by Robert Crais
“What happened to you? Look at you—what happened?”
Holman was still shaking. He led her away from the elevators. A lobby security guard had already questioned him twice and Holman wanted to leave.
“We gotta get out of here. Vukovich and those guys—they grabbed me again.”
Pollard saw the guard, too, and lowered her voice.
“You’re bleeding—”
“They might have followed you. I’ll tell you outside—”
Holman desperately wanted to leave.
“Who?”
“The cops. They jumped me at the cemetery after you left—”
The shaking grew worse. Holman tried to bring her toward the door, but she pulled him the other way.
“This way. Come with me—”
“We have to go. They’re looking for me.”
“You’re a mess, Max. You stand out. In here—”
Holman let her pull him into the women’s bathroom. She led him to the lavatories, then jerked paper towels from a dispenser and wet them in the sink. Holman wanted to run, but he couldn’t make himself move—the bathroom felt like a rat trap ready to spring.
“They brought me to a house. It was Vukovich and—Random was there. They didn’t arrest me. It wasn’t a goddamn arrest. They fuckin’ took me—”
“Shh. You’re shaking. Try to calm down.”
“We have to get out of here, Katherine.”
She wiped blood from his face and arms, but he couldn’t stop talking any more than he could stop the trembling in his voice. Then he remembered his phone was missing and the terrible helpless feeling he had when he couldn’t reach her.
“I need something to write with—a pen. You got a pen? I tried to call you, but I couldn’t remember your number. I couldn’t fuckin’ remember—”
The trembling grew worse until Holman felt he was shaking apart. He was losing control of himself, but he didn’t seem able to stop.
Pollard tossed the bloody towels, then gripped his arms.
“Max.”
Her eyes seemed to draw him. She stared into his eyes and Holman stared back. Her fingers dug into his arms, but her eyes were calm and her voice was soothing.
“Max, you’re here with me now—”
“I was scared. They had Maria Juarez—”
Holman couldn’t stop looking into her eyes as her fingers massaged his arms.
“You’re safe. You’re with me now, and you’re safe.”
“Jesus, I was so fuckin’ scared.”
Holman stayed with her eyes, but the corners of her lips held a gentle curl that slowed him like an anchor would slow a drifting boat.
His shaking eased.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Yes, I’m better.”
“Good. I want you okay.”
Pollard found a pen in her jacket, then took his arm. She wrote her cell number on the inside of his forearm, then looked up again with softer eyes.
“Now you have my number. You see, Max? Now you can’t lose it.”
Holman could feel that something was now different. She moved closer to him, then slipped her arms around him and rested her head on his chest. Holman stood stiff as a mannequin. He was uncertain and didn’t want to offend her. She whispered into his chest.
“Just for a moment.”
Holman hesitantly touched her back. She didn’t run or jump away. He put his arms around her and laid his cheek on her head. Little by little, he let himself hold her and breathed her in and felt the badness drain away. After a bit Holman felt her stir, and they stepped apart at the same time. Pollard smiled.
“Now we can go. You can tell me what happened in my car.”
Pollard was parked in the building’s basement. Holman described how they had taken him at the cemetery and how he had escaped and what he had seen. She frowned as she listened, but made no comment and asked no questions until he was finished, even when he told her he had stolen a car. She didn’t speak until he was finished, but even then she seemed uncertain.
“All right, it was Vukovich and three other men—one named Fuentes and one named Tom—who arrested you at the cemetery?”
“They didn’t arrest me. They hooked me up, but they didn’t bring me to a station—they brought me to a house. This wasn’t any damn arrest.”
“What did they want?”
“I don’t know what they wanted. I got the hell out of there.”
“Didn’t they say anything?”
“Nothing—”
Then Holman remembered.
“At the cemetery, Vukovich said I was fucking them up, how they tried to be nice but I was fucking them up. He told me they were taking me in, but instead they took me to a goddamned house. I saw that house, there was no way I was going in, no way.”
Pollard frowned harder as if she was trying to make sense of it, but couldn’t.
“All right, and Random was at the house?”
“Yes. With Maria Juarez. Chee said the cops took her and he was right. And now they have Chee. They arrested him this morning.”
Pollard didn’t respond. She still seemed troubled and finally shook her head.
“I don’t get what’s happening here. They grabbed Maria Juarez and now they grabbed you—what were they going to do, hold you prisoner? What could they hope to gain?”
Holman thought it was obvious.
“They’re getting rid of everyone who’s rocking the boat about Random’s case against Warren Juarez. Think about it. Random put the murders on Warren Juarez and closed the case, but Maria said Warren didn’t do it—so they grabbed her. Then I didn’t buy the story they floated, either. They tried to make me back off, and when that didn’t work they bagged me, too. Now they have Chee.”
“Random arrested him?”
