The Two Minute Rule

by Robert Crais

  Pollard thought, perfect.

  “Peter, I need five minutes with you. I’m in Chinatown now. Can you make time for me?”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I ask what this is regarding?”

  “Marchenko and Parsons. I need to discuss them with you, but I’d rather do it face-to-face. It won’t take long.”

  Williams grew distracted for a moment, and Pollard hoped he was making room on his calendar.

  “Sure, Katherine. I can do that. When can you be here?”

  “Five minutes.”

  Pollard left her car in a parking lot next to the building, then took an elevator to the top floor. She felt anxious and irritated at having left Williams with the impression she was still with the FBI. Pollard didn’t like lying, but she didn’t trust telling the truth. If Williams turned her down, she had no other hope of seeing the reports Random was trying to hide.

  When Pollard got off the elevator she saw that Peter had been promoted. A burnished sign identified him as the president and CEO. Pollard considered this a lucky break—if she was going to lie she might as well lie to the boss.

  Peter Williams was a fit man in his late fifties, short and balding with a tennis player’s tan. He seemed geniunely pleased to see her and brought her into his office to show off the sweeping views that let him look out over the entire Los Angeles Basin. Peter didn’t retreat to his desk. He brought her to a wall covered with framed photographs and plaques. He pointed at one of the pictures, high in the right corner.

  “You see? Here you are.”

  It was a picture of Peter presenting her with the Pac West Meritorious Service Award nine years earlier. Pollard thought she looked a lot younger in the picture. And thinner.

  Peter offered her a seat on the couch, then sat in a leather club chair.

  “All right, Agent. What can I do for Kat the Giant Killer after all this time?”

  “I’m not with the FBI anymore. That’s why I need your help.”

  Peter seemed to stiffen, so Pollard gave him her most charming smile.

  “I’m not talking about a loan. It’s nothing like that.”

  Peter laughed.

  “Loans are easy. What can I do?”

  “I’m interviewing with private contractors as a security specialist. Marchenko and Parsons have the highest profile of the recent takeover teams, so I need to know those guys inside and out.”

  Peter was nodding, going along.

  “They hit us twice.”

  “Right. They hit you on their fourth and seventh robberies, two of the thirteen.”

  “Fucking animals.”

  “I need the backstory in detail, but LAPD won’t share their files with a civilian.”

  “But you were an FBI agent.”

  “From their side I can see it. They have to dot the i’s and cross the t’s, and the Feeb is even worse. Leeds hates it when an agent goes into the private sector. He considers us traitors. But traitor or not, I have two kids to support and I want this job, so if you can help me I’d appreciate it.”

  Pollard thought she had done a pretty good job with the subtle hint that the welfare of her children depended upon his cooperation. Most major banks and banking chains had their own security office that worked hand in hand with authorities to identify, locate, and apprehend bank robbers, as well as prevent or deter future robberies. To that end, banks and authorities openly shared information in an ongoing evolution that began with the initial robbery. What was learned during robbery number two or six or nine might very well help the police capture the bandits during robbery number sixteen. Pollard knew this because she had been part of the process herself. The Pacific West security office had likely been copied on all or part of the LAPD’s detail reports as they were developed. They might not have all of it, but they might have some, even if in redacted form.

  Peter frowned, and she could tell he was working it through.

  “You know, we have security agreements with these agencies.”

  “I know. You signed some of those forms for me when I was profiling the Front Line gang and I shared our interview summaries.”

  “They’re supposed to be for our internal use and ours alone.”

  “If you want me to read them at your security office, that would be fine. They don’t have to leave the premises.”

  Pollard held his eyes for a moment, then looked at the Kat the Giant Killer picture. She stared at it for several seconds before looking back at him.

  “And if you’d like me to sign a confidentiality agreement, of course I’d be happy to sign it.”

  She stared at him, waiting.

  “I don’t know, Katherine.”

  Pollard sensed the whole effort going south, and suddenly grew worried he might ask LAPD for their permission. His security office had almost daily contact with robbery detectives and FBI agents. If the Robbery Special dicks found out she was running an end-around after they already turned her down, she would be screwed.

