by Robert Crais
“Just take the money and go. What in hell do I have to do with this?”
“Told you—couldn’t get it by myself.”
“Why the hell not? Where is it?”
“Right there.”
Holman followed Cecil’s nod. He was looking at the Beverly Hills branch of Grand California Bank.
49
CECIL PULLED his car to the curb out of the flow of traffic, and stared at the bank as if it were the eighth wonder of the world.
“Marchenko and Parsons hid all that money in a goddamned bank.”
“You want me to rob a bank?”
“They didn’t deposit the goddamned money, dumbass. It’s in twenty-two safe-deposit boxes, the big kind, not those little ones.”
Cecil reached under his seat and took out a soft pouch that tinkled. He dropped it into Holman’s lap and took back the phone.
“Got the keys here, all twenty-two.”
Holman poured the keys into his hand. The name MOSLER was cut into one side along with a seven-digit number. A four-digit number was on the opposite side.
“This is what they hid at the sign.”
“Guess he figured if he got pinched for something, those keys would be safe up there. Wasn’t anything saying which bank, either, but the manufacturer keeps a record. One phone call, I had it.”
Holman stared down at the keys filling his hand. He shifted them like coins. Sixteen million dollars.
Cecil said, “So now you’re thinking, if he had the keys and knew where it was, why didn’t he just go get the money.”
Holman already knew. Every bank manager in L.A. would recognize Cecil and the other Bank Squad agents on sight. A bank employee would have to accompany him into the vault with the master key because safe-deposit boxes always required two keys—the customer’s and the bank’s—and Cecil would have to sign their ledger. Sixteen million spread among twenty-two boxes was a lot of trips in and out of a bank where you were recognized by the employees and everyone knew you were not a customer and had rented no boxes. Cecil would have been questioned. His comings and goings would have been recorded by security cameras. He would have been made.
“I know why you didn’t get the money. I was wondering how much sixteen million dollars weighs.”
“I can tell you exactly. Bank gets hit, they tell us how many of each denomination was lost. Tally that up, you know how many bills; you have four hundred fifty-four bills in a pound, doesn’t matter what denominations—just do the math. This particular sixteen million weighs eleven hundred forty-two pounds.”
Holman considered the bank again, then glanced back at Cecil. The man was still staring at the bank. Holman would have sworn his eyes glittered green.
“Did you go look at it?”
“Went in one time. Opened box thirty-seven-oh-one. Took thirteen thousand dollars and never went back. Too scared.”
Cecil frowned at himself, disgusted.
“Even wore a goddamn pissant disguise.”
Cecil had gold fever. Men in the joint used to talk about it, trying to make their bad decisions sound romantic by comparing themselves to Old West prospectors; men who got high by dreaming about the pot-of-gold score that would set them up. They thought about it until they thought about nothing else; they obsessed on it until it consumed them and they had nothing else in their lives; they became desperate for it until their desperation made them stupid. This idiot was looking at six first-degree murder hits and all he could see was the money. Holman saw his way in. He smiled.
Cecil said, “What are you smiling at?”
“I thought you knew what I was thinking before I thought it.”
“I do. You’re thinking, why on earth did this pathetic motherfucker pick me?”
“That would be right.”
Cecil’s wet eyes hardened with anger.
“Who would you expect me to get, my wife? You think this is my preferred plan of action? Motherfucker, believe me, I was going to work this out—that money is just sitting there! I had all the time I needed, but you and that bitch got me jammed in a corner. A week ago I had forever; now, I got fifteen minutes, so who in hell should I ask? Call my brother in Denver, maybe the kid who caddies when I play golf? And say what, come help me steal some money? This shit is on you! I will not walk away from sixteen million dollars. I refuse! So here we are. It’s you because I don’t have anyone else. Except for your friend Chee. I own that boy. You fuck me over, I swear to God Almighty that boy will pay the price.”
Cecil settled back like he had run out of gas, but the gun in his lap never wavered.
Holman considered the gun.
“You’ll be gone. What could you do for Chee?”
“You bring out this money, I’ll give you the man who planted those things—tell you when he got the stuff, where, how—everything you need to clear the boy.”
Holman nodded like he was thinking about it, then stared at the bank. He didn’t want Cecil to read his face. Cecil could shoot him right now or wait until Holman brought out the money, but Cecil was going to shoot him either way—this stuff about dealing for Chee was bullshit. Holman knew it and Cecil probably knew he knew it, but Cecil was so crazy needful of the money he had talked himself into believing it like he talked himself into killing four police officers. Holman thought about pretending to go along so he could get away, but then Cecil might escape. Holman wanted the sonofabitch to answer for killing his son. He was beginning to get an idea how he could do it.
“How do you see this playing out?”
“Go to the customer service manager. Tell’m right up front you’re going to be making a lot of trips—you’re picking up tax records and court documents you put here for safekeeping. Make a joke about it, like how you hope they weren’t going on a coffee break. You know how to lie.”
“Sure.”
