The Two Minute Rule Part 36

Holman's heart started pounding again and he once more scanned the parking lot.

"What the f.u.c.k happened? Why did they arrest him?"

Raul lowered his voice like he didn't want Marisol to hear, but his voice became strained.

"I don't know what the f.u.c.k happened. They came in this morning with warrants, dogs, f.u.c.kin' a.s.sholes with machine guns--"

"The police?"

"LAPD, FBI, SWAT, even the f.u.c.kin' ATF--if it's in the alphabet they were here. They ate this s.h.i.t up and took his a.s.s in."

Holman's mouth had grown dry, but the phone was slippery in his grip. He watched the parking lot and forced himself to breathe.

"Was he hurt? Is he okay?"

"I don't know."

Holman almost shouted.

"Why don't you know? It's a simple G.o.dd.a.m.ned question."

"You think they let us stand around an' watch, muthuhf.u.c.kuh?! My a.s.s was p.r.o.ned out! They brought us here in the f.u.c.kin' office!"

"Okay, okay--take it easy. Warrants for what? What were they looking for?"

"a.s.sault rifles and explosives."

"Jesus Christ, what was Chee doing?"

"Nothin', bro! Chee's not into anything over here, f.u.c.kin' explosives! His daughter works here. You think he'd keep explosives? Chee won't even let us deal stolen air bags."

"But they arrested him?"

"h.e.l.l, yes. They put him in the car right in front of his daughter."

"Then they must have found something."

"I don't know what the f.u.c.k they found. They loaded some s.h.i.t into a truck. They had the f.u.c.kin' Bomb Squad here, Holman! They had those f.u.c.kin' dogs sniffin' everywhere, but we didn't have anything like that."

A computerized voice came on the line, telling Holman he had only one minute left. Holman was out of quarters. His time was running out.

Holman said, "I gotta go, but one more thing. Did they ask about me? Did they try to connect Chee with me in any way?"

Holman waited for the answer, but the line was already dead. Raul had hung up.

Holman put down the phone and studied the parking lot. He believed Chee had been set up, but he didn't understand why. Chee didn't know anything of value about Holman that couldn't be learned from Gail Manelli or Wally Figg or Tony Gilbert. Holman hadn't even told Chee about the missing sixteen million and his growing suspicions of a police conspiracy, but maybe someone thought he had; maybe someone thought Chee knew more than he did, and this was their way of trying to make him talk. Thinking about it made Holman's head hurt. Nothing made sense, so Holman stopped thinking about it. He had more immediate problems. No one was coming to give him a ride and more money and a car. Holman was on his own, and his only hope now was to reach Pollard. Reaching Pollard might be her only hope, too.

Holman went back to the Albertsons. He searched out the produce section, then headed for the rear of the store. Every produce section in every market in America had a swinging door in the back, through which produce clerks could push their carts laden with fruits and vegetables. Behind the door was always a refrigerated room into which the perishables were delivered and stored, and all such rooms had still more doors that opened onto loading docks.

Holman let himself out and was once more behind the shopping center. He returned to the Highlander, opened the rear cargo door, and pulled out the floor mats. The emergency tool kit had a screwdriver, pliers, and a jack handle. Holman hadn't stolen a car in a dozen years, but he still remembered how.

Holman went back to the parking lot.

Chapter 42.

WHEN POLLARD left Holman at the cemetery she climbed onto the freeway in a confused daze and headed for Chinatown, her head so busy she barely noticed the surrounding cars.

Pollard hadn't known what to expect when she followed Holman from Hollywood, but he had surprised her yet again. Here was Holman, who allowed himself to get pinched for bank robbery rather than let an old man die. Here was Holman, apologizing to his dead girlfriend for s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up their son. Pollard hadn't wanted to leave. She had wanted to stay, just hold his hand and comfort him and lose herself to her feelings.

Pollard's heart broke when Holman started crying, not so much for him as for herself. Here was Holman, and she knew she could love him. Now, driving away, she fought the frightening suspicion she already did.

Max Holman is a degenerate career criminal ex-con and former drug abuser with no education, no skills, and absolutely no legitimate prospects short of an endless series of minimum-wage jobs. He has no respect for Black Letter law and his only friends are known felons. He will almost certainly end up back in jail within the next year. I have two little boys. What kind of example would he set? What would my mother say? What would everyone say? What if he doesn't find me attractive?

Pollard arrived at the Pacific West Building in Chinatown forty-five minutes later where Alma Wantanabe, the Pac West operations officer, showed her to a windowless conference room on the third floor. Two inst.i.tutional blue boxes were waiting on a table.

Wantanabe explained that the LAPD summaries were divided into two distinct groups. One group consisted of divisional files specific to the robberies within those divisions--Newton Division Robbery detectives investigating robberies that had occurred in Newton. The second group of files was compiled by Robbery Special, who had synthesized the divisional reports into their larger, citywide investigation. Pollard knew from experience this was a function of resources. Though Robbery Special had been in charge of the citywide investigation, they employed divisional robbery detectives to pound the pavement on robberies in their local divisions. The divisional detectives then shipped their reports up the food chain to Robbery Special, who worked across divisional boundaries to coordinate and direct a Big Picture investigation.

