The Two Minute Rule

by Robert Crais

  “What about the funeral?”

  Levy didn’t answer. Holman hung up without saying more, then went downstairs and was waiting in the lobby when Perry showed up.

  Holman said, “I need that car again.”

  “You got another twenty?”

  Holman held up the bill like a middle finger and Perry scooped it away.

  “Bring it back full. I’m telling you. I didn’t check last night or this morning, but I want that ride full.”

  “I need the TV.”

  “You look like something’s wrong. If you’re mad you didn’t have the TV last night I’m sorry, but it’s in storage. I’ll get it this morning.”

  “I’m not mad about the TV.”

  “Then why the face?”

  “Just give me the fucking keys.”

  Holman picked up Perry’s Mercury and headed south to the City of Industry. Taking the bus would have been smarter, but Holman had a lot of ground to cover. He never exceeded the speed limit and was wary of other drivers.

  Holman arrived at work ten minutes early and parked on the far side of the building because he didn’t want his boss, Tony Gilbert, to see him driving. Gilbert was familiar with inmate hires, and knew Holman would not yet have his license.

  Holman worked for the Harding Sign Company in a plant that printed art for Harding billboards. The art was printed on huge wallpaper-like sheets that were cut and rolled so they could be transported all over California, Nevada, and Arizona. When they reached their assigned billboards, special crews hung the rolls in huge strips and pasted them in place. During the past two months, Holman had trained part-time as a trimmer in the printing plant, which meant his job was to load five-, six-, and eight-foot-wide rolls of fabric into the printer, make sure the fabric fed square, then make sure the automatic trimmers at the end of the process made a clean cut. A moron could do it. Holman had learned the job in about two minutes, but he was lucky to have the gig and knew it.

  He clocked in, then looked up Gilbert so his boss would know he had shown up on time. Gilbert was going over the day’s schedule with the printer operators, who were responsible for color-coordinating and correcting the art that would be reproduced that day. Gilbert was a short thick man with a bald crown who swaggered when he walked.

  Gilbert said, “So, you’re officially a free man. Congratulations.”

  Holman thanked him, but let their conversation die. He didn’t bother alerting the office receptionist or anyone else that Richie’s wife might call. After his conversation with Levy, he figured her call wouldn’t come.

  Throughout the morning Holman was congratulated on making his release and welcomed as a full-time hire even though he had already been working there for two months. Holman kept an eye on the clock as he worked, anxious for the free hour he would have at lunch.

  Holman took a piss break at ten minutes after eleven. While he was standing at the urinal another inmate hire named Marc Lee Pitchess took the next stall. Holman didn’t like Pitchess and had avoided him during his two-month training period.

  Pitchess said, “Ten years is a long time. Welcome back.”

  “You’ve been seeing me five days a week for the past two months. I haven’t been anywhere.”

  “They still gonna test you?”

  “Get away from me.”

  “I’m just saying. I can get you a kit, you keep a little sample with you ready to go, you’ll be all set when they spring it on you, piss in a cup.”

  Holman finished and stepped back from the urinal. He turned to face Pitchess, but Pitchess was staring ahead at the wall.

  “Stay the fuck away from me with that shit.”

  “You feel the need, I can hook you up, your basic pharmaceuticals, sleep aids, blow, X, oxy, whatever.”

  Pitchess shook off and zipped, but still didn’t move. He stared at the wall. Someone had drawn a picture of a cock with a little word balloon. The cock was saying smoke this, bitch.

  Pitchess said, “Just tryin’ to help a brother.”

  Pitchess was still smiling when Holman walked out and looked up Gilbert.

  Tony said, “How’s it going, your first day?”

  “Doin’ fine. Listen, I want to ask you, I need to get to the DMV to take the test and after work is too late. Could you cut me an extra hour at lunch?”

  “Don’t they open on Saturday morning?”

  “You have to make an appointment and they’re booked three weeks. I’d really like to get this done, Tony.”

  Holman could tell that Gilbert didn’t appreciate being asked, but he finally went along.

  “Okay, but if there’s some kind of problem, you call. Don’t take advantage. This isn’t getting off to a good start, you asking for time on your first day.”

  “Thanks, Tony.”

  “Two o’clock. I want you back by two o’clock. That should be plenty of time.”

  “Sure, Tony. Thanks.”

  Gilbert hadn’t mentioned Richie and Holman didn’t bring it up. Gail hadn’t called, which suited Holman. He didn’t want to have to explain about Richie, and have Richie lead into Donna and the whole fucking mess he had made of his life.

  When Gilbert finally turned away and steamed off across the floor, Holman walked back to the office and punched out even though it wasn’t yet noon.

  6

  HOLMAN BOUGHT a small bunch of red roses from a Latin cat at the bottom of the freeway off-ramp. Here was this dude, probably illegal, with a cowboy hat and a big plastic bucket filled with bundles of flowers, hoping to score with people on their way to the graveyard. The dude asked eight—ocho—but Holman paid ten, guilty he hadn’t thought to bring flowers before seeing the cat with his bucket, even more guilty because Donna was gone and Richie hadn’t thought enough of him to let him know.

