The Two Minute Rule

by Robert Crais

  A voice crackled from one of the radios.

  “Pollard?”

  Cecil said, “Hey, lady, that’s the boss.”

  It was Leeds on the FBI channel.

  Pollard dropped into her car and scooped up the radio.

  “Hey, boss, I’m up.”

  “LAPD wants their people on something else. I agree. I’m pulling the plug on this.”

  Pollard glanced at Cecil, but he only shrugged and shook his head. Pollard had been dreading this moment. Forty-two known serial bank robbers were operating in the city. Many of them used violence and guns, and most of them had robbed way more banks than the Beach Bum.

  “Boss, he’s going to hit one of my banks. Every day he hasn’t drives up the odds that he will. We just need a little more time.”

  Pollard had patterned most of the serial bandits operating in Los Angeles. She believed the Beach Bum’s pattern was more obvious than most. The banks he hit all were located at major surface intersections and had easy access to two freeways; none employed security guards, Plexiglas barriers, or bandit-trap entry doors; and all of his robberies had followed a progressive counterclockwise route along the L.A. freeway system. Pollard believed his next target would be near the Ventura/Hollywood split, and had identified six banks as likely targets. The rolling stakeout she now oversaw covered those six banks.

  Leeds said, “He isn’t important enough. LAPD wants their people on gunslingers and I can’t afford to have you and Cecil tied up any longer, either. The Rock Stars hit in Torrance today.”

  Pollard felt her heart sink. The Rock Stars were a takeover crew who got their name because one of them sang during their robberies. It sounded silly until you knew the singer was stoned out of his mind and strumming a MAC-10 machine pistol. The Rock Stars had killed two people during sixteen robberies.

  Cecil took the radio.

  “Give the girl one more day, boss. She’s earned it.”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s done, Katherine. The plug has been pulled.”

  Pollard was trying to decide what else to say when the second radio popped to life. The second radio was linked with Jay Dugan, the LAPD surveillance team leader assigned to the stakeout.

  “Two-eleven in progress at First United. It’s going down.”

  Pollard dropped the FBI radio into Cecil’s lap and snatched up her stopwatch. She hit the timer button, started her car, then radioed back to Dugan.

  “Time on the lead?”

  “Minute thirty plus ten. We’re rolling.”

  Cecil was already filling in Leeds.

  “It’s happening, Chris. We’re rolling out now. Go, lady—drive this thing.”

  The First United California Bank was only four blocks away, but the traffic was heavy. The Beach Bum had at least a ninety-second jump on them and might already be exiting the bank.

  Pollard dropped her car into gear and jerked into the traffic.

  “Time out, Jay?”

  “We’re six blocks out. Gonna be close.”

  Pollard steered through traffic with one hand, blowing her horn. She drove hard toward the bank, praying they would get there in time.

  Holman watched the teller empty her drawers one by one into the bag. She was stalling.

  “Faster.”

  She picked up the pace.

  Holman glanced at the time and smiled. The second hand swept through seventy seconds. He would be out in less than two minutes.

  The teller pushed the last of the cash into the bag. She was being careful not to make eye contact with the other tellers. When the last of the cash was in the bag, she waited for his instructions.

  Holman said, “Cool. Just slide it across to me. Don’t shout and don’t tell anyone until I’m out the door.”

  She slid the bag toward him exactly as Holman wanted, but that’s when the bank manager brought over a credit slip. The manager saw the paper bag and the teller’s expression, and that was all she needed to know. She froze. She didn’t scream or try to stop him, but Holman could tell she was scared.

  He said, “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  “Take it and go. Please don’t hurt anyone.”

  The old man in the pink shirt had finished his transaction. He was passing behind Holman when the manager asked Holman not to hurt anyone. The old man turned to see what was happening and, like the manager, realized that the bank was being robbed. Unlike the manager, he shouted—

  “We’re being robbed!”

  His face turned bright red, then he clutched his chest and made an agonized gurgle.

  Holman said, “Hey.”

  The old man stumbled backwards and fell. When he hit the floor his eyes rolled and the gurgle turned into a fading sigh.

  The loud woman in the muumuu screamed, “Oh my God!”

  Holman snatched up the money and started toward the door, but no one was moving to help the old man.

  The large woman said, “I think he’s dead! Someone call nine-one-one! I think he’s dead!”

  Holman ran to the door, but then he looked back again. The old man’s red face was now dark purple and he was motionless. Holman knew the old man had suffered a heart attack.

  Holman said, “Goddamnit, don’t any of you people know CPR? Someone help him!”

  No one moved.

  Holman knew the time was slipping away. He was already over the two-minute mark and falling farther behind. He turned back toward the door, but he just couldn’t do it. No one was trying to help.

  Holman ran back to the old man, dropped to the ground, and went to work saving his life. Holman was still blowing into the old man’s mouth when a woman with a gun ran into the bank, followed by this inhumanly wide bald guy. The woman identified herself as an FBI agent and told Holman he was under arrest.

  Between breaths, Holman said, “You want me to stop?”

