by Robert Crais
“Max, why don’t you tell Jacki what your daughter-in-law said? About the call he got that night.”
“My daughter-in-law told me your husband called. Richie was at home, but he got a call from your husband and went out to meet him and the other guys.”
She snorted.
“Well, Mike sure as hell didn’t call me. He was working that night. He had the dog shift. The way it was around here, he came home when he came home. He never showed me the courtesy to call.”
“I got the idea they were working on something.”
She grunted again and had more of the wine.
“They were drinking. Mike was a drunkard. You know the other two—Mellon and Ash? Mike had been their T.O., also.”
Now Pollard stared at Holman, and Holman shrugged.
“I didn’t know that.”
Pollard said, “Why don’t you show her the phone bills?”
Holman unfolded his copy of Richie’s phone bill.
Mrs. Fowler said, “What’s this?”
“My son’s phone bills for the past couple of months. You see the little red dots?”
“That’s Mike’s phone.”
“Yes, ma’am. Ash is the yellow dots and Mellon the green. Richie was calling your husband two or three times a day almost every day. He hardly ever called Ash or Mellon, but he talked to Mike a lot.”
She studied the bill as if reading the fine print in a lifetime contract, then pushed to her feet.
“I want to show you something. Just wait here. You sure you don’t want any wine?”
“Thanks, Mrs. Fowler, but I’ve been sober for ten years. I was a drunkard along with being a bank robber.”
She grunted again and walked away as if that had made no more impression on her than knowing he had been in prison.
Pollard said, “You’re doing fine.”
“I didn’t know about the training officer business.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’re doing fine.”
Mrs. Fowler came back shuffling through several papers and returned to her spot on the couch.
“Isn’t it strange you checked your son’s phone records? So did I. Not your son’s, I mean, but Mike’s.”
Pollard put down her wine. Holman saw that it was untouched.
Pollard said, “Had Mike said anything to make you suspicious?”
“It was the not saying anything that made me suspicious. He’d get these calls, not on the house line, but on his cell. He carried those damned cell phones all the time. The damn thing would ring and he’d leave—”
“What would he say?”
“He was going out. That’s all he would say, I’m going out. What was I to think? What would anyone think?”
Pollard leaned forward quietly.
“He was having an affair.”
“Fucking some whore is what I thought, pardon my French, so I decided to see who he was calling and who was calling him. See, here—on his cell phone bill—”
She finally found what she wanted and bent forward to show Holman the pages. Pollard came over and sat beside Holman to see. Holman recognized Richie’s home and cell phone numbers.
Mrs. Fowler said, “I didn’t recognize any of the numbers, so you know what I did?”
Pollard said, “You called the numbers?”
“That’s right. I thought he was calling women, but it was your son and Ash and Mellon. I wish I had thought of the little dots. I asked him what are you doing with these guys, fruiting off? I didn’t mean anything by that, Mr. Holman, I was just trying to be mean. You know what he said? He told me to mind my own business.”
Holman ignored her comment. Richie had been calling Fowler every day, but Fowler had also been calling Richie, Ash, and Mellon. It was clear they were doing more than lining up beer parties.
Mrs. Fowler was back in the anger of that moment and rolling on.
“I didn’t know what in hell they were doing. It made me angry, but I didn’t say much until I had to clean up after him, then I had had enough. He came home in the middle of the night tracking dirt all over the house. I didn’t find it until the next day and I was so mad. He didn’t even care enough to clean up after himself. That’s how little consideration he showed.”
Holman had no idea what she was talking about, so he asked her, wondering if it had anything to do with Richie.
Mrs. Fowler pushed to her feet again, but this time it took more of an effort.
“Come here. I’ll show you.”
They followed her out through the kitchen onto a small covered patio in the backyard. A dusty Weber grill was parked at the edge of the patio with a pair of Wolverine work boots on the ground beside it, caked with dirt and weeds. She pointed at them.