  Baldwin Haven Cemetery covered the wide face of a rolling hillside just off the 405 in Baldwin Hills. Holman turned through the gates and pulled up alongside the main office, hoping no one had seen the crappy condition of his car. Perry’s old Mercury was such a shitpile that anyone who saw him pull up would think he was here to hustle work trimming weeds. Holman brought the flowers inside with him, thinking he would make a better impression.

  The cemetery office was a large room divided by a counter. Two desks and some file cabinets sat on one side of the counter; landscape plans were laid out on a large table on the other side. An older woman with grey hair glanced up from one of the desks when he entered.

  Holman said, “I need to find someone’s grave.”

  She stood and came to the counter.

  “Yes, sir. Could I have the party’s name?”

  “Donna Banik.”

  “Banner?”

  “B-A-N-I-K. She was buried here about two years ago.”

  The woman went to a shelf and took down what looked to Holman like a heavy frayed ledger. Her lips moved as she flipped the pages, mumbling the name, Banik.

  She found the entry, wrote something on a note slip, then came out from behind the counter and led Holman to the landscape plans.

  “Here, I can show you how to find the site.”

  Holman followed her as she circled the landscape map. She checked the coordinates written on the slip, then pointed out a tiny rectangle in a uniform rank and file of tiny rectangles, each labeled by number.

  “She’s here, on the south face. We’re here in the office, so what you’ll do is turn right out of the parking lot and follow the road to this fork, then veer left. She’s right in front of the mausoleum here. Just count the rows, third row from the street, the sixth marker from the end. You shouldn’t have any trouble, but if you do, just come back and I’ll show you.”

  Holman stared at the tiny blue rectangle with its indecipherable number.

  “She’s my wife.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “Well, she wasn’t my wife, but like that, a long time ago. We hadn’t seen each other in a long time. I didn’t even know she had passed until yesterday.”

/>   “Well, if you need any help just let me know.”

  Holman watched the woman return to her place behind the counter, clearly uninterested in who Donna was to him. Holman felt a flash of anger, but he had never been one to share his feelings. During the ten years he spent at Lompoc he had rarely mentioned Donna or Richie. What was he going to do, swap family stories with shitbird convicts and predatory criminals like Pitchess? Real people talked about their families with other real people, but Holman didn’t know real people and had abandoned his family, and now lost them. He had suddenly needed to tell someone about Donna, but the best he could do was an uninterested stranger. Recognizing the need left him feeling lonely and pathetic.

  Holman climbed back into the Mercury and followed the directions to Donna’s grave. He found a small bronze plaque set into the earth bearing Donna’s name and the years of her birth and death. On the plaque was a simple legend: Beloved Mother.

  Holman laid the roses on the grass. He had rehearsed what he wanted to tell her when he got out a thousand times, but now she was dead and it was too late. Holman didn’t believe in an afterlife. He didn’t believe she was up in Heaven, watching him. He told her anyway, staring down at the roses and the plaque.

  “I was a rotten prick. I was all those things you ever called me and worse. You had no idea how rotten I really was. I used to thank God you didn’t know, but now I’m ashamed. If you had known you would’ve given up on me, and you might’ve married some decent guy and had something. I wish you had known. Not for me, but for you. So you wouldn’t have wasted your life.”

  Beloved Mother.

  Holman returned to his car and drove back to the office. The woman was showing the map of the grounds to a middle-aged couple when Holman walked in, so he waited by the door. The cold air in the little office felt good after standing in the sun. After a few minutes, the woman left the couple talking over available sites and came over.

  “Did you find it okay?”

  “Yeah, thanks, you made it real easy. Listen, I want to ask you something. Do you remember who made the arrangements?”

  “For her burial?”

  “I don’t know if it was her sister or a husband or what, but I’d like to share in the cost. We were together a long time, then I was away, and, well, it’s not right that I didn’t share the expenses.”

  “It’s been paid for. It was paid for at the time of the service.”

  “I figured that, but I still want to offer to pay. Part of it, at least.”

  “You want to know who paid for the burial?”

  “Yes, ma’am. If you can give me a phone number or an address or something. I’d like to offer to help out on the costs.”

  The woman glanced at her other customers but they were still talking over the various sites. She went back around the counter to her desk and searched through the trash can until she found the slip with the plot numbers.

  “That was Banik, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’ll have to look it up for you. I have to find the records. Can you leave a phone number?”

  Holman wrote Perry’s number on her note-pad.

  She said, “This is very generous. I’m sure her family will be glad to hear from you.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I hope so.”

  Holman went out to his car and drove back toward the City of Industry. With the time and the traffic he figured he would get back to work before two o’clock, but then he turned on the radio and all of that changed. The station had broken into their regular programming with news that a suspect had been named in the murders of the four officers, and a warrant had been issued for his arrest.

  Holman turned up the volume and forgot about work. He immediately began looking for a phone.