  The woman then lowered her gun.

  “No,” she said. “You’re doing fine.”

  Holman kept up the CPR until the ambulance arrived. He had violated the two minute rule by three minutes and forty-six seconds.

  The old man survived.

  PART FOUR

  35

  HOLMAN WAS doing push-ups when someone knocked at his door. He was mechanically grinding them out, one after another, and had been for most of the morning. He had left two more messages on Pollard’s phone the previous evening and was working up his nut to call again. When he heard the knock he figured it was Perry. No one else ever came to his door.

  “Hang on.”

  Holman pulled on his pants, opened the door, but instead of Perry he found Pollard. He didn’t know what to make of Pollard showing up like this, so he stared at her, surprised.

  She said, “We need to talk.”

  She wasn’t smiling. She seemed irritated, and she was holding the folder with all the papers he had given her. Holman suddenly realized he was shirtless with his flabby, sweaty white skin, and wished he had pulled on a shirt.

  “I thought you were someone else.”

  “Let me in, Holman. We have to talk about this.”

  Holman backed out of the door to let her pass, then glanced into the hall. Perry’s head disappeared behind the far corner. Holman turned back into his room, but left the door open. He felt embarrassed by his appearance and the shitty room and thought for sure she wouldn’t feel comfortable being inside alone with him. He pulled on a T-shirt to hide himself.

  “You get my messages?”

  She went back to the door and closed it, but stood with her hand on the knob.

  “I did, and I want to ask you something. What are you going to do with the money?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “If we find the sixteen million. What do you want to do?”

  Holman stared at her. She looked serious. Her face was intent, with her mouth pooched into a tight little knot. She looked like she had come to cut up the pie.

  Holman said, “Are you kidding me?”


  “I’m not kidding.”

  Holman studied her a moment longer, then sat on the edge of his bed. He pulled on his shoes just to give himself something to do even though he needed a shower.

  “I just want to find out what happened to my boy. We find that money, you can have it. I don’t care what you do with it.”

  Holman couldn’t tell if she was disappointed or relieved. Either way, he didn’t give a damn except he still wanted her help.

  “Listen, you want to keep it, I won’t rat you out. But just one thing—I won’t let the money keep me from finding Richie’s killer. If it gets down to a choice—keeping that money or finding out what happened—then that money is going back.”

  “What about your friend, Moreno?”

  “Did you listen to my messages? Yes, he loaned me the car. What’s the big deal with that?”

  “Maybe he expects a cut.”

  Holman was growing irritated.

  “What’s up with you and Moreno? How’d you hear about him?”

  “Just answer my question.”

  “You haven’t asked a goddamned question. I never mentioned the money to him, but I don’t give a rat’s ass if he keeps it, either. What do you think we’re doing, planning a capital crime?”

  “What I think is the police have put you and Moreno together. How would they come to do that?”

  “I’ve been over to see him three or four times. Maybe they have him under surveillance.”

  “Why would they be watching him if he’s gone straight?”

  “Maybe they figured out he helped me find Maria Juarez.”

  “Are he and Juarez connected?”

  “I asked him to help. Listen, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you Chee loaned me the fucking car. I’m not looking for the money—I’m looking for the sonofabitch who killed my son.”

  Holman finished with his shoes and looked at her. She was still staring at him, so he stared back. He knew she was trying to read him, but he wasn’t sure why. She finally seemed to make up her mind and let go of the knob.

  “Nobody’s keeping that money. If we find it, we’re turning it in.”

  “Fine.”

  “You good with that?”

  “I said it was fine.”

  “Your friend Chee good?”

  “He loaned me the goddamned car. So far as I know he doesn’t even know about the money. You want to go see him, we’ll go. You can ask him yourself.”

  Pollard studied him a moment longer, then took several sheets from the folder.

  “Marchenko’s girlfriend was named Alison Whitt. She was a prostitute.”

  Pollard brought over the sheets and handed them to him. Holman scanned the top sheet as Pollard talked and saw it was a copy of an LAPD records and identification document on a white female named Alison Whitt. The black-and-white reproduction of her booking photo was crude, but she looked like a kid—midwestern-fresh with light sandy hair.

  “Approximately two hours before your son and the other three officers were murdered, Whitt was murdered, too.”

  Pollard continued but Holman no longer heard what she was saying. Pictures were snapping through his mind that drowned her out and left him afraid: Fowler and Richie in a dark alley, faces lit by the flashes of their guns. Holman barely heard himself speak.

  “Did they kill her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Holman clenched his eyes, then opened them, trying to stop the pictures, but Richie’s face only grew larger, lit by the silent flash of his pistol as Pollard went on.

  “Fowler called her on the Thursday they came back with the dirt. They spoke for twelve minutes that afternoon. That night was the night Fowler and Richard were out late and came back with dirty shoes.”

  Holman stood and went around his bed to the air conditioner, trying to walk away from the nightmare in his head. He focused on the picture of eight-year-old Richie on his dresser, not yet a thief and a killer.

  “They killed her. She told them where the money was or maybe she lied or whatever and they killed her.”

