by Robert Crais
“That’swhat I’m talking about! If they were doing the nasty, this is where they were doing it.”
Pollard was right. From the clearing, they could see if anyone was approaching on the fire road. The cameras that dotted the fences were below them, and pointed downhill toward the sign. No one was watching the summit.
But Holman still didn’t believe Marchenko and Parsons had buried their money up here. Carrying that much cash would have taken several trips, and each trip would have increased the odds they would be discovered. Even if they were stupid enough to bring the money up here, the hole needed to bury it would have been the size of five or six suitcases. It would have been difficult to dig in the rocky soil, and anyone else who visited the summit would have easily noticed the large area of disturbed soil.
Holman pointed out the heel prints and scuff marks that had been scratched into the clearing.
“Maybe he had the girl up here, but there’s no way they brought the money. You see all these footprints? Hikers come up here all the time.”
Pollard considered the prints, then walked around the edges of the clearing. She seemed to be studying it from different angles.
She said, “This little hill isn’t so big. There’s not a lot of room up here.”
“That’s my point.”
Pollard gazed down at Hollywood.
“But why did he have to come up here to be with the girl? He could’ve pretended to be a pirate anywhere.”
Holman shrugged.
“Why’d he rob thirteen banks dressed like a commando? Freaks happen.”
Holman wasn’t sure she heard him. She was still staring down into Hollywood. Then she shook her head.
“No, Holman, coming up here was important to him. It meant something. That’s one of the things they taught us at Quantico. Even madness has meaning.”
“You think that money was up here?”
She shook her head, but she was still staring down into the canyon.
“No. No, you’re right about that. They didn’t bury sixteen million dollars up here, and Fowler and your boy sure as hell didn’t find it and dig it up. That hole would look like a bomb crater.”
“Okay.”
She pointed down toward the city.
“But he lived right down there in Beachwood Canyon. You see it? Every day when he stepped out of his apartment, he could look up and see this sign. Maybe they didn’t keep the money in their apartment or hide it up here, but something about this place made him feel safe and powerful. That’s why he brought the girl up here.”
“You can see forever. Maybe it made him feel like he was in a crow’s nest, like on one of those old sailing ships.”
Pollard still wasn’t looking at him. She was staring down into Beachwood Canyon like the answers to all of her questions were waiting to be found.
“I don’t think so, Holman. Remember what Alison told Marki? It always had to be here. He couldn’t perform without his fantasies, and the fantasies were about treasure—having sex on the money. Money equals power. Power equals sex. Being here made him feel close to his money, and the money gave him the power to have sex.”
She looked at him.
“Fowler and your son could have picked up dirt and grass in any vacant lot in L.A., but if they knew what Alison knew, they would have come up here. Look around. It isn’t that big. Just look.”
Pollard walked off into the brush, scanning the ground as if she had lost her car keys. Holman thought they were wasting their time, but he turned in the opposite direction.
The only man-made artifact on the summit was a device Holman thought looked like a metal scarecrow. Holman had seen it before. The scarecrow had been set into the ground years ago and bore what appeared to be U.S. Geological Survey markings. Holman guessed it was something for monitoring seismic activity, but he didn’t know.
Holman was in a brushy area ten feet beyond the cage when he found the turned earth.
“Pollard! Agent Pollard!”
It was a small egg-shaped depression about a foot across. The darker, turned earth at its center stood out from the surrounding undisturbed ground.
Pollard appeared at his side, then knelt by the depression. She probed the turned soil with her fingers and tested the surrounding area. She scooped a handful of loose soil from the center, then scooped more. By clearing away the loose soil, she revealed a hard perimeter. She continued clearing loose soil until she finally sat back on her heels. It hadn’t taken long.
Holman said, “What is it?”
She looked at him.
“It’s a hole…Holman. See the hard edge where the shovel bit? Someone dug up something. You saw how it was a depression? Someone removed something, so there wasn’t enough dirt to fill the empty space when they refilled the hole. Hence, the depression.”
“Anyone could have dug this.”
“Yes, anyone could have dug it. But how many people would be up here digging, and what could have been here that someone would want to remove?”
“They had sixteen million dollars. You couldn’t fit sixteen million in a little hole like that.”
Pollard stood, and then both of them stared down at the hole.
“No, but you could hide something that led to the sixteen million—GPS coordinates, an address, keys—”
Holman said, “A treasure map.”
“Yep. Even a pirate’s treasure map.”
Holman glanced up, but Pollard was walking away. He looked down at the hole again as an emptiness grew in his heart. The hole in his heart was larger than this little hole and felt larger than the canyon beneath the Hollywood Sign. It was the emptiness of a father who had failed his only child and cost that child his life.
Richie had not been a good man.
Richie had made a play for the money.
And now Richie had paid the price.
Holman heard Donna’s voice echoing across the cavernous emptiness that filled him, the same four words over and over:
Like father, like son.