“The money in those boxes is still bagged up. You’re going to open four boxes at a time. I figure the bag in each box weighs about fifty pounds, two on each shoulder, two hundred pounds, a big guy like you oughta be able to handle that.”
Holman wasn’t listening. He was thinking about something Pollard told him when they believed Random was the fifth man—if they could put Random with Fowler they would own him. Holman decided if he could put Cecil together with the money, Cecil would never be able to explain it away or beat the conviction.
Holman said, “Twenty-two boxes at four boxes a trip. That’s six trips carrying two hundred pounds of money each time. You think they’re not going to stop me?”
“I’m thinking something is better than nothing. Anything goes wrong, just walk away. You’re not robbing the goddamned place, Holman. Just walk away.”
“What if they want to see in the bags?”
“Keep walking. We get what we get.”
Holman had a plan. He thought he could pull it off if he had enough time. Everything depended on having enough time.
“It’s going to take a long time, man. I hate being in a bank that long. I have bad memories.”
“Fuck your memories. You just think about Chee.”
Holman stared at Cecil like he was the stupidest asshole on earth. He wanted Cecil drunk with knowing the money was so close. He wanted Cecil stoned on gold.
“Fuck Chee. I’m the guy risking his ass. What’s in it for me?”
Cecil stared at him, and Holman pressed forward.
“I want half.”
Cecil blinked at him. He glanced at the bank, wet his lips, then looked back at Holman.
“You fuckin’ kidding me?”
“I am not. I figure you owe me, motherfucker, and you know why. You don’t like it, get that fuckin’ money yourself.”
Cecil wet his lips again and Holman knew he was in.
Cecil said, “The first four bags are mine. After that, every four bags you bring out, you get one.”
“Two.”
“One, then two.”
“I can live with that. You be here when I get back with the money
or I’m selling your ass to the cops.”
Holman got out of the car and walked toward the bank. His stomach was cramping as if he was going to throw up, but Holman told himself he could make this thing happen if Cecil gave him enough time. Everything depended on Cecil giving him the time.
Holman held the door for a young woman leaving the bank. He smiled at her pleasantly, then stepped inside and took in his surroundings. Banks were usually busy during the lunch hour, but now it was almost four. Five customers were waiting in line for two tellers. Two manager types were at desks behind the teller cages and a young man who was probably a customer service rep manned a desk on the lobby floor. Holman knew right away this bank was a target for robberies. It had no man-trap doors at the entrance, no Plexiglas bandit barriers shielding the tellers, and no security guards. It was a robbery waiting to happen.
Holman went to the head of the customer line, glanced at the customers, then turned to the tellers and raised his voice.
“This is a motherfucking robbery. Empty the drawers. Give me the money.”
Holman checked the time. It was 3:56.
The clock was running.
50
LARA MYER, age twenty-six, was in the final hour of her shift as a security dispatcher at New Guardian Technologies when her computer flashed, indicating a 2-11 alarm was being received from the Grand California Bank on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. This was no big deal. The time log on her screen showed the time at 3:56:27.
New Guardian provided electronic security services for eleven area banking chains, two hundred sixty-one convenience stores, four supermarket chains, and several hundred warehouses and businesses. On any given day, half of the incoming alarms were false, triggered by power surges, computer glitches, electronic or electrical failure, or human error. Twice a week—every week—a bank teller somewhere in the greater L.A. area accidentally tripped an alarm. People are people. It happens.
Lara followed procedure.
She brought up the Grand Cal (Wilshire-BH branch) page on her screen. This page listed the managers and physical particulars of the bank (number of employees, number of teller windows, security enhancements if any, points of egress, etc). More important, the page allowed her to run a system diagnostic particular to the bank. The diagnostic would check for system problems that could trigger a false alarm.
Lara opened the diagnostic window, then clicked the button labeled CONFIRM. The diagnostic automatically reset the alarm as it searched for power anomalies, hardware malfunctions, or software glitches. If a teller had accidentally triggered the alarm, they sometimes reset at the bank, which automatically canceled and cleared the alarm.
The diagnostic took about ten seconds.
Lara watched as the confirmation appeared.
Two tellers at the Grand Cal Beverly Hills branch had triggered their silent alarms.
Lara swiveled in her chair to call over her shift supervisor.
“We got one.”
Her shift supervisor came over and read the confirmation.
“Call it in.”
Lara pressed a button on her console to dial the Beverly Hills Police Department’s emergency services operator. After she notified Beverly Hills, Lara would call the FBI. She patiently waited as the phone rang four times.
“Beverly Hills emergency services.”
“This is New Guardian operator four-four-one. We show a two-eleven in progress at Grand California Bank on Wilshire Boulevard in your area.”
“Stand by, one.”
Lara knew the emergency services operator would now have to confirm that Lara was for real and not making a crank call. No cars would be dispatched until this was done and Lara had provided all necessary information about the bank.
She glanced at the clock.
3:58:05.
51
HOLMAN THOUGHT it was going pretty well. No one made a break for the door or fell out with a heart attack like last time. The tellers quietly emptied their drawers. The customers stayed together in their line, watching him as if they were waiting for him to tell them what to do. All in all, they were excellent victims.
