by Robert Crais
Holman had been spiraling down into the inevitable funk, but when he glanced over he saw Pollard smiling.
She said, “I can’t believe you went back to fix her fan.”
Holman shrugged.
“That was cool, Holman. That was very, very cool.”
Holman watched Union Station swing into view and realized he was smiling, too.
31
HOLMAN DIDN’T immediately leave Union Station when Pollard dropped him off. He waited until she had gone, then walked across to Olvera Street. A Mexican dance troop garbed in brilliant feathers was performing Toltec dances to the rhythms of a beating drum. The drumbeats were fast and primitive, and the dancers soared around each other so quickly they appeared to be flying.
Holman watched for a while, then bought a churro and moved through the crowd. Tourists from all over the world crowded the alleys and shops, buying sombreros and Mexican handicrafts. Holman drifted among them. He breathed the air and felt the sun and enjoyed the churro. He wandered along a row of shops, stopping in some when the notion struck him and bypassing others. Holman felt a lightness he hadn’t known in a while. When long-term convicts were first released they often experienced a form of agoraphobia—a fear of open spaces. The prison counselors had a special name for this type of agoraphobia when they attributed it to convicts—the fear of life. Freedom gave a man choices and choices could be terrifying. Every choice was a potential failure. Every choice could be another step back toward prison. Choices as simple as leaving a room or asking for directions could leave a man humiliated and unable to act. But now Holman felt the lightness and knew he was putting the fear behind him. He was becoming free again and it felt good.
It occurred to him he could have asked Pollard to join him for lunch. Since she wasn’t letting him pay for her time he should have offered to buy her a sandwich. He imagined the two of them having a French Dip at Philippe’s or a taco plate at one of the Mexican restaurants, but then he realized he was being stupid. She would have taken it wrong and probably wouldn’t have seen him again. Holman told himself to be careful with stuff like that. Maybe he wasn’t as free as he thought.
Holman no longer felt hungry, so he picked up his car and was heading for home when his phone rang. He hoped it was Pollard, but the caller ID window showed it was Chee. Holman opened the phone.
“Hey, bro.”
“Where are you, Holman?”
Chee’s voice was quiet.
“On my way home. I just left Union Station.”
“Come see me, bro. Drop around the shop.”
Holman wasn’t liking how Chee sounded.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Just come see me, okay?”
Holman was certain that something was wrong and he wondered if it had to do with Random.
“Are you all right?”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Chee hung up without waiting for an answer.
Holman picked up the freeway and headed south. He wanted to call Chee back, but he knew Chee would have already told him if he wanted to say it over the phone, and that worried him even more.
When he reached Chee’s shop he pulled into the lot and was parking his car when Chee came out. As soon as Holman saw him he knew it was bad. Chee’s face was grim, and he didn’t wait for Holman to park. He motioned Holman to stop, then climbed into the passenger seat.
“Let’s take a little drive, bro. Swing on around the block.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Just drive, bro. Get away from this place.”
As they pulled into traffic, Chee swiveled his head left and right as if searching the surrounding cars. He adjusted the outside passenger mirror so he could see behind them.
He said, “It was the cops told you Maria Juarez went on the run?”
“Yeah. They put out a warrant.”
“That’s bullshit, man. They fed you bullshit.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She didn’t go on the run, bro. The fuckin’ cops took her.”
“They said she split. They put out a warrant.”
“Night before last?”
“Yeah, it would’ve been—yeah, the night before last.”
“Their warrant can kiss my ass. They bagged her in the middle of the night. Some people over there, they saw it happen, ese. They heard the noise and saw these two muthuhfuckuhs shove her in a car.”
“A police car?”
“A car car.”
“How do they know it was the police?”
“It was that red-haired guy, homes—that same fuckin’ guy who jumped you. That’s how they know. These are the people who told me that you got bagged, homes! They said it was the same fuckin’ guy who grabbed you.”
Holman drove in silence for a while. The red-haired man was Vukovich, and Vukovich worked for Random.
“They get the plate?”
“No, man, that time of night?”
“What kind of car?”
“Dark blue or brown Crown Victoria. You tell me anyone who drives a Crown Vic but the cops?”
Holman fell silent, and Chee shook his head.
“What the fuck are those cops doin’, homes? What you got into?”
Holman kept driving. He was thinking. He had to tell Pollard.
32
POLLARD CALLED IT the blood tingle. She blasted up the Hollywood Freeway, high-fiving the dashboard and pumping her fist, feeling the electric buzz in her fingers and legs that had always come with making a breakthrough in a case—the blood tingle. Now she wasn’t just covering someone else’s old case notes—the girlfriend was new. Pollard had turned a new lead and now the investigation felt totally hers.
She called April Sanders as she hit Hollywood and climbed the Cahuenga Pass.
“Hey, girl, can you talk?”
April came back whispering so softly Pollard could barely understand.
“Office. You got more donuts?”
“I have an out-of-service phone number and I’m in my car. Can you pull the subscriber for me?”
“Yeah, I think—hang on.”
