The Two Minute Rule

by Robert Crais

  Pollard nodded, but she wasn’t thinking about how Random was playing it. She waited stiffly at the door as they walked away, then turned to face the emptiness of her home. Pollard didn’t believe in coincidence. They taught it at Quantico and she had learned it over hundreds of investigations—coincidence did not occur.

  A tip from the Feeb.

  Pollard went to her bedroom and dragged a chair into her closet. She pulled the box from her high shelf, the highest shelf where the boys couldn’t reach, and took down her gun.

  Pollard knew she might have made a grave and serious mistake. Marki told them Whitt was a registered informant with a cop taking care of her, but “cop” didn’t necessarily mean a policeman and LAPD wasn’t the only law enforcement agency using registered informants. Sheriffs, Secret Service agents, U.S. Marshals, and ATF agents all thought of themselves as cops, and all of them employed registered informants.

  Alison Whitt could have been an informant for the FBI. And if she had—

  The fifth man was an FBI agent.

  Pollard hurried out into the heat and drove into Westwood.

  47

  REGISTERED INFORMANTS could be and often were integral in solving crimes and obtaining indictments. The information they provided and their methods of obtaining it were included as part of the legal record in investigators’ reports, writs, warrants, grand jury indictments, motions, briefs, and ultimately trials. The true names of informants were never used, as many of these documents were in the public record. In all such documents, the informant’s name was replaced by a number. This number was the informant’s code number, and the codes—along with investigators’ reports regarding the informant’s reliability and pay vouchers when informants were paid for their information—were held under lock and key to protect the anonymity of the informants. Where and how this list was safeguarded varied by agency, but no one was guarding nuclear launch codes; all an agent had to do was ask his boss for the key.

  Pollard had used informants only four times during her three years on the Squad. On each of those four occasions she had requested the Bank Squad’s informant list from Leeds and watched him open a locked file cabinet in which he stored the papers. Each time, he used a brass key taken from a small box he kept in his upper right-hand desk drawer. Pollard didn’t know if the box and the key and the file would be in their same places after eight years, but Sanders would know.

  The sky over Westwood was a brilliant clear blue when Pollard rolled into the parking lot. It was eight minutes after two. The black tower shimmered against the sky; an optical trick played by the sun.

  Pollard studied the tower. She tried telling herself this was the one-in-a-million chance when a coincidence was just a coincidence, but she didn’t believe it. Alison Whitt’s name was going to be on a form in Leeds’ office. The agent who recruited and used her was almost certainly responsible for murdering six people. That agent might be anyone.

  Pollard finally opened her phone to call Sanders. She needed a pass into the building, but Sanders did not answer. Her voice mail picked up on the first ring, indicating Sanders was probably at a crime scene interviewing fresh victims.

  Pollard cursed her bad luck, then dialed the Squad’s general number and waited as it rang. On days when the Squad was spread throughout L.A., a duty agent remained in the office to field incoming calls and attend to his or her paperwork. Whenever Pollard had been the duty agent she usually ignored the calls.

  “Bank Squad. Agent Delaney.”

  Pollard remembered the young agent she met with Bill Cecil. New guys always answered because they weren’t yet jaded.

  “This is Katherine Pollard. I met you up in the office with the donuts, remember?”

  “Oh, sure. Hi.”

  “I’m downstairs. Is April up there?”

  Pollard knew Sanders wasn’t in the office, but asking about Sanders was a setup for asking about Leeds. She had to find out if Leeds was in his office because Leeds controlled the list. Pollard wanted Leeds gone.

  Delaney said, “I haven’t seen her. I’m pretty much alone here. Everyone’s out on a call.”

  “How about Leeds?”

  “Um, he was here earlier—no, I don’t see him. It’s pretty busy today.”

  Pollard was relieved, but tried to sound disappointed.

  “Damn. Kev, listen—I have some things for Leeds I wanted to drop off along with a box of donuts for the Squad. Would you send down a badge?”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  “Great. I’ll see you in a minute.”

  Pollard had picked up a box of donuts from Stan’s to justify her visit to the office. She tucked her gun under the seat, then carried the donuts and her file into the building. She brought the file so she would have an excuse to enter Leeds’ office. Pollard waited for her escort like before, then rode up to the thirteenth floor.

  When she entered the squad area she scanned the room. Delaney was alone in a cubicle near the door. Pollard flashed a big smile at Delaney as she approached him.

  “Man, I used to hate having the duty. I think you need a donut.”

  Delaney fished a donut from the box, but seemed uncertain where to put it and had probably taken it only to be polite. His desk was covered in paperwork.

  Pollard said, “You want me to leave the box with you?”

  Delaney glanced at his desk, noting there was no place to put it.

  “Why don’t you leave it in the coffee room?”

  “You bet. I’m going to drop these things in Leeds’ office, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

  She gestured with the file so he would see it, then turned away. Pollard tried to move with an easy grace, as if her actions were expected and normal. She dropped off the donuts in the coffee room, then stole a glance at Delaney as she stepped back into the squad area. His head was down, busy with his work.