“Here—he clopped through the house in the middle of the night with these things. When I saw the mess I said, Have you lost your mind? I threw them out here and told him he could clean them himself. You should have seen the mess.”
Pollard stooped to look at the boots more closely.
“What night was that?”
She hesitated, frowning.
“I guess it was Thursday—two Thursdays ago.”
Five days before they were murdered. Holman wondered if Richie, Mellon, and Ash had also gone out that night. He told himself to ask Liz.
Pollard, reading his mind, stood.
“Was that a night when he went out with the others?”
“I didn’t ask and I don’t know. I told him if he hated being here so much he should get the hell out. I was fed up with the rudeness. I had had enough with the discourtesy, coming into my house like this and not even cleaning up after himself. We had a terrible fight and I don’t regret one word of it, not even now with him being dead.”
Then Pollard surprised him.
She said, “Did Mike ever mention the names Marchenko and Parsons?”
“No. Are they on the police?”
Pollard seemed to study her for a moment, then made the gentle smile.
“Just people Mike used to know. I thought he might have mentioned them.”
“Michael never told me a goddamned thing. It was like I didn’t exist.”
Pollard glanced back at Holman, then nodded toward the house, the gentle smile deadened by sadness.
“We should be going, Max.”
When they reached the front door, Jacki Fowler took Holman’s hand and held it an uncomfortably long time.
She said, “There’s more than one kind of prison, you know.”
Holman said, “Yes, ma’am. I’ve been there, too.”
19
HOLMAN WAS ANGRY and unsettled when they left. He had wanted to find a grieving widow with straightforward answers to explain his son’s death, but now he pictured Mike Fowler having secretive phone calls with his hand cupped over his mouth. He saw Fowler slipping from his home too early for the neighbors to see, then returning under cover of darkness. What were you doing, honey? Nothing. Where did you go? Nowhere. Holman had spent most of his life doing crime. Whatever had happened in the Fowler house felt like a crime in progress.
Pollard gunned her Subaru up the freeway on-ramp into the thickening traffic. The drive back would be ugly, but when Holman glanced at her, she was glowing as if a light had been turned on inside her.
Holman said, “What do you think?”
“Talk to your daughter-in-law. Ask if Richard went out the Thursday before they were shot and if she knows anything about where they went or what they did. Ask about the Frogtown connection, too. Don’t forget that.”
Holman was thinking he wanted to drop the whole thing.
“I wasn’t asking about that. You said it wasn’t up to the police to look for missing money.”
She jacked the Subaru between two tractor-trailers, diving for the diamond lane.
“It’s up to them, but recovering loot isn’t a front-burner priority. No one has time for that, Holman—we’re too busy trying to stop new crimes from happening.”
“If someone
found it, though—would they get a reward? A legal reward?”
“The banks award a recovery fee, yes, but policemen aren’t eligible.”
“Well, if they were doing it on their own time—”
She interrupted him.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. Deal with what you know, and right now all we know is Fowler tracked dirt in the house on Thursday night and didn’t give a shit what his wife thought about it. That’s all we know.”
“But I checked the call dates when she showed us her phone bills. All of the calling started on the eighth day after Marchenko and Parsons died, just like on Richie’s bill. Fowler called Richie and Mellon and Ash, one right after another. Like he was saying, hey, let’s go find some money.”
She straightened behind the wheel, crisp and sharp.
“Holman, listen—we’ve had exactly one interview with a woman who had a bad marriage. We don’t know what they were doing or why.”
“It feels like they were up to something. This isn’t what I wanted in my head.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”
Holman glanced at her and saw her frowning. She swerved out of the diamond lane to zoom around two women in a sedan, then cut them off when she dived back into the diamond lane ahead of them. Holman had never driven this fast unless he was high.
She said, “We don’t know enough for you to think any differently about your son, so stop it. You heard this depressed woman with her husband sneaking around and you know the money’s missing, so you’ve jumped to this conclusion. Maybe they just liked to hang out. Maybe this fascination with Marchenko and Parsons was just a hobby.”
