The Two Minute Rule

by Robert Crais

  Pollard reviewed her notes from the night before, then set about drawing up a work plan for the day. She was still working on it when her oldest son, David, pushed at her arm. David was seven and looked like a miniature version of Marty.

  “Mom! We’re gonna be late for camp!”

  Pollard glanced at her watch. It was ten before eight. The camp bus arrived at eight. She hadn’t even made coffee or felt the time pass, and she had been working for more than an hour.

  “Is your brother dressed?”

  “He won’t come out of the bathroom.”

  “Lyle!Get him dressed, David.”

  She pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, then slammed together two bologna sandwiches.

  “David, is Lyle ready?”

  “He won’t get dressed!”

  Lyle, who was six, shouted over his brother.

  “I hate camp! They stick us with pins!”

  Pollard heard the fax phone ring as she was packing the sandwiches into lunch-size paper bags. She ran back to the office bedroom to see the first page emerging. She smiled when she saw the FBI emblem cover page—April was delivering the goods.

  Pollard ran back to the kitchen, topped off the sandwiches with two containers of fruit cocktail, two bags of Cheetos, and a couple of boxes of juice.

  David pounded breathlessly in from the living room.

  “Mom! I can hear the bus! They’re gonna leave us!”

  Everything had to be a drama.

  Pollard sent David out to stop the bus, then forced a T-shirt over Lyle’s head. She had Lyle and the lunches through the front door just as the bus rumbled to a stop.

  Lyle said, “I miss Daddy.”

  Pollard looked down at him, all hurt eyes and knotted frown, then squatted so they would be the same height. She touched his cheek, and thought it was as soft as when he was newborn. Where David looked like his father, Lyle looked like her.

  “I know you do, baby.”

  “I dreamed he got eaten by a monster.”

  “That must have been very scary. You should have come into bed with me.”

  “You kick and toss.”

  The bus driver beeped his horn. He had a schedule to keep.

  Pollard said, “I miss him, too, little man. What are we going to do about that?”

  It was a script they had played before.

  “Keep him in our hearts?”

  Pollard smiled and touched her youngest son’s chest.

  “Yeah. He’s right here in your heart. Now let’s get you on the bus.”

  The pebbles and grit on the driveway hurt Pollard’s bare feet as she walked Lyle to the bus. She kissed her boys, saw them away, then hurried back to the house. She went directly back to work and skimmed through the fax. April had sent sixteen pages, including a witness list, interview summaries, and a case summation. The witness list contained names, addresses, and phone numbers, which was what Pollard wanted. Pollard was going to compare the numbers against the calls that appeared on Richard Holman’s and Mike Fowler’s phone bills. If Holman or Fowler were running their own investigation into Marchenko and Parsons, they would have called the witnesses. If so, Pollard would ask the witness what they talked about, and then Pollard would know.

  She called her mother and arranged for her to stay with the boys when they got home from camp.

  Her mother said, “Why are you spending so much time in the city all of a sudden? Did you take a job?”

  She had always resented her mother’s questions. Thirty-six years old, and her mother still questioned her.

  “I have things to do. I’m busy.”

  “Doing what? Are you seeing a man?”

  “You’ll be here at one, right? You’ll stay with the boys?”

  “I hope you’re seeing a man. You have to think of those boys.”

  “Goodbye, Mom.”

  “Go easy on the desserts, Katherine. Your bottom isn’t as small as it used to be.”

  Pollard hung up and went back to her desk. She still hadn’t made coffee, but she didn’t take the time to make it now. She didn’t need the coffee.

  She sat down with her case plan, then paged through all the documents she had read and reread the night before. She studied the map of the crime scene that Holman had sketched, then compared it with the drawing that had appeared in the Times. The Feeb had taught her that all investigations begin at the crime scene, so she knew she would have to make the drive. She would have to see for herself. Alone there in her little house in the Simi Valley, Pollard broke into a smile.

  She felt as if she was in the game again.

  She was back in the hunt.

  22

  PERRY WASN’T at his desk when Holman came downstairs that morning. Holman was relieved. He wanted to pick up the reports from Liz before she left for class and didn’t want to get bogged down in another argument with Perry.

  But when Holman stepped outside to go to his car, Perry was hosing off the sidewalk.

  Perry said, “You got a call yesterday I forgot to tell you about. Guess it slipped my mind, having to fight off your thugs.”

  “What is it, Perry?”

  “Tony Gilbert over at that sign company. Said he’s your boss and wants you to call.”

  “Okay, thanks. When did he call?”

  “During the day, I guess. Good thing it wasn’t while those gangbanging fucks were putting the arm on me else I would’ve missed the message.”

  “Perry, look—I didn’t tell those guys to do that. All they were supposed to do was bring back the car and give you the keys. That’s it. I already apologized.”

  “Gilbert sounded pissed off, you ask me. I’d call him. And since you have a job, you might consider fronting the cash for an answering machine. My memory isn’t what it used to be.”

