by Robert Crais
Holman parked in the lot alongside the passenger terminal, then walked over to wait at the main entrance. Pollard picked him up a few minutes later and they drove to Lincoln Heights. It was only a few minutes away.
Anton Marchenko’s mother lived in a low-income neighborhood between Main and Broadway, not far from Chinatown. The tiny houses were poorly kept because the people here had no money. The houses would be overcrowded with two or three generations and sometimes more than one family, and it took everything they had just to hang on. Holman had grown up in a similar house in another part of town and found the street depressing. Back in the day when Holman was stealing, he didn’t bother with a neighborhood like this because he knew firsthand they had nothing worth stealing.
Pollard said, “Okay, now listen—she’s going to rant about how the cops murdered her son, so we’ll just have to listen to it. Let me direct the conversation to Fowler.”
“You’re the boss.”
Pollard reached around to the backseat and brought out a folder. She put it in Holman’s lap.
“Carry this. Here we come, up here on the right. Try to act like a reporter.”
Leyla Marchenko was short and squat, with a wide Slavic face showing small eyes and thin lips. When she answered the door, she was wearing a heavy black dress and fluffy house slippers. Holman thought she seemed suspicious.
“You are the newspaper people?”
Pollard said, “Yes, that’s right. You spoke with me on the phone.”
Holman said, “We’re reporters.”
Pollard cleared her throat to shut him up, but Mrs. Marchenko pushed open the door and told them to come in.
Mrs. Marchenko’s living room was small, with spotty furnishings pieced together from lawn sales and secondhand stores. Her house wasn’t air-conditioned. Three electric table fans were set up around the room, swinging from side to side to churn the hot air. A fourth fan sat motionless in the corner, its safety cage broken and hanging on the blades. Except for the fans, it reminded Holman of his old house and he didn’t feel comfortable. The small closed space felt like a cell. He already wanted to leave.
Mrs. Marchenko dropped into a chair like a dead weight. Pollard took a seat on the couch and Holman sat beside her.
Pollard said, “All right, Mrs. Marchenko, like I told you on the phone, we’re going to do a story exploring how the police mistreated—”
Pollard didn’t have to say more than that. Mrs. Marchenko turned bright red and launched into her complaints.
“They were nasty and rude. They come in here and make such a mess, me alone, an old woman. They break a lamp in my bedroom. They break my fan—”
She waved at the motionless fan.
“They come in here stomping around the house and here I was alone, thinking I might be raped. I don’t believe any of those things they say and I still don’t. Anton did not commit all those robberies like they say, maybe that last one, but not those others. They blame him so they can say they solved all those cases. They murdered him. This man on TV, he say Anton was trying to give up when they kill him. He say, they use too much force. They tell those terrible lies to cover up themselves. I am going to sue the city. I am going to make them pay.”
The old woman’s eyes reddened along with her face, and Holman found himself staring at the broken fan. It was easier than seeing her pain.
“Max?”
“What?”
“The folder? Could I have the folder, please?”
Pollard had her hand out, waiting for the folder. Holman handed it to her. Pollard took out a sheet and passed it to Mrs. Marchenko.
“I’d like to show you some pictures. Do you recognize any of these men?”
“Who are they?”
“Police officers. Did any of these officers come to see you?”
Pollard had clipped the pictures of Richie and Fowler and the others from the newspaper and taped them to the sheet. Holman thought this was a good idea and knew he probably wouldn’t have thought of it.
Mrs. Marchenko peered at the pictures, then tapped the one of Fowler.
“Maybe him. No uniform. A suit.”
Holman glanced at Pollard, but Pollard showed no reaction. Holman knew it was a telling moment. Fowler had worn civilian clothes because he had been pretending he was a detective. He had hidden the fact that he was a uniformed officer and was pretending to be something else.
Pollard said, “How about the others? Were any of them here either with the first man or at another time?”
“No. Another man came with him, but not these.”
Now Pollard glanced over at Holman and Holman shrugged. He was wondering who in hell this fifth man was and whether or not the old woman was making a mistake.
Holman said, “You sure the other man isn’t one of the guys in the pictures? Why don’t you take another look to be sure?”
Mrs. Marchenko’s eyes narrowed into angry slits.
“I don’t need to see again. It was some other man, not one of these.”
Pollard cleared her throat and jumped in. Holman was glad.
“Do you remember his name?”
“I don’t give those bastards the time of day. I don’t know.”
“About when were they here, you think? How long ago?”
“Not long. Two weeks, I think. Why do you ask about them? They did not break my lamp. That was another one.”
Pollard put away the pictures.
“Let’s just say they might be nastier than most, but we’ll focus on everyone in the story.”
Holman was impressed with how well Pollard lied. It was a skill he had noticed before in cops. They often lied better than criminals.