Holman didn’t believe it and felt irritated that she was trying to cheer him up.
“That’s bullshit.”
“You’ve heard of the Black Dahlia? The unsolved homicide case?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“That case has become a hobby for a lot of detectives. So many LAPD dicks are into that case they got together and formed a club to talk over their theories.”
“I still think it’s bullshit.”
“Okay, forget it. But just because they were sneaking around doesn’t mean they were doing anything illegal. I can think of plenty of ways we might be able to tie what they were doing with Marchenko and Parsons and Juarez.”
Holman glanced at her, doubtful.
“How?”
“Did you read the obituaries for Fowler, Ash, and Mellon?”
“Just Richie’s.”
“If you had read Fowler’s, you’d know he spent two years on the CRASH unit—that’s Community Reaction Against Street Hoodlums, what the LAPD named their anti-gang unit. I’m going to call a friend of mine who used to run CRASH. I’ll ask him what kind of exposure Fowler had with Frogtown.”
“Fowler killed Juarez’s brother. Juarez and his brother were both in Frogtown.”
“Right, but maybe there’s a deeper connection. Remember when we talked about a possible insider connection to Marchenko and Parsons?”
“Yeah.”
“The real money is in the vault, but the amount of money in the vault varies during the week. People come in, cash their paychecks, and take the money away, right?”
“I know that. I used to rob banks, remember?”
“So once or twice a week, banks receive a shipment of new cash so they’ll have enough to meet the customer draw. You said you didn’t see how a couple of takeover hitters like Marchenko and Parsons could have an inside accomplice, but all it takes is someone who knows when the area branches are scheduled to receive their shipments—a secretary, somebody’s assistant, a Frogtown homegirl, say, and her boyfriend passes it along to Marchenko and Parsons to get cut in on the split.”
“But they hit different banks.”
“It only takes one inside job to have an insider, and then the Feeb and the cops are all over it. I’m just theorizing here, Holman, not jumping at conclusions. LAPD learns of a Frogtown connection, so they turn to the cops with Frogtown experience to develop or follow up leads—i.e., Fowler. That could explain how your son leaving his house to discuss Marchenko and Parsons with Fowler led to Warren Juarez.”
Holman felt a flicker of hope.
“You think?”
“No, I don’t think, but I want you to understand how little we know. When you’re asking your daughter-in-law about Thursday night, pick up the case reports your son had—the stuff he got from the Detective Bureau. You gave me the cover sheets, but I want to see what was in the reports. That should tell us what he was interested in.”
“Okay.”
“We’ll know more tomorrow when I start talking to people and read those reports. I could wrap this thing up with a couple more calls.”
Holman was surprised.
“You think that’s all it’ll take?”
“No, but it seemed like a good thing to say.”
Holman stared at her, then burst out laughing.
They came down through the Sepulveda Pass and into the darkening city. Holman watched Pollard maneuvering her car through the traffic.
He said, “Why do you drive so fast?”
“I have two little boys waiting for me at home. They’re with my mother, the poor kids.”
“What about your husband?”
“Let’s keep the personal stuff out of this, Max.”
Holman went back to watching the passing cars.
“One more thing—I know you said you didn’t want me to pay you, but my offer is still there. I never expected you to go to all this trouble.”
“If I asked you to pay, I’d be scared you would have to rob another bank.”
“I’d find another way. I’ll never rob another bank.”
Pollard glanced at him and Holman shrugged.
She said, “Can I ask you a question?”
“So long as it isn’t personal.”
Now Pollard laughed, but then her laugh faded.
“I put you away for ten years. How come you’re not pissed off at me?”
Holman thought about it.
“You gave me a chance to change.”
They rode in silence after that. The lights in the shadows were just beginning to twinkle.