Pollard smiled. She knew Sanders would be peeking out of her cubicle to make sure she wasn’t being watched.
“Yeah, sure. What is it?”
Pollard read off the number.
“Three-ten area code.”
“Stand by. I show a Verizon account for one Alison Whitt, W-HI-T-T, billed to what looks like a Hollywood POB. You want it?”
“Yeah. Go.”
The address appeared to be a private mailbox service on Sunset Boulevard.
“What was the date of termination?”
“Last week…six days ago.”
Pollard thought about it. If Fowler had discovered her number at about the time he visited Leyla Marchenko he would have been able to contact her. Maybe Fowler’s contact is why she dropped the number.
“April, see if she has a new listing.”
“Ah…hang on. No, negative. No Alison Whitt in the listings.”
Pollard found the absence of a new listing notable but not unusual. Unlisted numbers didn’t show on the regular database, so Whitt’s new number might be unlisted. Also, it was possible Whitt had taken a number under a different name or was sharing a phone billed to another party. The bad news was that none of this would help Pollard find her.
“Listen, one more thing. I hate to ask, but could you check this girl in the system?”
“The NCIC?”
“Whatever. The DMV should be fine. I’m trying to find her.”
“Is this something I should know about?”
“If it turns out to be I’ll let you know.”
Sanders hesitated, and Pollard thought she might be peeking at the office again. Running a government database check couldn’t be handled at her desk. Sanders returned to the line.
“I can’t right now. Leeds is here but I can’t see him. I don’t want him to ask what I’m doing.”
“
So call me later.”
“Out.”
Pollard felt good about the progress she was making. The disconnection of Alison’s phone number so close in time to Fowler’s questioning of Mrs. Marchenko was too coincidental. Coincidences occurred, but, like all cops, Pollard had learned to be suspicious of them. She put down her phone, anxious to go through Fowler’s phone records and hear back from Sanders. If Sanders struck out, Pollard knew she could try for contact information through the mailbox service. Learning anything from the mail service would be difficult without her creds, but it left her an avenue for investigation and she found herself smiling again.
Pollard knew she might not hear back from Sanders until the end of the day, so she had her car washed, then went to Ralphs. She stocked up on food and toilet paper and bought extra treats for the boys. They ate like starving wolves and seemed to eat more every day. She found herself wondering if Holman had once bought boxes of Jujubes for his little boy, and suspected that no, he hadn’t. This left her feeling sad. Holman seemed like a pretty good guy now that she had gotten to know him, but she also knew he had been a criminal for much of his life. Every thug she ever arrested had a story—debt, drug addiction, abusive parents, no parents, learning disabilities, poverty, whatever. None of that mattered. All that mattered was whether or not you broke the law. If you did the crime, you did the time, and Holman had done the time. Pollard thought it was a shame he hadn’t had a second chance with his son.
Once she had the groceries away, she straightened the house, then sat on her living room couch with Fowler’s phone bills. She read through the outgoing numbers beginning with the date Fowler visited Mrs. Marchenko and found Alison Whitt’s phone number only a few days later. Fowler had called her on the same Thursday he and Holman’s son went out late and came home muddy. Fowler had called her, but Mrs. Marchenko claimed she did not give Fowler any information about Allie, which meant Fowler had gotten her number from another source. Pollard read through the rest of Fowler’s bills, but the Thursday call was the only time he called her. Pollard searched through Richard Holman’s bills next, but found nothing.
Pollard wondered how Fowler had learned about Alison Whitt. She reviewed the FBI’s witness list. The summaries referenced Marchenko’s landlord and neighbors, but did not include anyone named Alison Whitt. If one of the neighbors reported that Marchenko or Parsons had a girlfriend, the investigators would have followed the trail and named her in the witness list, but just the opposite had occurred—the neighbors uniformly stated that neither man had friends, girlfriends, or other visitors to their apartment. Yet somehow Fowler had learned of Whitt before he visited Mrs. Marchenko. Maybe the fifth man had known. Maybe the fifth man’s phone number was somewhere in Fowler’s bills.
Pollard was still thinking about it when her doorbell rang. She pushed the papers together, went to the door, and squinted through the peephole. It was still too early for her mother to bring the boys home.
Leeds and Bill Cecil were at the door, Leeds scowling at something down the street. He didn’t look happy. He frowned at his watch, rubbed his chin, then rang her bell again.
Though Cecil had been to her home on several occasions when she and Marty entertained, Leeds had never been to her house. She had not seen him outside the office since she left the Feeb.
He was reaching to ring the bell again when Pollard opened the door.
“Chris, Bill, this is—what a surprise.”
Leeds didn’t look particularly happy to see her. His blue suit hung loose off his hunched frame and he towered over her like a spindly scarecrow who no longer liked his job. Cecil stood a halfstep behind him, expressionless.
Leeds said, “I would think so. May we come in?”
“Of course. Absolutely.”
She stepped out of the way to let them in, but she didn’t know what to do or say. Leeds entered first. As Cecil passed, he raised his eyebrows, warning her Leeds was in a mood. Pollard moved to join Leeds in the living room.