“A task force raided his shop this morning looking for guns and explosives. That’s bullshit. I’ve known Chee my whole life and I am telling you that’s bullshit. These bastards must have set him up.”
Pollard still didn’t seem convinced.
“But why involve Chee?”
“Maybe they think I told him about the money. Maybe because he’s been helping me. I don’t know.”
“Could you find the house again, the one where they took you?”
“Absolutely. I can take you there right now.”
“We’re not going there now—”
“We have to. Now that I know where they have her, they’ll clear out. They’ll take that woman with them.”
“Max, listen to me—you’re right. They left as soon as you left and if they were holding Maria Juarez against her will, then they took her with them. If we go back now we’ll find an empty house. If we go to the police about this, what can we tell them? You were kidnapped by four LAPD officers who may or may not have had criminal intent?”
Holman knew she was right. He was a criminal. He had no proof, and no reason to think anyone would believe him.
“Then what can we do?”
“We have to find the fifth man. If we can prove Random is the fifth man we can tie him to Fowler and make our case—”
Pollard paged through her folder and pulled out a newspaper clipping about Richard’s murder. The clipping included a picture of two cops making a statement at Parker Center, and one of the cops was Random.
“I want to show this picture to Mrs. Marchenko. If she fingers Random as the fifth man, I can take what we know to my friends at the FBI. I can make a case with this, Max.”
Holman glanced at Random’s grainy face, then nodded at Pollard. Once more, he knew she was right. She knew this stuff. She was a professional.
Holman reached out to touch the curve of her cheek. She didn’t move away.
“Funny how things work.”
“Yeah.”
Holman turned to open the door.
“I’ll see you over there.”
Pollard grabbed his arm before he could leave.
“Hey! You’re coming with me! You can’t drive
around in a stolen car. You want to get bagged for grand theft auto?”
Pollard was right again, but Holman knew he was right in a different way. Random and Vukovich had come for him. They would come for him again. For all he knew, every cop in the city was looking for him, and they would set him up just like they set up Chee.
Holman gently lifted her hand.
“I might have to run, Katherine. I don’t want to run in your car. I don’t want you caught with me.”
Holman squeezed her hand.
“I’ll see you at her place.”
He didn’t give her a chance to respond. Holman slid out of her car and trotted away.
44
HOLMAN LEFT the parking structure as if he was sneaking away from a bank he had just robbed. He still worried that someone had followed Pollard from the cemetery, so he studied the cars and pedestrians outside the building but found no one suspicious. He waited in his stolen car until Pollard pulled into traffic, then followed her to Mrs. Marchenko.
Holman felt better now that he had spoken with Pollard. He sensed they were close to finding out who murdered Richie, and why, and he suspected this was why Random had moved against him. Random had been a major player in the Marchenko case and now he controlled the investigation into the murder of the four officers. How convenient. Random would have known about the missing sixteen million and had probably put together a team to find it that included Fowler, Richie, and the others. Holman bitterly recalled how Random described them—problem officers; drunks and bums who would sell out for the pot of gold. Random wanted to pin the murders on Warren Juarez; Maria Juarez had proof her husband wasn’t the shooter, so the proof disappeared and so did Maria Juarez. Richie had been in possession of reports Random had written, and Random had made the reports disappear. Holman had asked too many questions, so first they cut him off from the other families, then tried to scare him off, and finally tried to make him disappear, too. This was the only explanation Holman could see that made everything fit together. He still didn’t understand how Chee was involved, but he felt sure they had enough. The noose was tightening, so Random was trying to tie off the loose ends and get rid of the hangman. When Holman realized he was the hangman, he smiled. It had to be Random—and he wanted to be Random’s hangman.
When they reached Mrs. Marchenko’s house, Holman parked across the street. Mrs. Marchenko opened her front door even as Holman joined Pollard on the sidewalk.
Pollard said, “I called her from the car.”
Mrs. Marchenko didn’t seem happy to see them. She looked even more suspicious than before.
“I been lookin’ for that article. I don’ see it.”
Pollard smiled brightly.
“Soon. We’re here to tack down a few last details. I have a picture I want to show you.”
Holman followed Pollard and Mrs. Marchenko into her living room. He noticed the broken fan was still broken.
Mrs. Marchenko dropped into her usual chair.
“What picture?”
“Remember the pictures we showed you last time? You were able to identify one of two officers who came to see you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to show you another picture. I want to know if he was the other man.”
Pollard took the clipping from her folder and held it out. Mrs. Marchenko studied it, then nodded.
“Oh, him I know, but that was before—”
Pollard nodded, encouraging.
“Right. He interviewed you after Anton was killed.”
“Right, yah—”
“Did he come back to see you with the other man?”
Mrs. Marchenko settled back in her chair.
“No. It wasn’t him.”
Holman felt a swirl of anger. They were close; they were at the very edge of breaking this thing open and now the old lady was being a roadblock.