  Holman started to say something, then thought better of it and went around the side of the motel to his car. He didn’t want to start his day with Gilbert, either, but he hadn’t been to work in a week and didn’t want to lose the job. Holman climbed into his Highlander to make the call and was pleased he could bring up Gilbert’s number on his phone’s memory without having to refer to the owner’s manual. It felt like a step into real life.

  As soon as Gilbert came on the line, Holman knew his patience was wearing thin.

  He said, “Are you coming back to work or not? I need to know.”

  “I’m coming back. I’ve just had a lot to deal with.”

  “Max, I’m trying to be a good guy here, what with your son and all, but what in hell are you doing? The police were here.”

  Holman was so surprised he didn’t respond.

  “Max?”

  “I’m here. What did the police want?”

  “You just got out, man. Are you going to wash ten years down the drain?”

  “I’m not washing anything down the drain. Why were the police there?”

  “They wanted to know if you’d been coming to work and what kind of people you’ve been associating with, like that. They asked whether or not you’ve been using.”

  “I haven’t been using. What are you talking about?”

  “Well, they asked, and they asked if I knew how you were supporting yourself without working. What am I supposed to think? Hey, listen, my friend, I’m trying to run a business here and you disappeared. I told’m I gave you some time off for your son, but now I gotta wonder. It’s been a week.”

  “Who was it asking about me?”

  “Some detectives.”

  “Did Gail send them?”

  “They weren’t from the Bureau of Prisons. These were cops. Now listen, are you coming back to work or not?”

  “I just need a few more days—”

  “Ah, hell.”

  Gilbert hung up.

  Holman closed his phone, feeling a dull ache in his stomach. He had expected Gilbert to bitch him out for missing so much work, but he hadn’t expected the police. He decided the cops were following up his visit to Maria Juarez, but he also worr
ied that someone had put him together with Chee. He didn’t want to bring any heat down on Chee, mostly because he wasn’t sure Chee was completely straight.

  Holman considered calling Gail Manelli about the police, but he was worried about missing Liz, so he put away his phone and headed for Westwood. As he turned out of the parking lot, he saw Perry still on the sidewalk, watching him. Perry waited until Holman had driven past, then flipped him off. Holman saw it in the mirror.

  When Holman drew closer to Westwood, he called Liz to let her know he was coming.

  When she answered, he said, “Hey, Liz, it’s Max. I need to stop by to see you for a few minutes. Can I bring you a coffee?”

  “I’m on my way out.”

  “This is kind of important. It’s about Richie.”

  She hesitated, and when she spoke again her voice was cold.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “Doing what? I just need to—”

  “I don’t want to see you anymore. Please stop bothering me.”

  She hung up.

  Holman was left sitting in traffic with his dead phone. He called back, but this time her message machine picked up.

  “Liz? Maybe I should’ve called earlier, okay? I didn’t mean to be rude. Liz? Can you hear me?”

  If she was listening she didn’t pick up, so Max ended the call. He was only five blocks from Veteran Avenue by then, so he continued on to Liz’s apartment. He didn’t take the time to find a parking spot, but left his car in a red zone by a fire hydrant. If he got a ticket he’d just pay Chee back with his own money.

  The usual morning rush of students on their way to class meant Holman didn’t have long to wait before he could get inside the building. He took the stairs two at a time, but slowed when he reached her apartment, catching his breath before he knocked.

  “Liz? Please tell me what’s wrong.”

  He knocked softly again.

  “Liz? This is important. Please, it’s for Richie.”

  Holman waited.

  “Liz? Can I come in, please?”

  She finally opened the door. Her face was tight and pinched, and she was already dressed for the day. Her eyes were hard with a brittle tension.

  Holman didn’t move. He stood with his hands at his sides, confused by her hostility.

  He said, “Did I do something?”

  “Whatever you’re doing, I want no part of it.”

  Holman kept his voice calm.

  “What do you think I’m doing? I’m not doing anything, Liz. I just want to know what happened to my son.”

  “The police were here. They cleaned out Richard’s desk. They took all his things and they questioned me about you. They wanted to know what you were doing.”

  “Who did? Levy?”

  “No, not Levy—Detective Random. He wanted to know what you were asking about and said I should be careful around you. They warned me not to let you in.”

  Holman wasn’t sure how to respond. He took a step away from her and spoke carefully.

  “I’ve been inside with you, Liz. Do you think I would hurt you? You’re my son’s wife.”

  Her eyes softened and she shook her head.

  She said, “Why did they come here?”

  “There was someone with Random?”

  “I don’t remember his name. Red hair.”

  Vukovich.

  She said, “Why did they come?”

  “I don’t know. What did they tell you?”

  “They didn’t tell me anything. They said they were investigating you. They wanted to know—”

  The apartment next door opened and two men came out. They were young, both wearing glasses and book bags over their shoulders. Holman and Liz stood quietly as they passed.

  When the two men were gone, Liz said, “I guess you can come in. This is silly.”