“I’m stunned. Were you in the area?”
“No, I came up here to see you. This is very nice, Katherine. You have a lovely home. Are your boys here?”
“No. They’re at camp.”
“Too bad. I would have liked to meet them.”
Pollard felt the creepy sensation of being a child again in the presence of her father. Leeds looked around as if he was inspecting her house, while Cecil stood just inside the door. Leeds finished his slow tour of the living room and settled on her like a sinking ship finding rest on the bottom.
He said, “Have you lost your mind?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why on earth would you get involved with a convicted criminal?”
Pollard felt the blood rush to her face as her stomach knotted. She started to open her mouth, but he shook his head, stopping her.
“I know you’re helping Max Holman.”
She had been about to deny it, but she lied.
“I wasn’t going to deny it. Chris, he lost his son. He asked me to talk to the police about it—”
“I know about his son. Katherine, the man is a criminal. You should know better than this.”
“Than what? I don’t know why you’re here, Chris.”
“Because you were on my team for three years. I picked you and I was goddamned pissed off to lose you. I could never forgive myself if I let you do this to yourself without speaking up.”
“Do what? Chris, I’m just trying to help the man get answers about his son.”
Leeds shook his head as if she was the dumbest rookie alive and he could see right through her into the creases and folds of her innermost secrets.
He said, “Have you gone Indian?”
Pollard felt a fresh surge of blood brighten her face. It was an old expression. A cop went Indian when he turned crooked…or fell in love with a crook.
“No!”
“I hope to hell not.”
“This is really none of your business—”
“Your personal life is absolutely none of my business, yes, you’re right—but I still give a damn so here I am. Have you let him into your home? Have you exposed your children to him or given him money?”
“Chris? You know what? You should go—”
Cecil said, “Maybe we should leave now, Chris.”
“When I’m finished.”
Leeds didn’t move. He stared at Pollard, and Pollard suddenly remembered the papers on her couch. She edged toward the door to draw his eye away.
“I’m not doing anything wrong. I haven’t broken any laws or done anything my children would be ashamed of.”
Leeds placed his palms together as if he was praying and tipped his fingers at her.
“Do you really know what this man wants?”
“He wants to know who killed his son.”
“But is that really what he wants? I’ve spoken with the police—I know what he’s told them and I’m sure he’s told you the same thing, but can you be sure? You put him in prison for ten years. Why would he turn to you for help?”
“Maybe because I got his sentence reduced.”
“And maybe he sought you out because he knew you were soft. Maybe he thought he could use you again.”
Pollard felt a growing tickle of anger. Leeds had been furious when the Times dubbed Holman the Hero Bandit, and he had been livid at her for speaking in Holman’s favor with the U.S. Attorney.
“He didn’t use me. We didn’t discuss it and he didn’t ask me to intervene. He earned that reduction.”
“He isn’t telling you the truth, Katherine. You can’t trust him.”
“What isn’t he telling me the truth about?”
“The police believe he’s consorting with a convicted felon and active gang member named Gary Moreno, also known as Little Chee or L’Chee. Ring a bell?”
“No.”
Pollard was growing scared. She sensed Leeds was directing the conversation. He was judging her reactions and trying to read her as if he
suspected she was lying.
“Ask him. Moreno and Holman were known associates throughout Holman’s career. The police believe Moreno has funded Holman with cash, a vehicle, and other items for use in a criminal enterprise.”
Pollard tried to keep her breath even. Here was Holman fresh out of prison with a brand-new car and cell phone. Holman had told her a friend loaned him the car.
“Why?”
“You know why. You can feel it. Here—”
Leeds touched his stomach, then gave her the answer.
“To recover the sixteen million dollars stolen by Marchenko and Parsons.”
Pollard worked to show nothing. She didn’t want to admit anything until she had time to think. If Leeds was right, she might need to talk with a lawyer.
“I don’t believe it. He didn’t even know about the money until—”
Pollard realized she was already saying too much when Leeds gave her a sad but knowing smile.
“You told him?”
She forced herself to take a slow breath, but Leeds seemed able to see her fears.
“It’s difficult to think when your emotions are involved, but you need to rethink this, Katherine.”
“My emotions aren’t involved.”
“You felt something for the man ten years ago and now you’ve let him back into your life. Don’t lose yourself to this man, Katherine. You know better than that.”
“I know I would like you to leave.”
Pollard kept her face even, staring at him when the phone rang. Not her house phone, but the cell. The loud chirp broke the silence like a stranger entering the room.
Leeds said, “Answer it.”
Pollard didn’t move toward the phone. It sat on the couch near the file with Holman’s papers, ringing.
“Please go. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
Cecil looked embarrassed and went to the door. He opened it, trying to get Leeds out of her house.
“Come on, Chris. You’ve said what you wanted to say.”
The phone rang. Leeds studied it as if he was thinking of answering it himself, but then he joined Cecil at the door. He looked back at her.
