the security deposit.”

  Perry shrugged.

  “You throw a bottle through it, what do I have? Look, I know it’s a lot of money. Go to one of these discount places. You can pick up a brand-new set for eighty bucks. They make’m in Korea with slave labor and damn near give’m away. It’ll be more up front, but you won’t have to pay the eight a month and you’ll have a better picture, too. These old sets I have are kind of fuzzy.”

  Holman didn’t have time to waste shopping for a Korean television.

  He said, “You’ll give back the sixty when I give back the set?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, hook me up. I’ll give it back to you when I get one of my own.”

  “That’s what you want, you got it.”

  Holman went next door to the convenience store for a Times. He bought a carton of chocolate milk to go with the paper and read the newspaper’s story about the murders while standing on the sidewalk.

  Sergeant Mike Fowler, a twenty-six-year veteran, had been the senior officer at the scene. He was survived by a wife and four children. Officers Patrick Mellon and Charles Wallace Ash had eight and six years on the job, respectively. Mellon was survived by a wife and two small children; Ash was unmarried. Holman studied their pictures. Fowler had a thin face and papery skin. Mellon was a dark man with a wide brow and heavy features who looked like he enjoyed kicking ass. Ash was his opposite with chipmunk cheeks, wispy hair so blond it was almost white, and nervous eyes. The last of the officers pictured was Richie. Holman had never seen an adult picture of his son. The boy had Holman’s lean face and thin mouth. Holman realized his son had the same hardened expression he had seen on jailbirds who had lived ragged lives that left them burned at the edges. Holman suddenly felt angry and responsible. He folded the page to hide his son’s face, then continued reading.

  The article described the crime scene much as Levy described it, but contained little information beyond that. Holman was disappointed. He could tell the reporters had rushed to file their story before press time.

  The officers had been parked in the L.A. River channel beneath the Fourth Street Bridge and had apparently been ambushed. Levy told Holman that all four officers had holstered weapons, but the paper reported that Officer Mellon’s weapon had been drawn, though not fired. A police spokesman confirmed that the senior officer present—Fowler—had radioed to announce he was taking a coffee break, but was not heard from again. Holman made a soft whistle—four trained police officers had been hammered so quickly that they hadn’t been able to return fire or even take cover to call for assistance. The article contained no information about the number of shots fired or how many times the officers were hit, but Holman guessed at least two shooters were involved. It would be difficult for one man to take out four officers so quickly they didn’t have time to react.