The Two Minute Rule

by Robert Crais

“It’s my understanding that he acted alone.”

  Holman felt his voice shake again and fought hard to stop it.

  “This doesn’t make sense. How did he know they were down under that bridge? Did he follow them? Was he laying in wait, one guy, and he shotguns four men just to get one of them? This doesn’t make sense.”

  “I know it doesn’t. I’m sorry.”

  “They’re sure it was Juarez?”

  “They are positive. They matched fingerprints found on shell casings at the scene with Mr. Juarez. My understanding is they also have witnesses who heard Juarez make numerous threats and placed him at the scene earlier that night. They attempted to arrest Juarez at his home earlier today, but he had already fled. Listen, I have other calls—”

  “Are they close to an arrest?”

  “I don’t know. Now I really do—”

  “One more thing, Captain, please. On the news, they said he was a gangbanger.”

  “That’s my understanding, yes.”

  “You know his gang affiliation?”

  “I don’t—no, sir. I really do have to go now.”

  Holman thanked him, then went back to the bartender for change of a dollar. The woman with the loud mouth gave him a nasty glance, but this time she didn’t say anything. Holman took his change back to the phone and called Gail Manelli.

  “Hey, it’s Holman. You got a second?”

  “Of course, Max. I was just about to call you.”

  Holman figured she wanted to tell him that the police had named a suspect, but he plowed on.

  “Remember you said if I needed a few days you’d square it with Gilbert?”

  “Do you need some time off?”

  “Yes. There’s a lot to deal with, Gail. More than I thought.”

  “Have you spoken with the police today?”

  “I just got off the phone with Captain Levy. Can you square a few days with Gilbert? That guy has been good to me with the job—”

  “I’ll call him right now, Max—I’m sure he’ll understand. Now listen, would you like to see a counselor?”

  “I’m doing fine, Gail. I don’t need a counselor.”

  “This isn’t a time to lose sight of everything you’ve learned, Max. Use the coping tools you have. Don’t try to be an iron man and think you have to weather this alone.”

  Holman wanted to ask her if she would like to share the guilt and shame he felt. He was tired of everyone treating him as if they were scared shitless he would explode, but he reminded himself Gail was doing her job.

  “I just need the time, is all. If I change my mind about the counselor I’ll let you know.”

  “I just want you to understand I’m here.”

  “I know. Listen—I have to go. Thanks for squaring up the job for me. Tell Tony I’ll call him in a few days.”

  “I will, Max. You take care of yourself. I know you’re hurting, but the most important thing you can do right now is take care of yourself. Your son would want that.”

  “Thanks, Gail. I’ll see you.”

  Holman put down the phone. Gail had her ideas about what was important, but Holman had his. The criminal world was a world he knew. And knew how to use.

  8

  CRIMINALS DID not have friends. They had associates, suppliers, fences, whores, sugar daddies, enablers, dealers, collaborators, coconspirators, victims, and bosses, any of whom they might rat out and none of whom could be trusted. Most everyone Holman met on the yard during his ten years at Lompoc had not been arrested and convicted because Dick Tracy or Sherlock Holmes made their case; they had been fingered by someone they knew and trusted. Police work only went so far; Holman wanted to find someone who would rat out Warren Juarez.

  That afternoon, Gary “L’Chee” Moreno said, “You gotta be the dumbest gringo ever shit between two feet.”

  “Tell me you love me, bro.”

  “Here’s what I’m tellin’ you, Holman: Why didn’t you run? I been waiting ten years to ask that, dumbfuckinAnglo.”

  “Didn’t have to wait ten years, Chee. You coulda come seen me in Lompoc.”

  “That’s why they caught you, thinkin’ like that, dumbfuckinHolman! Me, I would’a jetted outta that bank straight to Zacatecas like a chili pepper was up my ass. C’mere. Give a brother some love.”

  Chee came around the counter there at his body shop in East L.A. He wrapped Holman in a tight hug, it being ten years since they had seen each other—since the day Chee had waited outside the bank for Holman as the police and FBI arrived; whereupon—by mutual agreement—Chee had driven away.