38
POLLARD BRUSHED at the dirt on her hands, wishing she had a Handi Wipe. Dirt was caked under her nails and would be hell to get out, but she didn’t care. Pollard had a high level of confidence the hole was connected with Marchenko and Parsons and the search for their money, but confidence wasn’t proof. She opened her phone. The signal bars showed she had an excellent connection, but she didn’t yet place the call. A man accompanied by a white dog was hiking up the fire road below the summit. She watched them, then considered the cameras perched on their poles, and decided that at least one of the cameras probably included a view of the fire road. The Park Service almost certainly recorded the video feed, but Pollard knew most security videos were stored digitally on a hard drive that recorded over itself as its memory filled. Most security captures in her experience weren’t kept more than forty-eight hours. She doubted that images remained of Fowler and the other officers hiking up the fire road in the middle of the night—if any had ever existed. One or more of the officers had probably made an initial visit during the day. They would have seen the cameras and planned to avoid them, just as they had planned how and where to search.
Pollard studied the surroundings and decided it was possible. She and Holman had followed the fire road as it wrapped around the peak to bring them to the communications facility at the top of the Hollywood Sign. The cameras probably included views of the road as it approached the sign and the antenna, but no one was watching the road on the back side of the mountain. Pollard moved to the edge of the summit and studied the rear-facing slope. It was steep, but Pollard thought it was doable. Scrambling up the slope on a dewy night with poor footing probably even explained the mud on Fowler’s boots.
Pollard opened her phone again and punched up Sanders’ cell number from the memory. Pollard knew Sanders wasn’t in the office because she answered in a normal voice.
“Let me ask you a question, Pollard—what in hell are you and the Hero doing?”
Pollard glanced across the summit at Holman. He was still standing by the hole. She lowered her voice.
“The same thing we were doing yesterday and the day before. Why?”
“Leeds has been getting serious heat from the police is why. Parker Center has been calling and Leeds is going to meetings he won’t tell anyone about and he’s coming apart at the seams.”
“Has he said anything specifically about me?”
“As a matter of fact. He said if any of us were contacted by you we were to report that contact immediately. He also said if any of us were using government time and resources to aide a civilian endeavor—he looked at me when he said it—he would bring disciplinary charges and transfer our asses to Alaska.”
Pollard hesitated, debating how much she should say.
“Where are you?”
“The marina. Some homeless dude pulled a note job, then fell asleep in the park across the street.”
“Are you going to report this call?”
“Are you breaking the law?”
“For God’s sake, no, I am not breaking the law.”
“Then fuck Leeds. I just want to know what’s going on.”
“I’ll tell you, but let me ask first—have you been able to get a copy of the Juarez tape?”
Sanders didn’t immediately answer, but when she did her tone was guarded.
“They told me the tape had been erased. An unfortunate accident, they said.”
“Hang on—Juarez’s alibi tape was destroyed?”
“What they said.”
Pollard took a breath. First Maria Juarez had disappeared, and now her tape had been destroyed, the same tape Maria claimed as her husband’s alibi. Pollard found herself smiling, though without any humor. A hot breeze had picked up, but felt good on her face. She liked being on the summit.
Pollard said, “I’m going to tell you some things. I don’t know everything yet, so do not repeat this.”
“Please.”
“Who’s calling Leeds?”
“I don’t know. The calls come from Parker Center and Leeds doesn’t tell us a goddamned thing. He hasn’t even been in the office for two days.”
“All right. I think we’re looking at a criminal conspiracy among police officers growing out of the Marchenko and Parsons robberies. That conspiracy includes the murder of Holman’s son and the other three officers under the Fourth Street Bridge.”
“Are you shitting me?”
Pollard’s phone beeped with an incoming call.
Sanders said, “What’s that?”
“Incoming call.”
Pollard didn’t recognize the number so she let it go to her voice mail. She resumed her conversation with Sanders.
“We believe the four dead officers plus at least one additional officer were conducting an off-the-books investigation to find the missing sixteen million.”
“Did they find it?”
“I believe they did—or identified its location. My guess now is that once the money was found, at least one member of the conspiracy decided to keep everything for himself. I don’t know that yet, but I’m positive about the conspiracy. I believe this fifth person was connected with Alison Whitt.”
“How does Whitt fit into this?”
“Alison Whitt claimed she was a registered police informant. If that’s true, she might have told what she knew about Marchenko to her contact officer. That officer is potentially a party to the conspiracy.”
Sanders hesitated.
“You want me to identify her contact officer.”
“If she’s registered, she’ll be on an informant list and so will the name of the cop who signed her up.”
“This is going to be tough sledding. I told you how they’re coming down on us.”
“Parker Center is coming down on you. Whitt’s murder is being handled on the divisional level out of Hollywood Station. You might still be able to get some cooperation.”
“All right. Okay, yeah, I’ll see what I can do. You really think this is cop-on-cop murder?”
“That’s the way it’s shaping up.”
“You can’t sit on this, for Christ’s sake. You’re a civilian. You’re talking about murder.”