Wantanabe cautioned her again not to remove or copy any material from the files, then left Pollard alone to work.

Pollard opened her own file for the cover-sheet copies Holman had made before Random confiscated the reports. The cover sheets told Pollard nothing except the case and witness numbers, and the witness numbers told her nothing without the identifying witness list: Case # 11-621 Witness # 318 Marchenko/Parsons Interview Summary Pollard hoped to identify the witnesses through the witness lists, then see what they had to say. She didn't know the source of the cover sheets, so she started with the box of divisional reports. She emptied the box, then methodically searched for witness lists. She found three lists, but it soon became apparent that the divisional numbering system did not match with her cover sheets. She put the divisional files aside and turned to the Parker Center reports.

Her interest spiked the instant she opened the second box. The first page was a case file introduction signed by the commander of Robbery Special and the two lead detectives in charge of the case. The second lead detective was John B. Random.

Pollard stared at his name. She knew Random from his investigation into the murder of the four police officers. She had a.s.sumed he was a homicide detective, yet here he was in charge of a robbery investigation. The same robbery that now overlapped with the murders.

Pollard flipped through the following reports until she found the witness list. It was a thirty-seven-page doc.u.ment listing three hundred forty-six numbered names beginning with witness number one, who was identified as a teller employed at the first bank Marchenko and Parsons robbed. The lowest witness number on Pollard's cover sheets was #318, followed in consecutive order by 319, 320, 321, 327, and 334. All of her witnesses had come late in the case.

Pollard began matching the numbers on her cover sheets to names, and immediately saw a pattern.

#318 was identified as Lawrence Trehorn, who managed the four-unit apartment building in Beachwood Canyon where Marchenko and Parsons lived.

The next three witnesses were their neighbors.

#327 was an attendant at the West Hollywood health club Marchenko visited.

And #334 was Anton Marchenko's mother.

Pollard located the individual summaries, but did not immediately read them. She checked for the names of the detectives who conducted the interviews. Random had signed off on Trehorn and Mrs. Marchenko, and Vukovich had signed off on one of the neighbors. Vukovich had been one of the officers with Random who confronted Holman outside his daughter-in-law's apartment--another detective investigating the murders who had also investigated Marchenko and Parsons.

Pollard thought about Fowler and the fifth man going to see Mrs. Marchenko. She wondered if Fowler had gone to see these other five people, also.

Pollard copied the names and contact information of the five new witnesses, then read through the summaries. She half suspected that at least one of the summaries would reference Alison Whitt, the Hollywood Sign, or the Mayan Grille, but the reports provided nothing except a list of people who were personally known to Marchenko and Parsons. Pollard decided this was the key. None of these summaries were specific to the actual robberies, but all were potentially relevant to establishing what Marchenko and Parsons had done with the money. This would have been why Richard Holman had them, but the questions remained: How had he gotten them and why had Random removed them from Richard's apartment? It was as if Random didn't want anyone to have proof that Fowler and his little group were trying to find the money.

When Pollard finished, she returned the summaries to the file in their proper order, then placed the files in their boxes. She kept thinking about Random taking the files. Pollard considered the possibility that Richard had gotten the files from Random, but something about this bothered her. Random knew what was in the summaries. If he was involved with Richard and Fowler, he could have told them what he knew--he didn't have to give them the files.

Pollard left the boxes on the table, then thanked Alma Wantanabe, who walked her to the elevators. As Pollard rode down, she checked her messages, but Sanders hadn't yet called. She felt a flash of frustration, then realized she had something almost as good with which to work--Mrs. Marchenko. If Random was the fifth man, Pollard did not need to see the informant list--Mrs. Marchenko would be able to identify him, which would put Random together with Fowler. Finding Alison Whitt's contact officer would then be icing on the cake.

Pollard decided to call Holman. She wanted to tell him what she had found, then go to Mrs. Marchenko. She was dialing his number when the elevator opened.

Holman was in the lobby, filthy and streaked with dried blood.

Chapter 43.

HOLMAN REMEMBERED she was going to the Pacific West Building, but he didn't know if she was still there or how to reach her and he had no money left to make a call. He didn't want to go to the building. If someone had followed Pollard from the cemetery Holman would be giving himself back to them, but he didn't know how else to reach her. Holman circled the building until he was scared he would miss her, then waited in the lobby like a nervous dog. He was about to leave when the elevator opened and Pollard stepped out. In that double-take moment when she saw him, her face went white.

"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 G.o.dd.a.m.n arrest. They f.u.c.kin' 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 f.u.c.kin' 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 ma.s.saged his arms.

"You're safe. You're with me now, and you're safe."

"Jesus, I was so f.u.c.kin' 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 bas.e.m.e.nt. 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?"