by Robert Crais
“I’m going to the bank.”
“Let Beverly Hills handle it. You don’t have enough time.”
Pollard ran as fast as she could.
53
BILL CECIL watched the bank, nervously tapping his foot. The car was in Park, the engine was running, the air conditioner was blowing cold. Cecil sweated as he imagined what was happening inside the bank.
First, Holman would have to make bullshit conversation with the customer service rep. If the dude already had a customer, Holman would have to wait. Cecil thought Holman should be smart enough to come wave or something, let him know if that was the case, but so far he hadn’t. Cecil took this as a good sign, but that didn’t make the waiting any easier.
Next up, the customer rep would bring Holman into the box vault, and he might be one of those lazy laid-back bastards who walked in slow motion.
Once they were inside, Holman would have to sign the ledger while the rep unlocked the master locks on each of the four boxes. The small ones always had an inner steel contents box you could slide in and out, keep your insurance and wills and stuff together, but not the big boxes. The big boxes were just big empty boxes. Holman would use his keys to make sure everything unlocked okay, but he wouldn’t open the boxes until the rep had stepped out.
So then he would pull the money bags, close and relock the boxes, and amble on out of the bank. He’d probably have to say something cute to the rep, but after that it was only ten seconds to the door.
Cecil figured—start to finish without having to wait for another customer—that the entire process should take six minutes. Holman had been in the bank for four minutes, maybe four and a half. No reason to worry.
Cecil tapped his pistol on the lower edge of the steering wheel, thinking he would go peek through the door in another ten seconds.
54
HOLMAN CLOSED the phone, then glanced out the front door again, worried the police would arrive too soon. It was almost impossible for police to respond in two minutes, but every second after that gave them more time to reach the scene. Holman had now been in the bank two minutes longer than any of his robberies except the one in which he was arrested. He thought back. It had taken Pollard almost six minutes to arrive and they had been on a rolling stakeout, waiting and ready to go. Holman still had a few seconds.
He went back to the customers and returned the girl’s phone.
“Everyone okay? Everybody still cool?”
A man in his forties with wire-rimmed glasses said, “Are we hostages?”
“No one is a hostage. Just stay cool. I’ll be outta your hair in a minute.”
Holman called toward the vault.
“Hey, David! How we doin’ in there?”
David’s voice came from the vault.
“They’re open.”
“You people just stay where you are. The police are on the way.”
Holman trotted across the lobby to the vault. David had four large safe-deposit boxes open and had dragged four nylon gym bags into the center of the floor. Three were blue and one was black.
David said, “What’s in the bags?”
“Somebody’s bad dream. You stay in here, bud. You’ll be safe in here.”
Holman lifted the bags one by one, hooking the straps over his shoulders. Felt heavier than fifty pounds.
David said, “What about these other keys?”
“You keep’m.”
Holman staggered out of the vault and immediately noticed that two of the customers were missing.
The girl who had loaned him her phone pointed at the door.
“They ran away.”
Holman thought, oh shit.
55
CECIL TOLD himself to give Holman another ten seconds. He wanted the goddamned money, but he didn’t want to die for it or get caught, and the odds of both increased the longer Holman remained in the bank. Cecil finally decided to see what was taking so long. If they had Holman proned out he was going to get the hell out of here as fast as his tired fat ass could carry him.
Cecil shut off the engine as a man and woman ran out of the bank. The woman stumbled as she came through the door and the man almost tripped over her. He pulled her to her feet, then took off running.
Cecil immediately started the engine, ready to drive away, but no one else emerged.
The bank was quiet.
Cecil shut the engine again, slipped his pistol into his holster, then got out of the car, wondering why those people had run. No one else was running, so what could be happening? Cecil started toward the bank, then hesitated, thinking he should get back in the goddamned car and get the hell away.
He glanced up and down Wilshire, but saw no lights or police cars. Everything seemed fine. He looked back at the bank, but now Holman was in the glass door with all these big-ass nylon bags hanging from his shoulders—just standing there. Cecil waved him over, thinking hurry up, what are you waiting for?
Holman didn’t leave the bank. He dropped two of the bags, then gestured for Cecil to come get them.
Cecil didn’t like it. He kept thinking about the two people running away. He flipped out his cell phone and hit a speed-dial button he had already programmed. Holman waved again, so Cecil held up a finger, telling him to wait.