Pollard said, “What did they want?”
“They wanted to know about Allie.”
“And who is Allie?”
“Anton’s lady friend.”
Holman was surprised and he could tell Pollard was surprised, too. The papers had described Marchenko and Parsons as a couple of friendless loners and had hinted at a homosexual relationship. Pollard stared down at the folder for a moment before continuing.
“Anton had a girlfriend?”
The old woman’s face grew rigid and she tipped forward.
“I am not making this up! My Anton was not a sissy boy like those horrible people said. Many young men have roommates to share in the cost. Many!”
“I’m sure of it, Mrs. Marchenko, a handsome young man like him. What did the officers want to know about her?”
“Just questions, they ask—did Anton see her a lot, where she lives, like that, but I am not going to help these people who murdered my son. I made like I don’t know her.”
“So you didn’t tell them about her?”
“I say I don’t know any girl named Allie. I am not going to help these murderers.”
“We’d like to speak with her for the article, Mrs. Marchenko. Could you give me her phone number?”
“I don’t know the number.”
“That’s okay. We can look it up. How about her last name?”
“I am not making this up. He would call her when he was here watching the television. She was so nice, a nice girl, she was laughing when he gave me the phone.”
Mrs. Marchenko had once more flushed, and Holman saw how desperately she needed them to believe her. She had been trapped in her tiny house by the death of her son, and no one was listening and no one had listened for three months and she was alone. Holman felt so bad he wanted to jump up and run, but instead he smiled and made his voice gentle.
“We believe you. We just want to talk to the girl. When was this you spoke to her?”
“Since before they murdered my Anton. It was a long time. Anton would come and we would watch the TV. Sometimes he would call her and put me on the phone, here, Mama, talk to my girl.”
Pollard pouched out her lips, thinking, then glanced at the phone at the end of Mrs. Marchenko’s couch.
“Maybe if you showed us your old phone bills we cou
ld figure out which number belongs to Allie. Then we could see if Detective Fowler treated her as badly as he treated you.”
Mrs. Marchenko brightened.
“Would that help me sue them?”
“Yes, ma’am, I think it might.”
Mrs. Marchenko pushed up from her chair and waddled out of the room.
Holman leaned toward Pollard and lowered his voice.
“Who’s this fifth guy?”
“I don’t know.”
“The papers didn’t say anything about a girlfriend.”
“I don’t know. She wasn’t on the FBI witness list, either.”
Mrs. Marchenko interrupted them by returning with a cardboard box.
“The bills I put in here after I pay them. It’s all mixed up.”
Holman settled back and watched them go through the bills. Mrs. Marchenko didn’t make many calls and didn’t phone many different numbers—her landlord, her doctors, a couple of other older women who were friends, her younger brother in Cleveland, and her son. Whenever Pollard found a number Mrs. Marchenko couldn’t identify, Pollard called the number on her cell phone, but the first three she dialed were two repairmen and a Domino’s. Mrs. Marchenko remembered the repairmen, but frowned when Pollard reached the Domino’s.
“I never have the pizza. That must have been Anton.”
The Domino’s call had been placed five months ago. The following number on the list was also a number Mrs. Marchenko couldn’t identify, but then she nodded.
“That must be Allie. I remember the pizza now. I tell Anton it has a nasty taste. When the man brought it, Anton gave me the phone when he went to the door.”
Pollard smiled at Holman.
“Well, there we go. Let’s see who answers.”
Pollard dialed the number, and Holman watched as her smile faded. She closed her phone.
“It’s no longer in service.”
Mrs. Marchenko said, “Is this bad?”
“Maybe not. I’m pretty sure we can use this number to find her.”
Pollard copied the number into her notebook along with the time, date, and duration of the call, then searched through the remaining bills, but found the number only one other time on a call placed three weeks before the first.
Pollard glanced at Holman, then smiled at Mrs. Marchenko.
“I think we’ve taken enough of your time. Thank you very much.”
Mrs. Marchenko’s face folded in disappointment.
“Don’t you want to talk about the fan and how they lied?”
Pollard stood and Holman stood with her.
“I think we have enough. We’ll see what Allie has to say and we’ll get back to you. Come on, Holman.”
Mrs. Marchenko waddled after them to the door.
“They did not have to kill my boy. I don’t believe any of those things they said. Will you put that in your story?”
“Goodbye and thank you again.”
Pollard walked out to the car, but Holman hesitated. He felt awkward just leaving.
Mrs. Marchenko said, “Anton was trying to give up. Put in your story how they murdered my son.”
Pollard was waving for him to join her, but here was this old woman with her pleading eyes, thinking they were going to help her and they were going to leave her with nothing. Holman felt ashamed of himself. He looked at the broken fan.
“You couldn’t fix it?”