  7

  HOLMAN DROVE until he spotted a tiny sports bar with its front door wedged open. He jockeyed the beater into a red zone, then hesitated in the door, taking the measure of the place until he saw a television. Holman hadn’t been in a bar since the week before he was arrested, but this was no different: A young bartender with sharp sideburns worked a half-dozen alkies sipping their lunch. The television was showing ESPN but no one was looking at it. Holman went to the bar.

  “You mind if we get the news?”

  The bartender glanced over like the toughest thing he would do that day was pour Holman a drink.

  “Whatever you want. Can I get you something?”

  Holman glanced at the two women next to him. They were watching him.

  “Club soda, I guess. How about that news?”

  The bartender added a squeeze of lime to the ice, brimmed the glass, then set it on the bar before changing the channel to a couple of heads talking about the Middle East.

  Holman said, “How about the local news?”

  “I don’t know if you’re gonna get news right now. It’s nothing but soap operas.”

  The nearest of the two women said, “Try five or nine.”

  The bartender found a local station and there it was, several high-ranking LAPD suits holding a press conference.

  The bartender said, “What happened? This about those cops who were killed?”

  “Yeah, they know who did it. Let’s listen.”

  The second woman said, “What happened?”

  Holman said, “Can we listen?”

  The first woman said, “I saw that this morning. There isn’t anything new.”

  Holman said, “Can we listen to what they’re saying, please?”

  The woman made a snorting sound and rolled her eyes like where did Holman get off. The bartender turned up the sound, but now an assistant chief named Donnelly was recounting the crime and stating information Holman already knew. Pictures of the murdered officers flashed on the screen as Donnelly identified them, Richie being the last. It was the same picture Holman had seen in the papers, but now the picture left Holman feeling creepy. It was as if Richie was staring down at him from the screen.

  A man at the far end of the bar said, “I hope they catch the bastard did this.”

  The first woman said, “Can’t we get something else? I’m tired of all this killing.”

  Holman said, “Listen.”

  She turned to her friend as if they were having a private conversation, only loud.

  “Nothing but the bad news and they wonder why no one watches.”

  Holman said, “Shut the fuck up and listen.”

  The picture cut back to Donnelly, who looked determined as another picture appeared on the screen to his right.

  Donnelly said, “We have issued a warrant for the arrest of this man, Warren Alberto Juarez, for the murder of these officers.”

  The woman swiveled toward Holman.

  “You can’t talk to me like that. How dare you use the F word when you’re talking to me?”

  Holman strained to hear past her as Donnelly continued.

  “Mr. Juarez is a resident of Cypress Park. He has an extensive criminal history including assault, robbery, possession of a concealed weapon, and known gang associations—”

  The woman said, “Don’t pretend you can’t hear me!”

  Holman concentrated on what Donnelly was saying, but he still missed some of it.

  “—contact us at the number appearing on your screen. Do NOT—I repeat—do NOT try to apprehend this man yourself.”

  Holman stared hard at the face on the screen. Warren Alberto Juarez looked like a gangbanger, with a thick mustache and hair slicked tight like a skullcap. He was making his eyes sleepy to look tough for the booking photo. The sleepy look was popular with black and Latino criminals, but Holman wasn’t impressed. Back in the day when he pulled state time at Men’s Colony and Pleasant Valley, he had kicked the shit out of plenty of sleepy assholes just to stay alive.

  The woman said, “I’m talking to you, goddamnit. How dare you say such a thing, using that word with me!”

  Holman nodded at the bartender.

  “How much for the soda?”

  �
��I said I’m talking to you.”

  “Two.”

  “You got a pay phone?”

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

  “Back by the bathrooms.”

  Holman put two dollars on the bar, then followed the bartender’s finger back toward the pay phone as the woman called him an asshole. When Holman reached the phone he dug out his list for Levy’s number up at the Devonshire Station. He had to wait while Levy got off another call, then Levy came on.

  Holman said, “I heard on the news.”

  “Then you know what I know. Parker Center called less than an hour ago.”

  “Do they have him yet?”

  “Mr. Holman, they just issued the warrant. They’ll notify me as soon as an arrest is made.”

  Holman was so jacked up that he shook as if he had been on meth for a week. He didn’t want to put off Levy, so he took a couple of deep breaths and forced himself to relax.

  “All right, I understand that. Do they know why it happened?”

  “The word I have so far is it was a personal vendetta between Juarez and Sergeant Fowler. Fowler arrested Juarez’s younger brother last year, and apparently the brother was killed in prison.”

  “How was Richie involved with Juarez?”

  “He wasn’t.”

  Holman waited for more. He waited for Levy to tell him the reason that would stitch the four murders together but Levy was silent.

  “Waitaminute—wait—this asshole killed all four of these people just to get Fowler?”

  “Mr. Holman, listen, I know what you’re looking for here—you want this to make sense. I would like this to make sense, too, but sometimes they don’t. Richard had nothing to do with the Juarez arrest. So far as I know neither did Mellon or Ash. I can’t say that definitively, but that’s the impression I have from speaking with their captains. Maybe we’ll know more later and this will make sense.”

  “They know who was with him?”