  She studied the picture again, then took her final shot.

  “Those bastards are getting out in two years.”

  Peter made a noncommittal shrug that was not encouraging.

  “Tell you what. Leave your contact information with my assistant. Let me think about it and I’ll be in touch.”

  Peter stood, and Pollard stood with him. She couldn’t think of anything else to say. He walked her out. She left her information, then rode down in the elevator alone, feeling like a brush salesman who had struck out for the day.

  Pollard missed her credentials—the badge and commission card that identified her as an agent of the FBI. The creds gave her the weight and moral authority to ask questions and demand answers, and she had never hesitated to knock on any door or ask any question and she had almost always gotten the answers. She felt worse than a brush salesman. She felt like a chiseler stealing sugar packs from a diner. She felt like nothing.

  Pollard drove back to the Simi Valley to make dinner for her kids.

  27

  HOLMAN WATCHED Pollard drive away from the river with a numb feeling in his chest. He hadn’t told her the real reason he had seen her under the bridge. He had been on his way to Chee’s shop. And he had also lied when he told her he had been to the bridge a dozen times. Holman had returned to this place twenty or thirty times. He found himself at the bridge several times every day and two or three times each night. Sometimes he would find himself at the bridge as if he had fallen asleep at the wheel and the car had driven itself. He didn’t always jump the fence. Most times he cruised the bridge without stopping, but other times he parked, leaning far over the rail to see those terrible scrubbed patches from every possible angle. Holman hadn’t told her the truth about those visits, and knew he could never tell anyone, not about his terrible moments with those bright patches of light.

  Holman thought through everything he and Pollard talked about, then decided not to go to Chee’s. He still needed to talk to Chee, but he wanted to keep Chee out of the rest of it.

  He turned back toward Culver City and called Chee on his cell.

  “Homes! ’Sup, bro? How you like those wheels?”

  “I wish you hadn’t sent your boys after the old man. It made me look bad.”

  “Homes, please! Muthuhfuckuh billin’ you twenty a day for a cop magnet like that, a man in your position! He knew what he was doing, bro—I couldn’t let him get away with that.”

  “He’s an old man, Chee. We had a deal. I knew what I was getting into.”

  “You knew he had warrants on that piece of shit?”

  “No, but that’s not the point—”

  “What you want me to do, send him some flowers? Maybe a little note sayin’ I’m sorry?”

  “No, but—”

  Holman knew he wasn’t going to get anywhere and was already sorry he brought it up. He had more important things to discuss.

  “Look, I’m not asking you to do anything, I guess I just wanted t
o mention it. I know you meant well.”

  “I got your back, bro, don’t ever forget that.”

  “This other thing, I heard Maria Juarez disappeared.”

  “She left her cousins?”

  “Yeah. The cops issued a warrant, and now they’re blaming me for making her run. Think you can ask around?”

  “Whatever, bro. I’ll see what I can see. You need anything else?”

  Holman needed something, but not from Chee.

  He said, “Something else. I got fronted by the cops today about this Juarez thing. Have the cops been talking to you?”

  “Why would the cops be talkin’ to me?”

  Holman told him that Random had mentioned Chee by name. Chee was silent for a moment, and then his voice was quiet.

  “I don’t like that, bro.”

  “I didn’t like it, either. I don’t know if they’ve been following me or they’re into my phone at the room, but don’t call me on that phone anymore. Just on the cell.”

  Holman put down the phone and drove in silence across the city. He spent almost an hour driving from the Fourth Street Bridge to the City of Industry. Traffic always got heavy at the end of the day when people were getting off work. Holman grew worried he would get there too late, but he reached the sign company a few minutes before quitting time.

  Holman didn’t turn into the parking lot and he didn’t intend to see Tony Gilbert. He parked in a red zone across the street and stayed in the car, waiting for five o’clock. The workday ended at five.

  Holman glanced at his father’s watch with its frozen hands. Maybe that was why he wore it—time had no meaning. He checked the dashboard clock and watched the minutes tick past.