20
PERRY WAS STILL at his desk when Holman let himself into the lobby. The old man’s leathery face twitched and trembled, so Holman read that something was wrong.
Perry said, “Hey, I want to talk to you.”
“You get your car back okay?”
Perry leaned forward, lacing and unlacing his fingers. His eyes were watery and nervous.
“Here’s the money I charged you, the sixty bucks, those three days for the car. Here it is right here.”
As Holman reached his desk, he saw the three twenties laid out face up, waiting for him. Perry unlaced his fingers and pushed the three bills toward him.
Holman said, “What’s this?”
“The sixty you paid for my car. You can have it back.”
Holman wondered what in hell Perry was doing with the money laid out like that, the three Jacksons staring up at him.
“You’re giving back the money?”
“Yeah. Here it is. Take the goddamned money back.”
Holman still didn’t move for the money. He looked at Perry. The old man looked worried, but angry, too.
Holman said, “Why are you giving this back?”
“Those wetbacks said to give it back, so you tell’m I did.”
“The guys who brought back your car?”
“When they come in here to give me the keys, those gangbanging motherfuckers. I was doing you a favor, man, renting out that car, I wasn’t trying to rip you off. Those bastards said I should give back your cash else they’d fuck me up good, so here, you take it.”
Holman stared at the money but didn’t touch it.
“We had a deal, fair and square. You keep it.”
“No, uh-uh, you gotta take it back. I don’t want that kind of trouble
in my house.”
“That’s your money, Perry. I’ll straighten it out with those guys.”
He would have to talk to Chee in the morning.
“I don’t appreciate two hoodlums comin’ in here like that.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with it. We had a deal, fair and square. I wouldn’t send two goons to shake you down for sixty bucks.”
“Well, I don’t appreciate it, is all. I’m just telling you. If you thought I was ripping you off, you should’ve said so.”
Holman knew the harm had been done. Perry didn’t believe him and probably would always be afraid of him.
“Keep the money, Perry. I’m sorry this happened.”
Holman left the sixty dollars on Perry’s desk and went up to his room. The clunky old window unit had the place like a deep freeze. He looked at Richie’s picture on the bureau, eight years old and smiling. He still had a bad feeling in his stomach that Pollard’s pep talk hadn’t been able to shake.
He turned off the air conditioner, then went downstairs again, hoping to catch Perry still at his desk.
Perry was locking the front door, but stopped when he saw Holman.
Perry said, “That sixty is still on the desk.”
“Then put it in your goddamned pocket. I wouldn’t have you shaken down. My son was a police officer. What would he think if I did something like that?”
“I guess he’d think it was pretty damned low.”
“I guess he would. You keep that sixty. It’s yours.”
Holman went back upstairs and climbed into bed, telling himself that Richie sure as hell would think it was low, shaking an old man for sixty damned dollars.
But saying it didn’t make it so, and sleep did not come.
PART THREE
21
POLLARD HAD NEVER been good in the morning. Every morning for as long as she could remember—months, maybe years—she woke feeling depleted, and dreading the pain of beginning her day. She drank two cups of black coffee just to give herself a pulse.
But when Pollard woke that morning, she jumped her alarm by more than an hour and immediately went to the little desk she had shared with Marty. She had stayed up the night before until almost two, comparing numbers and call times between Fowler’s and Richard Holman’s phone bills, and searching the Internet for information about Marchenko and Parsons. She had reread and organized the material Holman had given her, but was frustrated by not having the complete LAPD reports. She hoped Holman would get them from his daughter-in-law soon. Pollard admired Holman’s commitment to his son. She felt a sudden sense of satisfaction that she had spoken on his behalf to the Assistant U.S. Attorney all those years ago. Leeds had been pissed for a month and a couple of the more cynical agents had told her she was an asshole, but Pollard thought the guy had earned a break, and she felt even more strongly about it now. Holman had been a career criminal, but the evidence suggested he was basically a decent guy.