  Pollard went to Leeds’ office. She opened the door without hesitation and entered the dragon’s lair. Pollard had not been in Leeds’ office since the day she resigned, but it was as intimidating now as she remembered. Pictures of Leeds with every president since Nixon adorned the walls, along with an inscribed portrait of J. Edgar Hoover, who Leeds revered as an American hero. An actual Wanted poster of John Dillinger hung among the presidents, presented to Leeds by President Reagan.

  Pollard took in the office to get her bearings and was relieved to see the file cabinet was still in the corner and Leeds’ desk was unchanged. She hurried to the desk and opened the upper right-hand drawer. Several keys were now in the box, but Pollard recognized the brass key. Now she hurried to the cabinet, worried Delaney would start wondering why she was taking so long. She unlocked the cabinet, opened the drawer, and scanned through the file folders, which were divided alphabetically. She found the W’s, pulled out the folder, then searched through the files. Each file was labeled by the informant’s name and code number.

  She was still hoping this would be the one-in-a-million coincidence when she saw the name: Alison Carrie Whitt.

  Pollard opened the file to the cover sheet, which contained Alison Whitt’s identifying information. She scanned down the page, searching for the fifth man’s name—

  “What in the hell are you doing?”

  Pollard jerked at the sound of his voice. Leeds filled the door, his face furious.

  “Pollard, stand up! Get away from those files. Delaney! Get in here!”

  Pollard slowly stood, but she didn’t put down the file. Delaney appeared in the door behind Leeds. She studied them. Either of their names might be on the sheet, but she didn’t believe it would be Delaney. He was too new.

  Pollard pulled herself together. She stood tall and looked Leeds in the eye.

  “An agent in this office was involved in the murder of the four officers under the Fourth Street Bridge.”

  Even as she said it she thought: Leeds. It could be Leeds.

  He advanced toward her across the office, moving carefully.

  “Put down t
he file, Katherine. What you’re doing now is a federal crime.”

  “Murdering four police officers is a crime. So is murdering a registered federal informant named Alison Whitt—”

  Pollard held out the file.

  “Is she your informant, Chris?”

  Leeds glanced at Delaney, then hesitated. Delaney was her witness. Pollard went on.

  “She’s in your file—Alison Whitt. She was a friend of Marchenko’s. An agent in this office knew that because he knew her. That same agent was involved with Mike Fowler and the other officers in trying to find the sixteen million dollars.”

  Leeds glanced at Delaney again, but now Pollard read his hesitancy in a different light. He didn’t seem threatening; now, he was curious.

  “What kind of proof do you have?”

  She nodded toward the file with all of Holman’s notes and articles and documents.

  “It’s all in there. You can call an LAPD detective named Random. He’ll back me up. Alison Whitt was murdered on the same night as the four officers. She was murdered by the person named in her file.”

  Leeds stared at her.

  “You think it’s me, Katherine?”

  “I think it could be.”

  Leeds nodded, then slowly smiled.

  “Look.”

  Pollard skimmed the last few entries on the cover sheet until she found the name.

  The name she found was Special Agent William J. Cecil.

  Bill Cecil.

  One of the kindest men she had ever known.

  48

  HOLMAN CRUISED three mall parking lots before he found a red Jeep Cherokee similar to the one he had stolen. Swapping plates with the same make, model, and color vehicle was a trick Holman learned when he stole cars for a living—now if an officer checked Holman’s plate, the vehicle report wouldn’t show that his Jeep had been stolen.

  Holman switched the plates, then headed for Culver City. He did not like the idea of returning to his apartment, but he needed the money and the gun. He didn’t even have change to call Perry to see if anyone had come around. Holman kicked himself for not asking Pollard to loan him a few bucks, but it hadn’t occurred to him until later. And this stolen Jeep was clean. He searched the floorboards, seats, console, and cushions, and found nothing—not even trash.

  The lunch-hour crush was beginning to ease when Holman reached the Pacific Gardens. He circled the block, looking for loiterers and people waiting in parked cars. Pollard had made good points about the confusing nature of Random’s actions, but whatever their intentions Holman was certain they would come for him again. He circled the block twice more, then parked up the street, watching the motel for almost twenty minutes before he decided to make his move.

  Holman left the Jeep on the street alongside the motel and entered through the rear by Perry’s room. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, but heard and saw nothing unusual. Perry wasn’t at his desk.

  Holman moved back to Perry’s room and rapped lightly at the door. Inside the room, Perry answered.

  “What is it?”

  Holman kept his voice low.

  “It’s me. Open up.”

  Holman heard Perry cursing, but soon the door opened enough for Perry to see out. His pants were bunched around his thighs. Only Perry would answer a door this way.

  “I was on the goddamned crapper. What is it?”

  “Has anyone been here looking for me?”

  “Like who?”

  “Like anyone. I thought some people might come around.”

  “That woman?”

  “No, not her.”

  “I’ve been out there all mornin’ til my bowels started to move. I didn’t see anyone.”

  “Okay, Perry. Thanks.”

  Holman returned to the lobby, then crept up the stairs. When he reached the second floor, he checked the hall in both directions but the hall was empty. Holman didn’t stop at his room; he went directly to the utility closet and eased open the door. Holman pushed the mops out of the way and reached into the wall beneath the water valve. The wad of cash and the gun were still behind the pipe. Holman was fishing them out when the muzzle of a gun dug hard behind his left ear.