  At exactly five o’clock, men and women came out of the printing plant and filed through the parking lot to their cars. Holman watched Tony Gilbert go to a Cadillac and the two front-office girls get into a Jetta. Three minutes later he watched Pitchess exit the building and get into a Dodge Charger that was almost as bad as Perry’s beater.

  Holman waited until Pitchess pulled out, then slipped into traffic a few cars behind him. He followed the Charger for almost a mile until he was sure no one else from the printing plant was around. He accelerated around the cars ahead, and swerved back into the lane so he was directly behind Pitchess.

  Holman tapped his horn and saw Pitchess’s eyes go to the rearview mirror, but Pitchess kept driving.

  Holman tapped his horn again, and when Pitchess looked, Holman gestured for him to pull over.

  Pitchess got the message and turned into a Safeway parking lot. He stopped near the entrance, but didn’t get out of his car. Holman thought the sonofabitch was probably scared.

  Holman parked behind him, got out, and walked forward. Pitchess’s window rolled down as Holman approached.

  Holman said, “Can you get me a gun?”

  “I knew I’d see you again.”

  “Can you get me a gun or not?”

  “You got the money?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then I can get whatever you need. Get in.”

  Holman went around to the passenger side and climbed in.

  28

  WHEN HOLMAN got home that night Perry’s usual parking spot was empty. The beater was gone.

  Holman avoided the water raining from the window units and let himself in through the front door like always. It was almost ten, but Perry was still at his desk, reading a magazine with his feet up.

  Holman decided to move quickly to the stairs without speaking, but Perry put down his magazine with a big smile.

  “Hey, those boys came back today. You must’ve straightened’m out real good, Holman. Thanks.”

  “Good. I’m glad it worked out.”

  Holman didn’t want to hear about it now. He wanted to get upstairs, so he kept going, but Perry swung his feet from the desk.

  “Hey, wait—hang on there. What’s that in the bag, your dinner?”

  Holman stopped, but held the paper Safeway bag down along his leg like it was nothing.

  “Yeah. Listen, Perry, it’s getting cold.”

  Perry pushed the magazine aside and smiled so wide his lips peeled off his gums.

  “If you want a beer to go with it I got a couple in my place. We could have dinner together or something.”

  Holman hesitated, not wanting to be rude but also not wanting to get involved with Perry. He wanted to bring the bag upstairs.

  “It’s just a little bit of chow mein. I already ate most of it.”

  “Well, we could still have that beer.”

  “I’m sober, remember?”

  “Yeah. Listen, I’m just trying to thank you for whatever you did. When those boys walked in, I thought, holy shit, they’re gonna bust my guts.”

  Now Holman was curious. He also figured the sooner Perry got it out, the sooner he’d be able to go upstairs.

  “I didn’t know they were coming back.”

  “Well, shit, you must’ve told’m somethin’. Did you notice that ol’ Mercury is gone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They’re gonna fix it up for me, kind of like an apology. Pound out those dents and hit the rust that’s eating up my headlights and paint the sonofabitch. Have it back good as new, they said.”

  “That’s real good, Perry.”

  “Hell, Holman, I appreciate this. Thanks, man.”

  “No problem. Listen, I want to get this upstairs.”

  “Okay, partner, I just wanted to let you know. You change your mind about that beer, you come knock.”

  “Sure, Perry. Thanks.”

  Holman went up to his room, but left his door open. He turned off his AC unit to cut the noise of its blower, then returned to his door. He heard Perry lock the front door, then move through the lobby turning off lights before heading back along the hall to his room. When Holman heard Perry’s door close, he slipped off his shoes. He crept down to the utility closet at the end of the hall where Perry kept mops, soaps, and cleaning supplies. Holman had raided the closet a couple of times, looking for Pine-Sol and a plunger.

  In addition to the cleaning supplies, Holman had noticed a water shutoff valve in a rectangular hole cut into the wall between two studs. He pushed the bag into the hole beneath the valve. He didn’t want to keep the gun in his room or car. The way things had been going, the cops would search his room. If they had found something when they searched his car that morning, he would be back in federal custody right now.