  Holman stepped inside and waited as she closed the door.

  Holman said, “Are you all right?”

  “They asked if you said anything to indicate you were involved in criminal activity. I didn’t know what in hell they were talking about. What would you say to me: Hey, you know any good banks to rob?”

  Holman thought about describing his conversation with Tony Gilbert, but decided against it.

  “You said they took things from his desk? Can I see?”

  She brought him to their shared office, and Holman looked at Richie’s desk. The newspaper clippings still hung from the corkboard, but Holman could tell the items on Richie’s desk had been moved. Holman had been through everything himself and remembered how he had left it. The LAPD reports and documents were gone.

  She said, “I don’t know what they took.”

  “Some reports, it looks like. Did they say why?”

  “They just said it was important. They wanted to know if you had been in here. I told them the truth.”

  Holman wished she hadn’t, but nodded.

  “That’s okay. It doesn’t matter.”

  “Why would they go through his things?”

  Holman wanted to change the subject. The reports were gone now, and he wished he had read them when he had the chance.

  He said, “Did Richie go out with Fowler the Thursday before they were killed? It would have been at night, late.”

  Her brow furrowed as she tried to remember.

  “I’m not sure…Thursday? I think Rich worked that night.”

  “Did he come home dirty? Fowler went out that night and came home with his boots caked with dirt and weeds. It would have been late.”

  She thought more, then slowly shook her head.

  “No, I—wait, yes, it was Friday morning I took the car. There was grass and dirt on the driver’s-side floor. Richie had the shift Thursday night. He said he had chased somebody.”

  Her eyes suddenly took on the hardness again.

  “What were they doing?”

  “I don’t know. Didn’t Richie tell you?”

  “He was on duty.”

  “Did Richie ever say that Marchenko and Parsons were connected with any Latin gangs?”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t remember.”

  “Frogtown? Juarez was a member of the Frogtown gang.”

  “What did Juarez have to do with Marchenko and Parsons?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m trying to find out.”

  “Waitaminute. I thought Juarez killed them because of Mike—because Mike killed his brother.”

  “That’s what the police are saying.”

  She crossed her arms, and Holman thought she looked worried.

  She said, “You don’t believe it?”

  “I gotta ask you something else. In all this time when he was telling you about Marchenko and Parsons, did he ever tell you exactly what he was doing?”

  “Just…that he was working on the case.”

  “What case? They were dead.”

  A lost and hopeless cast came to her eyes, and Holman could see she didn’t remember. She finally shook her head, holding her arms even tighter.

  “An investigation. I don’t know.”

  “Trying to find an accomplice, maybe?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did he mention missing money?”

  “What money?”

  Holman studied her, and part of him wanted to explain, thinking that maybe it would trigger some memory in her that would help him, but he knew he was done. He didn’t want to bring this part of it to her. He didn’t want to leave her thinking about the money and wondering whether her husband was working as a cop in an investigation or was trying to find the missing cash for himself.

  “It’s nothing. Listen, I don’t know what Random was talking about, all that stuff about investigating me. I haven’t done anything illegal and I’m not going to do anything, you understand? I wouldn’t do that to you and to Richie. I couldn’t.”

  She stared up at him for a moment, and then she nodded.

  “I know. I know what you’re doing.”

  “Then yo
u know a helluva lot more than me.”

  She raised on her toes to kiss his cheek.

  “You’re trying to take care of your little boy.”

  Richie’s wife hugged him long and tight, and Holman was glad for it, but he cursed himself for being too late.

  23

  HOLMAN WAS FURIOUS as he crossed the street, heading back to his car. He was pissed that Random had questioned Liz about him and implied he was involved in some kind of criminal activity. Holman now assumed Random was the cop who got him in trouble with Tony Gilbert, but he was even more furious that Random warned Liz not to trust him. Random had jeopardized his only remaining connection to Richie, and Holman didn’t know why. He didn’t believe Random was harassing him, which meant that Random suspected him of something. He wanted to drive to Parker Center to confront the sonofabitch, but by the time he reached the Highlander he knew this would be a bad idea. He needed a better idea of what Random was thinking before he called him on it.

  After the lousy start to his morning, Holman expected to find a ticket waiting under the Highlander’s windshield wiper, but the windshield was clean. He hoped he hadn’t used up his good luck for the day by ducking a lousy parking ticket.

  Holman got into his car, started the engine, and spent a few minutes thinking through the rest of his day. He had a lot to do and couldn’t allow an asshole like Random to move him off track. He wanted to call Pollard, but it was still on the early side and he didn’t know what time she woke. She said something about having kids, so the mornings were probably rough—getting the kids up and fed, getting them dressed and ready for their day. All the stuff Holman had missed out on with Richie. It was an inevitable thread of regret that left Holman in a funk whenever he made the mistake of following it. He decided to call Chee about Perry. Chee probably thought he was doing Holman a favor, but Holman didn’t need that kind of help. Now he would have to deal with Perry’s resentment on top of everything else.