  “Leave go whatever you’ve got, boy. Nothing better come out of there but your hand.”

  Holman didn’t move. He didn’t even turn to look, but went rigid with his hand in the wall.

  “Pull that hand out slow and empty.”

  Holman showed his hand, opening his fingers wide so the man could see.

  “That’s good. Now stand there while I cop a feel.”

  The man felt Holman’s waist and his crotch and the seat of his pants, then checked down along the inside of his legs to his ankles.

  “All right then. You and I have a little problem, but we’re gonna work it out. Turn around slow.”

  Holman turned as the man stepped back, giving himself room to react if Holman tried something. Holman saw a bald light-skinned black man wearing a blue suit. The man slipped his pistol into his coat pocket, but held on to it, showing Holman it was ready to go. It took a minute before Holman recognized him.

  “I know you.”

  “That’s right. I helped put your ass away.”

  Holman remembered—FBI Special Agent Cecil had been with Pollard that day in the bank. Holman wondered if Pollard had sent him, but the way Cecil was holding the gun told him Cecil was not here as his friend.

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Here’s what we’re going to do—we’re going down those stairs like we’re the best buddies in the world. That old man down there says anything or tries to stop us, you tell him you’ll see him later and keep walking. We get outside, you’ll see a dark green Ford parked out front. You get in. You do anything but what I’m telling you, I’ll kill you in the street.”

  Cecil stepped out of the way and Holman went down the stairs and got into the Ford, wondering what was happening. He watched Cecil cross in front of the car, then get in behind the wheel. Cecil took the pistol from his pocket and held it in his lap with his left hand as he pulled away from the curb. Holman studied him. Cecil’s breath was fast and shallow and his face sheened with sweat. His eyes were large, darting between traffic and Holman like a man watching for snakes. He looked like a man who had stolen a car and was trying to get away.

  Holman said, “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Going to get us sixteen million dollars.”

  Holman tried to show nothing, but his right eye watered as the skin surrounding it flickered. Cecil was the fifth man. Cecil had killed Richie. Holman glanced at the gun. When he looked up Cecil was watching him.

  “Oh, yeah. Yeah, yeah, I was in with them, but I didn’t have anything to do with those killings. Me and your boy were partners until Juarez lost his mind. Sonofabitch went nuts killing everybody, figuring he could keep the money, I guess. That’s why I took him out. I took him out for killing those people.”

  Holman knew Cecil was lying. He saw it in how Cecil made eye contact, arching his eyebrows and nodding his head to fake sincerity. Fences and dope dealers had lied to Holman the same way a hundred times. Cecil was trying to play him, but Holman didn’t understand why. Something had driven Cecil into revealing himself and now the man clearly had a plan that included Holman.

  Images of Cecil under the bridge flashed in Holman’s head like a shotgun in the darkness: Cecil cutting loose at point-blank range, the white-gold plume, Richie falling…

  Holman glanced at the gun again, wondering if he could get it or push it aside. Holman wanted the sonofabitch—everything he had done since that morning in the CCC when Wally Figg told him Richie was dead had led to finding this man. If Holman could keep from being shot he might be able to punch Cecil out, but then where would he be? He would have to shoot Cecil right there or the cops would come and Cecil would flash his creds—who would they believe? Cecil would split while Holman was trying to talk himself out of a squad car.

  Holman thought he might be a
ble to jump out of the car before Cecil shot him. They had just turned onto Wilshire Boulevard, where traffic slowed.

  “You don’t have to jump. We get where we’re going, I’m gonna let you out.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Cecil laughed.

  “Holman, I’ve been hooking up guys like you for almost thirty years. I know what you’re going to think even before you think it.”

  “You know what I’m thinking right now?”

  “Yeah, but I won’t hold it against you.”

  “I’m thinking why the fuck are you still here if you have sixteen million dollars.”

  “Know where it is, just couldn’t get it. That’s where you come in.”

  Cecil took a cell phone from the console and dropped it in Holman’s lap.

  “Here. Call your boy Chee, see what’s shaking.”

  Holman caught the phone but did nothing. He stared at Cecil and now he felt a different kind of dread, one that had nothing to do with Richie.

  “Chee was arrested.”

  “You already know? Well, good, save us a call. Chee was in possession of six pounds of C-4. Among the evidence confiscated from that shithole he calls a body shop are the telephone numbers of two people suspected of being Al Qaeda sympathizers and the plans for building an improvised explosive device. You see where I’m going with this?”

  “You set him up.”

  “Ironclad, baby, ironclad. And only I know who planted that shit in his shop, so if you don’t help me get this goddamned money your boy is fucked.”

  Without warning, Cecil slammed on the brakes. The car screeched to a stop, throwing Holman into the dash. Horns blew and tires screamed behind them, but Cecil didn’t react. His eyes were hard black chips that stayed on Holman.

  “Do you get the picture?”

  More horns blew and people cursed, but Cecil’s eyes never wavered. Holman wondered if he was crazy.