“Beverly Hills Police Department.”
“FBI Special Agent William Cecil, ID number six-six-seven-four. Suspicious activity at the Grand California on Wilshire. Please advise.”
“Copy. We have a two-eleven alarm at that address. Units en route.”
Cecil felt a burning knot in his chest. His eyes flickered. Everything he wanted was sixty feet away, but now it was gone. Sixteen million dollars—gone.
“Ah, confirm the two-eleven. Suspect is a white male, six-two, two-thirty. He is armed. I say again, he is armed. Customers in the bank appear down and disabled.”
“Understand you are FBI six-six-seven-four. Do not approach. Units en route. Thanks for the advisory.”
Cecil stared at Holman, then saw lights in the corner of his eye. Red and blue flashers were turning onto Wilshire three blocks away.
Cecil ran back to his car.
56
HOLMAN WATCHED Cecil with a bad feeling, confused why the man would be wasting time on his phone when he was so close to the sixteen million. He waved again for Cecil to come get the money, but Cecil kept talking. Holman had the skin-prickling sense something was wrong, then Cecil turned back toward his car. A heartbeat later, red and blue flashes reflected off the glass buildings across the street, and Holman knew his time had run out.
He shoved through the door, the heavy bags of cash swinging like lead pendulums. Two blocks away, cars were pulling to the curbs to let the police cars pass. The cops would be here in seconds.
Holman ran at Cecil as hard as he could, pinballing off two pedestrians. Cecil reached the Taurus, threw open the door, and was climbing inside when Holman caught him from behind. Holman pulled Cecil backwards and both of them fell.
Cecil, trying to climb back into the car, said, “What the fuck are you doing, man? Get out of here.”
Holman dragged himself up Cecil’s leg, hammering at the man with his fist.
Cecil said, “Get off me, goddamnit. Let go!”
Holman should have been more afraid. He should have thought through what he was doing to realize Cecil was a blooded FBI agent with thirty years’ training and experience. But all Holman saw in those moments was Richie running alongside his car, red-faced and crying, calling him a loser; all he knew was the eight-year-old gap-toothed boy in a picture that would continue to fade; all he felt was the blind-furious need to make this man pay.
Holman didn’t see the gun. Cecil must have pulled it while Holman pounded on Cecil’s back as Cecil was crawling toward the car. Holman was still punching, still blindly trying to anchor Cecil to the street, when Cecil rolled over. An exploding white light flashed three times and the sound of thunder echoed on Wilshire Boulevard.
Holman’s wo
rld stopped. He heard only the sound of his beating heart.
He stared at Cecil, waiting for the pain. Cecil stared back, his mouth working like a fish. Behind them, the patrol cars slid to a stop as an officer’s amplified voice shouted words Holman did not hear.
Cecil said, “Sonofafuckinbitch.”
Holman looked down. The bags of money were wedged in front of his chest, scorched where the cash had trapped the three bullets.
Cecil shoved the gun across the money into Holman’s chest, but this time he didn’t fire. He dropped the gun into Holman’s arms, then rolled away, coming to his knees with his FBI credentials high over his head, shouting—
“FBI! FBI agent!”
Cecil rolled away, hands up, shouting and pointing at Holman.
“Gun! He’s got a gun! I’ve been shot!”
Holman glanced at the gun, then at the patrol cars. Four uniformed officers were crouched behind their vehicles. Young men about Richie’s age. Aiming.
The amplified voice boomed again in the Wilshire canyon, now behind the sound of approaching sirens.
“Put down the weapon! Drop the weapon but make no sudden moves!”
Holman wasn’t holding the weapon. It was on the money bag directly under his nose. He didn’t move. He was too scared to move.
People had spilled out of the bank. They pointed at Holman as they shouted to the officers.
“That’s him! It was him!”
Cecil staggered to his feet, crabbing away as he waved his credentials.
“I see his hand! I see it, goddamnit! He’s reaching for the gun!”
Holman saw the young men shift behind their weapons. He closed his eyes, held himself perfectly still, and—
—nothing happened.
Holman looked up, but now the four young officers had their guns in the air, surrounded by milling officers. BHPD tactical officers with rifles and shotguns ran toward Cecil, shouting for him to get down on the ground. They tackled him hard, proned him out, then two of them peeled toward Holman.