  Holman shut the closet and returned to his room. He was too tired for a shower. He washed up as best he could in the sink, then put the air conditioner back on and climbed into bed.

  When Holman first saw problems with how the police were explaining Richie’s death, he believed the police were incompetent; now he believed he was dealing with conspiracy and murder. If Richie and his friends had been trying to find the sixteen million in missing money, Holman was pretty sure they weren’t the only people trying to find it. And since the missing money was a secret, the only other people who knew about it were policemen.

  Holman tried to imagine what sixteen million dollars in cash looked like, but couldn’t. The most he had ever had in his possession at one time was forty-two hundred bucks. He wondered if he could lift it. He wondered if he could put it into his car. A man might do anything for that much cash. He wondered if Richie was such a man, but thinking about it made his chest ache so he forced the thoughts away.

  Holman turned to Katherine Pollard and what they discussed under the bridge. He liked her and found himself feeling bad he had gotten her involved. He thought he might like to know her a little bit better, but he held no real hope of that. Now here he was with the gun. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it, but he would even though it meant going back to prison. He would use it as soon as he found his son’s killer.

  29

  THE NEXT MORNING, Pollard called to tell Holman they were on with Leyla Marchenko. Mrs. Marchenko lived in Lincoln Heights not far from Chinatown, s
o Pollard would pick him up at Union Station and they would drive over together.

  Pollard said, “Here’s the deal, Holman—this woman hates the police, so I told her we were reporters.”

  “I don’t know anything about reporters.”

  “What’s to know? The point is she hates cops and that’s our in. I told her we were doing a story about how the cops mistreated her when they were investigating her son. That’s why she’s willing to talk to us.”

  “Well, okay.”

  “Why don’t I do this without you? No reason you have to tag along.”

  “No, no—I want to go.”

  Holman felt bad enough she was working for free; he didn’t want her to think he was leaving it all to her.

  Holman took a fast shower, then waited until he heard Perry hosing the sidewalk before he returned to the closet. He had tossed and turned throughout the night, regretting that he had gotten the gun. Now Pitchess knew he had a gun and if Pitchess got pinched for something he wouldn’t hesitate to cut a deal for himself by ratting Holman out. Holman knew with a certainty Pitchess would get pinched because guys like Pitchess always got pinched. It was only a matter of time.

  Holman wanted to check his hiding place in the better light of day. The water valve and exposed pipes were thick with dust and cobwebs, so it was unlikely Perry or anyone else would reach down between the studs. Holman was satisfied. If Pitchess ratted him out, he would deny everything and the cops would have to find the gun. Holman positioned the mop and broom in front of the valve, then went to meet Pollard.

  Holman had always liked Union Station, even though it was a block away from the jail. He liked the deco Spanish look of the place with its stucco and tile and arches, which reminded him of the city’s roots in the Old West. Holman had loved watching westerns on TV when he was a child, which was the only thing he remembered ever doing with his father. The old man brought him down to Olvera Street a few times, mostly because Mexican guys walked around dressed like Old West vaqueros. They had bought churros, then walked across the street to see the trains at Union Station. It had all seemed to fit together—Olvera Street, the vaqueros, and Union Station looking like an old Spanish mission—there at the birthplace of Los Angeles. His mother had brought him the one time, but only the one. She brought him into the passenger terminal with its enormously high ceiling and they sat on one of the long wooden benches where people wait. She bought him a Coke and a Tootsie Pop. Holman had been five or six, something like that, and after a few minutes she told him to wait while she used the bathroom. Five hours later his father claimed him from the station attendants because she hadn’t come back. Two years later she died and the old man finally told him his mother had tried to abandon him. She had boarded a train, but only got as far as Oxnard before she ran out of guts. That’s the way his father had put it—she ran out of guts. Holman still liked Union Station anyway. It reminded him of the Old West that had always looked pretty good when he was watching it on TV with his dad.