  “Don’t go there yet, Holman. The police are concentrating on johns and customers she might have met on her day job. The hooking was just a sometimes thing—she was a waitress at a place on Sunset called the Mayan Grille.”

  “That’s bullshit. That’s too coincidental, her getting killed on the same night like that.”

  “I think it’s bullshit, too, but the guys running this case probably don’t know about her connection with Marchenko. Don’t forget the fifth man. We have five people in Fowler’s group now, and only four of them are dead. The fifth man could be the shooter.”

  Holman had forgotten about the fifth man, but now he grabbed on to the thought like a life preserver. The fifth man had been trying to find Allie, too, and now everyone else was dead. He suddenly remembered Maria Juarez.

  “Did you find out about Juarez’s wife?”

  “I talked to a friend this morning. LAPD still maintains she fled.”

  “She didn’t flee; she was taken. That guy who grabbed me took her—Vukovich—he works with Random.”

  “My friend is following up. She’s trying to get the videotape Maria made of her husband. I know you told me Random said it was faked, but our people can examine it, too, and we have the best people in the world.”

  Our. Like she was still with the Fed.

  Holman said, “You’re still going to help me?”

  She hesitated, then turned back to the door with her file.

  “You’d better not be lying to me.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “You’d better not be. Get yourself cleaned up. I’ll be downstairs in the car.”

  Holman watched Pollard let herself out, then hurried into the shower.

  36

  THE MAYAN GRILLE was a small diner on Sunset near Fairfax that served only breakfast and lunch. Business was good. People were waiting on the sidewalk and the outside tables were packed with young, good-looking people eating pancakes and omelets. Holman hated the place as soon as he saw it and he hated the people outside. He didn’t think about it much at the time, but just looking at them filled him with disgust.

  Holman hadn’t spoken as they drove toward the Mayan Grille. He had pretended to listen as Pollard filled him in about Alison Whitt, but mostly he thought about Richie. He wondered if criminal tendencies were inherited as Donna once feared or if a lousy home life could drive someone to crime. Either way, Holman figured the responsibility came back to him. Thinking these things left him feeling sullen as he followed Pollard through the crowd into the restaurant.

  Inside was crowded, too. Holman and Pollard were faced with a wall of people, all waiting to be seated. Pollard had trouble seeing past the crowd, but Holman, taller than most everyone else, could see just fine. Most of the guys were dressed in baggy jeans and T-shirts, and most of the girls were wearing belly shirts that showed tattoos across the top of their butts. Everyone seemed more interested in schmoozing than eating, as most of the bused plates were full. Holman decided either none of these people had jobs or they worked in show business or both. Holman and Chee used to cruise the parking lots of places like this, looking for cars to steal.

  Pollard said, “The police identified one of the waitresses, a girl named Marki Collen, as having been close to Whitt. She’s the one we want to see.”

  “What if she’s not here?”

  “I called to make sure. We just have to get her to talk to us. That’s not going to be easy with them being this busy.”

  Pollard told him to wait, then worked her way forward to a hostess who was overseeing a sign-up sheet for the waiting customers. Holman watched them speak and saw someone who looked like a manager join them. The manager pointed toward a waitress who was helping a busboy clear a table in the rear, then shook his head. Pollard didn’t look happy when she returned.

  “They got twenty people waiting to be seated, they’re shorthanded, and he won’t let her take a break. It�
�s going to be a while before she can talk to us. You want to go get a coffee and come back when she gets off?”

  Holman didn’t want to wait or go anywhere else. Now he was supposed to dick around while a bunch of Hollywood wannabes with nothing better to do than talk about their latest audition ordered food they didn’t eat. Holman’s already bad mood darkened.

  “That was her, the one in the back he pointed out?”

  “Yeah, Marki Collen.”

  “Come on.”

  Holman shouldered through the crowd past the hostess and went to the table. The busboy had just wiped it clean and was putting out new setups. Holman pulled a chair and sat, but Pollard hesitated. The hostess had already called two men to be seated, but now she saw Holman had taken the table and was glaring.

  Pollard said, “We can’t do this. You’re going to get us thrown out.”

  Holman thought, no fucking way.

  “It’s going to be fine.”

  “We need their cooperation.”

  “Trust me. They’re actors.”

  Marki Collen was delivering an order to the table behind Holman. She looked harried and pressed, as did every other waitress and busboy in the place. Holman dug out Chee’s money, keeping his wad hidden under the table. He leaned back and tapped Marki’s hip.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute, sir.”

  “Look at this, Marki.”

  She glanced around at her name and Holman showed her a folded hundred-dollar bill. He watched her eyes to make sure it registered, then slipped it into her apron.

  “Tell the hostess I’m a friend and you told us to take this table.”

  The hostess had flagged the manager, and now they were steaming back toward the table with the two men behind them. Holman watched Marki intercept them, but part of him was hoping the two guys who wanted the table would get in his face. Holman wanted to kick their asses all the way out onto Sunset Boulevard.

  Pollard touched his arm.