  Holman first met Chee when they were serving stints at the California Youth Authority, both fourteen years old; Holman for a string of shoplifting and burglary arrests, Chee on his second auto theft conviction. Chee, small but fearless, was being pounded by three bloods on the main yard when Holman, large for his size even then with the thick neck and shoulders, whaled in and beat the bloods down. Chee couldn’t do enough for him after that, and neither could Chee’s family. Chee was a fifth-generation White Fence homeboy, nephew to the infamous Chihuahua Brothers from Pacoima, two miniature Guatemalans who macheted their way to the top of the L.A. stolen car market in the seventies. In the day, Holman had fed Porsches and ’vettes to Chee when he was sober enough to steal them, which wasn’t so very often toward the end, and Chee had even driven on a few of the bank jobs; done it, Holman knew, only for the in-your-face outlaw rush of living crazy with his good buddy Holman.

  Now, Chee stepped back, and Holman saw that his eyes were serious. Holman really did mean something to him; meant something deep for all those past times.

  “Goddamn, it’s good to see you, bro. Goddamn. You crazy or what? It’s a violation for you even to be standing here.”

  “I’m federal release, homes. It’s not like a state parole. They don’t say who I can roll with.”

  Chee looked doubtful.

  “No shit?”

  “Up.”

  Chee was clearly mystified and impressed at the vagaries of the federal system.

  “C’mon back here, we’ll get away from this noise.”

  Chee led Holman behind the counter into a small office. These same offices had once been the center of a chop shop Chee managed for his uncles, breaking down stolen cars into their component parts. Now, older, wiser, and with his uncles long dead, Chee ran a mostly legitimate body shop employing his sons and nephews. Holman made a show of looking around the body shop office.

  “Looks different.”

  “Is different, homes. My daughter works here three days a week. She don’t wanna see titty pictures on the walls. You want a beer?”

  “I’m sober.”

  “No shit? Well, good, man, that’s real good. Goddamned, we’re gettin’ old.”

  Chee laughed as he dropped into his chair. When Chee laughed, his leathery skin accordioned with acne craters and tattoos from his gang days. He was still White Fence, a certified veterano, but out of the street life. Chee’s weathered face grew sad, staring at nothing until he finally looked at Holman.

  “You need some money? I’ll front you, homes. You don’t even have to pay me back. I mean it.”

  “I want a homeboy named Warren Alberto Juarez.”

  Chee swiveled in his chair to pull a thick phone book from the clutter. He flipped a few pages, circled a name, then pushed the book across his desk.

  “Here you go. Knock yourself out.”

  Holman glanced at the page. Warren A. Juarez. An address in Cypress Park. A phone number. When Holman looked up, Chee was staring like Holman was stupid.

  “Homes, that why you came down here, cash in on the reward? You think he’s hidin’ in a closet down here? Ese, please.”

  “You know where he went?”

  “Why you think I’d know something like that?”

  “You’re Little Chee. You always knew things.”

  “Those days are gone, bro. I am Mister Moreno. Look around. I ain’t in the life anymore. I pay taxes. I
got hemorrhoids.”

  “You’re still White Fence.”

  “To the death and beyond, and I’ll tell you this—if I knew where the homeboy was I’d nail that fifty myself—he ain’t White Fence. He’s Frogtown, homes, from up by the river, and right now he ain’t nothing to me ’cept a pain in the ass. Half my boys called in sick today, wantin’ that money. My work schedule’s in the shitter.”

  Chee showed his palms, like enough already with Warren Juarez, and went on with his rant.

  “Forget that reward bullshit, Holman. I tol’ you, I’ll give you money, you want it.”

  “I’m not looking for a loan.”

  “Then what?”

  “One of the officers he killed was my son. Richie grew up to be a policeman, you imagine? My little boy.”

  Chee’s eyes went round like saucers. He had met the boy a few times, the first when Richie was three. Holman had convinced Donna to let him take the boy to the Santa Monica pier for the Ferris wheel. Holman and Chee had hooked up, but Holman had left Richie with Chee’s girlfriend so he and Chee could steal a Corvette they saw in the parking lot. Real Father of the Year stuff.