“How could I get it fixed? My Anton is dead. How could I get it fixed until I sue and get the money?”
Pollard beeped the horn. Holman glanced at her, then turned back to Mrs. Marchenko.
“Let me take a look.”
Holman went back into the house and examined the fan. The safety cage was supposed to be attached at the back of the motor by a little screw, but the screw was broken. It had probably snapped when the cops knocked over the fan. The head of the screw had popped off and the body of the screw was still in the hole. It would have to be drilled and rethreaded. It would be cheaper to buy a new fan.
“I can’t fix it, Mrs. Marchenko. I’m sorry.”
“This is outrageous, what they did to my son. I am going to sue them.”
The horn beeped.
Holman went back to the door and saw Pollard waving, but he still didn’t leave. Here was this woman with her son who had robbed thirteen banks, murdered three people, and wounded four others; her little boy who had modified semiautomatic rifles to fire like machine guns, dressed up like a lunatic, and shot it out with the police, but here she was, defending her son to the last.
Holman said, “Was he a good son?”
“He came and we watched the TV.”
“Then that’s all you need to know. You hang on to that.”
Holman left her then and went to join Pollard.
30
WHEN HOLMAN pulled the door closed, Pollard roared back toward Union station.
“What were you doing? Why’d you go back inside?”
“To see if I could fix her fan.”
“We have something important here and you’re wasting time with that?”
“The woman thinks we’re helping her. I didn’t feel right just leaving.”
Holman felt so bad he didn’t notice that Pollard had gone silent. When he finally glanced over, her mouth was a hard line and her brow was cut by a vertical line.
He said, “What?”
“It might not have dawned on you, but I did not enjoy that. I don’t like lying to some poor woman who lost her son and I don’t like sneaking around pretending to be something I’m not. This kind of thing was easier and simpler when I was on the Feeb, but I’m not, so this is what we have. I don’t need you making me feel even worse.”
Holman stared at her. He had spent much of the night regretting he had gotten her involved, and now he felt like a moron.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Forget it. I know you didn’t.”
She was clearly in a bad mood now, but Holman didn’t know what to say. The more he thought about everything she was doing for him, the more he felt like an idiot.
“I’m sorry.”
Her mouth tightened, so he decided not to apologize again. He decided to change the subject.
“Hey, I know this Allie thing is important. Can you find her with a disconnected number?”
“I’ll have a friend of mine at the Feeb do it. They can run the number through a database that will show prior subscribers even though it’s no longer in use.”
“How long will it take?”
“It’s computers. Milliseconds.”
“Why wasn’t she on the witness list?”
“Because they didn’t know about her, Holman. Duh.”
“Sorry.”
“That’s why this is important. They didn’t know about her, but Fowler did. That means he learned about her from some other source.”
“Fowler and the new guy.”
Pollard glanced over at him.
“Yeah, and the new guy. I’m looking forward to talking with this girl, Holman. I want to find out what she told them.”
Holman grew thoughtful. They were driving west on Main Street toward the river. He was thinking about what she might have told them, too.
“Maybe she told them to meet her under the bridge to cut up the money.”
Pollard didn’t look at him. She was silent for a moment and then she shrugged.
“We’ll see. I’ll go back through his phone bills to see if and when they made contact, and I’ll see if we can find her. I’ll call you later with whatever I find.”
Holman watched her drive, feeling even more guilty that she would be spending her afternoon with this.
“Listen, I want to thank you again for going to all this trouble. I didn’t mean to put my foot in it back there.”
“You’re welcome. Forget it.”
“I know you already said no, but I’d like to pay you something. At least gas money since you won’t let me drive.”
> “If we have to get gas I’ll let you pay. Will that make you feel better?”
“I’m not trying to be a pain. I just feel bad with you putting in so much time.”
Pollard didn’t respond.
“Your husband doesn’t mind you spending all this time?”
“Let’s not talk about my husband.”
Holman sensed he had stepped over a line with her, so he backed off and fell silent. He had noticed she didn’t wear a ring the first time he saw her at Starbucks, but she had mentioned her kids so he didn’t know what to make of it. Now he regretted bringing it up.
They drove on without speaking. As they crossed the river, Holman tried to see the Fourth Street Bridge, but it was too far away. He was surprised when Pollard suddenly spoke.
“I don’t have a husband. He’s dead.”
“Sorry. It was none of my business.”
“It sounds worse than it was. We were separated. We were on our way to a divorce we both wanted.”
Pollard shrugged, but still didn’t look at him.
“How about you? How’d it go between you and your wife?”
“Richie’s mom?”
“Yeah.”
“We never got married.”
“Typical.”
“If I could go back and do it all over again I would have married her, but that was me. I didn’t learn my lesson until I was in prison.”
“Some people never learn, Holman. At least you figured it out. Maybe you’re ahead of the curve.”