Holman said, “Everything’s going to be okay. I’ll be out of here in a few minutes.”
Holman pulled the pouch of keys from his pocket and went to the young man standing at the customer service desk. Holman tossed him the pouch.
“What’s your name?”
“Please don’t hurt me.”
“I’m not going to hurt you. What’s your name?”
“David Furillo. I’m married. We have a two-year-old.”
“Congratulations. David, these are safe-deposit box keys, box number on each key just like always. Take your master and open four of these boxes, any four, doesn’t matter. Go do that right now.”
David glanced at the women standing by the desks behind the counter. One of them was probably his boss. Holman touched David’s chin away from the woman so he was looking at Holman.
“Don’t look at her, David. Do what I say.”
David opened his desk for the master box key, then hurried toward the box room.
Holman trotted back across the lobby to the front door. He edged to the door, careful not to expose himself, and peered out. Cecil was still in the car. Holman turned back to the customers.
“Who’s got a cell phone? C’mon, I need a phone. It’s important.”
They milled around uncertainly until a young woman tentatively drew a phone from her purse.
“You can use mine, I guess.”
“Thanks, honey. Everybody stay calm. Everybody relax.”
Holman checked the time as he opened the phone. He had been in the bank two and a half minutes. He was past the window of safety.
Holman trotted back to the door to check Cecil, then held out his arm to read the number on the inside of his forearm.
He called Pollard.
52
LEEDS HAD cautioned Pollard that Cecil’s connection to Alison Whitt did not ensure a conviction, so they were making arrangements to see if Mrs. Marchenko could pick Cecil’s picture from a six-pack. In the moments when Leeds was placing his call to Random, Pollard had tried to reach Holman by phoning his apartment. When she got no answer, she phoned Perry Wilkes, who told her Holman had been there but had since departed. Wilkes was able to offer no other information.
Alison Whitt’s informant registration form indicated Cecil had first recruited and used her as an informant three years earlier. Cecil had learned of Whitt while investigating the involvement of a onetime singer turned B-level movie star who was suspected of bankrolling a gang of South Central dealers in their dope importation business. In lieu of being arrested for prostitution and possession, Whitt agreed to provide ongoing information about the singer’s contacts with certain gang members. Cecil stated in her registration document that Whitt provided regular and accurate information that aided the prosecution.
Now Pollard was sitting in a cubicle outside Leeds’ office when her phone rang. Hoping it was Holman or Sanders, she checked the caller ID, but did not recognize the number. She decided to let it go to her voice mail, then grudgingly changed her mind.
Holman said, “It’s me.”
“Thank God! Where are you?”
“I’m robbing a bank.”
“Hang on—”
Pollard called out to Leeds.
“I’ve got Holman! Holman’s on the phone—”
Leeds left his desk as Pollard returned to the call. He stood in the door, murmuring into his phone as he watched her.
Pollard said, “The fifth man is an FBI agent named Bill Cecil. He was—”
Holman interrupted her.
“I know. He’s in a green Ford Taurus outside the bank right now. He’s waiting for me—”
Now Pollard interrupted him.
“Whoa, waitaminute. I thought you were kidding.”
“I’m in the Grand California on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. Marchenko stashed the money here
in safe-deposit boxes. Cecil had the keys—that’s what they found at the Sign—”
“Why are you robbing the bank?”
Leeds frowned.
“What is he doing?”
Pollard waved him quiet as Delaney came over to watch.
Holman was saying, “You know a faster way to get the cops here? We flushed him, Katherine—Cecil had the keys, but he was scared to get the money. I’ve been inside three and a half minutes. The police will be here soon.”
Pollard cupped the phone, glancing at Leeds and Delaney.
“Grand California on Wilshire in B.H. See if they’re reporting a two-eleven.”
She returned to Holman as Delaney ran to call the FBI dispatcher.
“Has anyone been hurt?”
“It’s nothing like that. I want you to tell the cops what’s happening. I figure they won’t listen to me.”
“Max, this is a bad idea.”
“I want the cops to catch him with the money in his possession. He was scared to come in, so I’m gonna bring the money to him—”
“Where’s Cecil now?”
“Parked outside. He’s waiting for the money.”
“Green Taurus?”
“Yeah.”
Pollard cupped the phone and spoke again to Leeds.
“Cecil’s in a green Ford Taurus in front of the bank.”
Leeds relayed the information to Random as Delaney returned, excited.
“Beverly Hills confirms a two-eleven alarm at the location. Units en route.”
Pollard went back to Holman.
“Holman, listen, Cecil is dangerous. He’s already killed six people—”
“He made the mistake of killing my son.”
“Stay in the bank, okay? Do not go outside. This is dangerous and I’m not just talking about Cecil—the responding officers don’t know you’re a good guy. They will not know—”
“Youknow.”
Holman hung up.
In that instant the line died. A pressure swelled in Pollard as if she was being crushed from the inside out, but she pushed through it and struggled to her feet.