  “Ese. Ese,I’m sorry.”

  “That’s his mother, Chee. I used to pray for that. Don’t let him be a fuckup like me; let him be like his mother.”

  “God answered.”

  “The police say Juarez killed him. They say Juarez killed all four of them just to get the one named Fowler, some bullshit about Juarez’s brother.”

  “I don’t know anything about that, man. Whatever, that’s Frogtown, ese.”

  “Whatever, I want to find him. I want to find out who helped him, and find them, too.”

  Chee shifted in his chair, making it creak. He rubbed a rough hand over his face, muttering and thinking. Latin gangs derived their names from their neighborhoods: Happy Valley Gang, Hazard Street, Geraghty Lomas. Frogtown drew its name from the old days of the Los Angeles River, where neighborhood homies fell asleep to croaking bullfrogs before the city lined the river with concrete and the frogs died. Juarez being a member of the Frogtown gang wasn’t lost on Holman. The officers had been murdered at the river.

  Chee slowly fixed his eyes on Holman.

  “You gonna kill him? That what you wanna do?”

  Holman wasn’t sure what he would do. He wasn’t sure what he was doing sitting with Chee. The entire Los Angeles Police Department was looking for Warren Juarez.

  “Holman?”

  “He was my boy. Someone kills your boy you can’t just sit.”

  “You’re not a killer, Holman. Tough motherfucker, yeah, but a man would do murder? I never seen that in you, homes, and, believe me, I seen plenty of coldhearted killers, homies stab a child then go eat a prime rib dinner, but that wasn’t you. You gonna kill this boy, then ride the murder bus back to prison, thinking you done the right thing?”

  “What would you do?”

  “Kill the muthuhfuckuh straight up, homes. Cut off the boy’s head, hang it from my rearview so everyone see, and ride straight down Whittier Boulevard. You gonna do something like that? Could you?”

  “No.”

  “Then let the police do their business. They lost four of their own. They’re gonna take lives findin’ this boy.”

  Holman knew Chee was right, but tried to put his need into words.

  “The officers, they have to fill out this next-of-kin form at the police. Where they have a place for the father, Richie wrote ‘unknown.’ He was so ashamed of me he didn’t even claim me—he put down that his father was unknown. I can’t have that, Chee. I’m his father. This is the way I have to answer.”

  Chee settled back again, quietly thoughtful as Holman went on.

  “I can’t leave this to someone else. Right now, they’re saying Juarez did this thing by himself. C’mon, Chee, how’d some homeboy get good enough to take out four armed officers all by himself, so fast they didn’t shoot back?”

  “A lot of homies are coming back from Iraq, bro. If the boy tooled up overseas, he might know exactly how to do what he did.”

  “Then I want to know that. I need to understand how this happened and find the bastards who did it. I’m not racing the cops. I just want this bastard found.”

  “Well, you’re gonna have a lot of help. Over there outside his house in Cypress Park, it looks like a cop convention. My wife and daughter drove by there at lunchtime just to see, a couple of goddamned looky-loos! His wife’s gone into hiding herself. The address I gave you, that place is empty right now.”

  “Where’d his wife go?”

  “How can I know something like that, Holman? That boy ain’t White Fence. If he was and he killed your son, I would shoot him myself, ese. But he’s in with that Frogtown crew.”

  “Little Chee?”

  Witnesses at two of the bank jobs had seen Holman get into cars driven by another man. After Holman’s arrest, the FBI had pressured him to name his accomplice. They had asked, but Holman had held fast.

  Holman said, “After my arrest—how much sleep did you lose, worrying I was going to rat you out?”

  “Not one night. Not a single night, homes.”

  “Because why?”

  “Because I knew you were solid. You were my brother.”

  “Has that fact changed or is it the same?”

  “The same. We’re the same.”

  “Help me, Little Chee. Where can I find the girl?”

  Holman knew Chee didn’t like it, but Chee did not hesitate. He picked up his phone.