“Why don’t you look again—”
“I don’t need to look again. Wasn’t him with that man. Him, I know from before. He was one of that bunch came broke my lamp.”
The old lady looked so smug and contrary that Holman was convinced she was jerking them around.
“For Christ’s sake, lady.”
Pollard held up a hand, warning him to stop.
“So think about that other man, Mrs. Marchenko. Try to remember what he looked like. He didn’t look like this man?”
“No.”
“Can you describe him?”
“He looked like a man. I don’t know. A dark suit, I think.”
Holman suddenly wondered if the fifth man might have been Vukovich.
“Did he have red hair?”
“He was wearing a hat. I don’t know. I told you, I not pay attention.”
Holman’s certainty at nailing Random fell apart like a dream shattered by an alarm clock. Holman was still on the run; Chee was still in jail; Maria Juarez was still a prisoner. Holman snatched the clipping from Pollard and stalked over to Mrs. Marchenko. She jerked backwards as if she thought he might hit her, but Holman didn’t care. He pointed at Random’s picture.
“Are you sure it wasn’t him?”
“Wasn’t him.”
“Max, stop it.”
“How about if I told you he was the sonofabitch who shot your son? Would it look like him then?”
Pollard pushed up from the couch, rigid and angry.
“That’s enough, Max. That’s it.”
Mrs. Marchenko’s bulldog face hardened.
“Was him? Was he the one killed Anton?”
Pollard took the clipping and pushed Holman toward the door.
“No, Mrs. Marchenko. I’m sorry. He didn’t have anything to do with Anton’s death.”
“Then why he say that? Why he say a thing like that?”
Holman stalked out of the house and didn’t stop until he reached the street. He felt like an asshole. He was angry and confused and ashamed of himself all over again, and when Pollard came out she looked furious.
Holman said, “I’m sorry. How could it not be Random? It had to be Random! He’s what ties this all together.”
“Shut up. Just stop. All right, so the fifth man wasn’t Random or Vukovich. We know he wasn’t your son or Mellon or Ash, but he had to be somebody.”
“Random had three or four other guys with him at that house. Maybe it was one of them. Maybe Random has the whole fucking police department working for him.”
“We still have Alison Whitt—”
She already had her cell phone out and was speed-dialing a number.
“If Random was her contact officer, we can still—”
She held up a hand, cutting him off as the person she called answered.
“Yeah, it’s me. What did you get on Alison Whitt?”
Holman waited, watching as Pollard stiffened. Holman knew it was bad even before Pollard lowered the phone. He could read it in the way her shoulders dipped. Pollard stared at him for a moment, then shook her head.
“Alison Whitt was not a registered informant with the Los Angeles Police Department.”
“So what do we do?”
Pollard didn’t answer right away. He knew she was thinking. He was thinking, too. He should have expected it. He knew better than to expect anything to work out.
Pollard finally answered.
“I have her arrest record at my house. I can see who the arresting officers were. Maybe we were wrong in thinking she was a registered informant. Maybe she was just feeding some guy on the sly and I’ll recognize a name.”
Holman smiled, and, again, it was more for himself than her. He took in the lines of her face and the way her hair fell, and remembered again the first time he saw her, pointing a gun at him in the bank.
“I’m sorry I got you into this.”
“We are not finished with this. We’re close, Max. Random is all over both sides of this crazy thing and all we need is the one missing piece to have it make sense.”
Holman nodded, but he felt only loss. He had tr
ied to play this the right way, the way you’re supposed to play it when you live within the law, but the right way hadn’t worked out.
“You’re a special person, Agent Pollard.”
Her face tightened and she was that young agent again.
“My name is Katherine. Call me by my goddamn name.”
Holman wanted to hold her again. He wanted to hold her close and kiss her, but doing so could only be wrong.
“Don’t help me anymore, Katherine. You’ll only get hurt.”
Holman started toward his car, and now Pollard followed him.
“Waitaminute. What are you going to do?”
“Get new stuff and drop off the grid. They had me and they’re going to come for me again. I can’t let that happen.”
He got into his car, but she stood inside the door and wouldn’t let him close it. Holman tried to ignore her. He wedged his screwdriver into the busted ignition and twisted it to start the engine. Pollard still didn’t get out of the way.
“What are you going to do for money?”
“Chee gave me some money. I have to go, Katherine. Please.”
“Holman!”
Holman looked up at her. Pollard stepped back, then closed the door. She leaned into the window and touched his lips with hers. Holman closed his eyes. He wanted it to go on forever, but knew, like every other good thing in his life, it would not last. When he opened his eyes again, she was watching him.
She said, “I’m not going to quit.”
Holman pulled away. He told himself not to look back. He had learned the hard way that looking back was when you got into trouble, so he told himself not to look, but he glanced in the mirror anyway and saw her in the street, watching him, this incredible woman who had almost been part of his life.
Holman wiped his eyes.