“When I have something that stands up I’ll give it to you. You can bring it forward through the FBI. Now one more thing—”
“Jesus, more?”
“I want this on record with you. Mike Fowler left a pair of dirty boots on the patio in his backyard. Soil and vegetation samples should be taken from his boots and compared with samples from the summit above the Hollywood Sign.”
“TheHollywood Sign? Why the friggin’ sign?”
“That’s where I am. Marchenko and Parsons hid something related to their robberies up here. I believe Fowler and Richard Holman came here searching for it, and I believe they found something. If you end up bringing this thing forward, you’ll want to see if the soil samples match.”
“Okay. I’m on it. You keep me advised, okay? Stay in touch.”
“Let me know when you get something on Whitt.”
Pollard ended the call, then retrieved the incoming message. It was Peter Williams’ assistant, calling from Pacific West Bank.
“Mr. Williams has arranged for you to access the files you requested. You’ll have to read them here on our premises during normal business hours. Please contact me or our chief security officer, Alma Wantanabe, to make the arrangements.”
Pollard put away her phone and felt like pumping her fist. Williams had delivered and now everything was coming together. Pollard sensed they were close to making a breakthrough and wanted to read the Pacific West files as quickly as possible.
She turned toward Holman and saw he was now squatting beside the hole. She hurried over.
She said, “What are you doing?”
“Putting the dirt back. Someone could break a leg.”
Holman was slowly pushing dirt back into the hole with measured mechanical motions.
“Well, stop playing in the dirt and let’s go. Pacific West has a copy of the police summaries. This is good, Holman. If we can match your cover sheets with the reports, we’ll know what Random took from your son’s desk.”
Holman stood as if he were made of lead and started back down the trail. Pollard related what she had learned about Maria Juarez’s videotape. She considered this development telling, and grew annoyed when Holman didn’t react.
She said, “Did you hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“We’re getting close, Holman. We catch a break with these reports or with Whitt being an informant, and everything will come together. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
Pollard got pissed off when he didn’t answer. She was about to say something when Holman finally spoke.
He said, “I guess they did it.”
Pollard realized what was bothering him, but she wasn’t sure what to say. Holman had probably been holding out hope his son wasn’t a bad cop but now that hope was gone.
“We still have to find out what happened.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry, Max.”
Holman kept walking.
When they reached the car, Holman got in without a word, but Pollard tried to be encouraging. She turned the car around and headed back down the canyon into Hollywood, telling him what she hoped to find when they reached Pacific West Bank.
He said, “Listen, I don’t want to go to Chinatown. I’d like you to bring me home.”
Pollard felt another flash of irritation. She felt bad for Holman with what he was going through, but here he was with the big shoulders filling the other side of her car like a giant depressed lump, not even looking at her. He reminded her of herself when she sat in the kitchen staring at the goddamned clock.
She said, “We won’t be at the bank that long.”
“I have something else to do. Just drop me home first.”
They were on Gower heading south to the freeway, stopped at a traffic light
. Pollard planned to hop on the 101 for an easy slide into Chinatown.
“Holman, listen, we are close, okay? We are really close to making this case happen.”
He didn’t look at her.
“We can make it happen later.”
“Goddamn it, we’re halfway to Chinatown. If I have to bring you to Culver City it’s really out of the way.”
“Forget it. I’ll ride the fuckin’ bus.”
Holman suddenly pushed open the door and stepped out into traffic. Pollard was caught off guard, but she jammed on the brake.
“Holman!”
Horns blew as Holman trotted across traffic.
“Holman! Would you come back here? What are you doing?”
He didn’t look at her. He kept walking.
“Get back in the car!”
He walked south on Gower toward Hollywood. The cars behind her leaned on their horns and Pollard finally crept forward. She watched Holman walking, wondering what he so badly wanted to do. He no longer moved like a zombie or seemed depressed. Pollard thought he looked furious. She had seen his expression on men before, and it frightened her. Holman looked like he wanted to kill someone.
Pollard didn’t turn onto the freeway. She let the traffic flow around her, then eased to the curb, letting Holman walk, but keeping him in sight.
Holman hadn’t lied about taking the bus. Pollard watched him board a westbound bus on Hollywood Boulevard. Following it was a pain in the ass because it stopped at damn near every corner. Each time it stopped she had to wedge her Subaru to the curb even when there was no place to park, then crane her head to see past pedestrians and vehicles in case Holman got off.
When Holman reached Fairfax he finally stepped off, then caught a Fairfax bus heading south. He stayed on the Fairfax bus to Pico, then changed buses again, once more heading west. Pollard believed Holman was going home like he had said, but she couldn’t be sure and didn’t want to lose him, so she followed him, furious at herself for wasting so much time.
Holman left the bus two blocks from his motel. Pollard was worried he might see her, but he never once looked around. Pollard found that odd, as if he had no awareness of his surroundings or maybe he no longer cared.