  “Get yourself some coffee, homes. I gotta make some calls.”

  An hour later, Holman walked out, but Chee didn’t walk with him. Ten years later, some things were the same, but others were different.

  9

  HOLMAN DECIDED to drive past Juarez’s house first to see the cop convention. Even though Chee had warned him that the police commanded the scene, Holman was surprised. Three news vans and an LAPD black-and-white were parked in front of a tiny bungalow. Transmission dishes swayed over the vans like spindly palms, with the uniformed officers and newspeople chatting together on the sidewalk. One look, and Holman knew Juarez would never return even if the officers were gone. A small crowd of neighborhood civilians gawked from across the street, and the line of cars edging past the house made Holman feel like he was passing a traffic fatality on the 405. No wonder Juarez’s wife had split.

  Holman kept driving.

  Chee had learned that Maria Juarez had relocated to her cousin’s house in Silver Lake, south of Sunset in an area rich with Central Americans. Holman figured the police knew her location, too, and had probably even helped her move to protect her from the media; if she had gone into hiding on her own they would have declared her a fugitive and issued a warrant.

  The address Chee provided led to a small clapboard box crouched behind a row of spotty cypress trees on a steep hill lined with broken sidewalks. Holman thought the house looked like it was hiding. He parked at the curb two blocks uphill, then tried to figure out what to do. The door was closed and the shades were drawn, but it was that way for most of the houses. Holman wondered if Juarez was in the house. It was possible. Holman knew dozens of guys who were bagged in their own garages because they didn’t have anyplace else to go. Criminals always returned to their girlfriends, their wives, their mothers, their house, their trailer, their car—they ran to whatever or whoever made them feel safe. Holman probably would have been caught at home, too, only he hadn’t had a home.

  It occurred to Holman the police knew this and might be watching the house. He twisted around to examine the neighboring cars and houses, but saw nothing suspicious. He got out of his car and went to the front door. He didn’t see any reason to get dramatic unless no one answered. If no one answered, he would walk around the side of the place and break in through the back. He knocked.

  Holman didn’t expect someone to answer so quickly, but a young woman threw open the door right away. She couldn’t have been more than twenty
or twenty-one, even younger than Richie. She was butt-ugly, with a flat nose, big teeth, and black hair greased flat into squiggly sideburns.

  She said, “Is he all right?”

  She thought he was a cop.

  Holman said, “Maria Juarez?”

  “Tell me he is all right. Did you find him? Tell me he is not dead.”

  She had just told Holman everything he needed to know. Juarez wasn’t here. The police had been here earlier, and she had been cooperative with them. Holman gave her an easy smile.

  “I need to ask a few questions. May I come in?”

  She moved back out of the door and Holman went in. A TV was showing Telemundo, but other than that the place was quiet. He listened to see if anyone was in the back of the house, but heard nothing. He could see through the dining room and the kitchen to a back door which was closed. The house smelled of chorizo and cilantro. A central hall opened off the living room and probably led to a bathroom and a couple of bedrooms. Holman wondered if anyone was in the bedrooms.

  Holman said, “Is anyone else here?”

  Her eyes flickered, and Holman knew he had made his first mistake. The question left her suspicious.

  “My aunt. She is in the bed.”

  He took her arm, bringing her toward the hall.

  “Let’s take a look.”

  “Who are you? Are you the police?”

  Holman knew a lot of these homegirls would kill you as quick as any veterano and some would kill you faster, so he gripped her arm tight.

  “I just want to see if Warren is here.”

  “He is not here. You know he isn’t here. Who are you? You are not one of the detectives.”

  Holman brought her back along the hall, glancing in the bathroom first, then the front bedroom. An old lady wrapped in shawls and blankets was sitting up in bed, as withered and tiny as a raisin. She said something in Spanish that Holman didn’t understand. He gave her an apologetic smile, then pulled Maria out to the second bedroom, closing the old lady’s door behind them.

  Maria said, “Don’t go in there.”

  “Warren isn’t in here, is he?”

  “My baby. She is sleeping.”