Holman still didn’t move.
One of the tactical officers stayed back with his shotgun up and ready, but the other approached.
Holman said, “I’m the good guy.”
“Don’t fuckin’ move.”
The near officer lifted away Cecil’s pistol, but he didn’t slam down on Holman or prone him out. Once he had the gun he seemed to relax.
The cop said, “You Holman?”
“He killed my son.”
“That’s what they tell me, buddy. You got him.”
The second cop joined the first.
“Wits said there was shooting. Were you shot?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Stay down. We’re getting a medic.”
Pollard and Leeds shoved through the growing crowd of officers. When Holman saw Pollard he started to rise, but she motioned him to stay down so he did. Holman figured he had come too far to take any chances.
Leeds went to Bill Cecil, but Pollard came directly to Holman, breaking into a trot as she came. She was wearing a blue FBI Windbreaker like the first time he saw her. When Pollard arrived, she gazed down at him, breathing hard, but smiling, then held out her hand.
“I’m here now. You’re safe.”
Holman slipped out of the money bags, took her hand, and let her help him up. He stared at Cecil, still spread-eagled on the street. He watched the officers fold Cecil’s hands behind his back to bind his wrists. He saw Leeds, his face livid and twisted, kick Cecil in the leg, whereupon the Beverly Hills cops shoved Leeds away. Holman turned back to Pollard. He wanted to tell her why everything that happened here and everything that led up to it had been his fault, but his mouth was dry and he was blinking too hard.
She held tight to his hand.
“It’s okay.”
Holman shook his head and toed the bags. It wasn’t okay and never could be.
He said, “Marchenko’s money. This is what Richie wanted.”
She touched his face, turning him.
“No. Oh, no, Max, it wasn’t that way.”
She cupped his face in both her hands.
“Richie wasn’t doing what we thought. Listen—”
Pollard told him how his son died and, more important to Holman, how Richie had lived. Holman broke down, crying there on Wilshire Boulevard, but Pollard held on tight, letting him cry and keeping him safe.
PART FIVE
32 DAYS LATER
57
WHEN HOLMAN came downstairs Perry was at his desk. Perry usually called it quits by seven o’clock to hole up in his room to watch Jeopardy!, but here he was. Holman figured Perry was waiting for him.
Perry wrinkled his nose.
“Jesus Christ, you smell like a whorehouse. What in hell are you wearing, perfume?”
“I’m not wearing anything.”
“My dick may not work as well as it used to, but there’s nothing wrong with my nose. You smell like a goddamn woman.”
Holman knew Perry would keep hammering at him, so he decided to fess up.
“I bought this new shampoo. It’s supposed to smell like a tropical garden.”
Perry leaned back and cackled.
“I guess it does. And what flower would that be—pansies?”
Perry was killing himself, laughing.
Holman glanced out the front door, hoping to see Pollard’s car, but the curb was empty.
Perry, still enjoying himself, said, “Look at how slicked up you are. My, my—I guess we have a date.”
“It’s not a date. We’re just friends.”
“That woman?”
“Stop calling her ‘that woman.’ I’ll knock you on your ass.”
“Well, she looked pretty fine to me. I was you, I’d tell people this was a date.”
“Well, you’re not me, so shut up. I’ll have Chee send those boys back, bust up your fancy car.”
Perry stopped laughing and scowled. Once everything about Chee had been straightened out, his boys rebuilt Perry’s old beater like they promised. Perry took great pride in tooling around in the pristine classic. A man driving a Range Rover had offered him five thousand dollars for it.
Perry leaned forward again and hunched over his desk.
“I want to ask you a question. I’m being serious now.”
“Aren’t you missing Jeopardy!?”
“Now just wait—you think you got a future with this woman?”
Holman went back to the door but Pollard still had not arrived. He glanced at his father’s watch. He had finally had it repaired and now it kept time pretty well. Pollard was running late.
“Perry, look, I have enough trouble dealing with the present. Katherine is an FBI agent. She has two little boys. She doesn’t want anything to do with a guy like me.”
After the fallout from Cecil, Leeds was left with an opening on the Bank Squad and had offered it to Pollard. Allowing an ex-agent to return to such a sought-after post was highly unusual, but Leeds had the clout to make it happen. Pollard would be able to apply her prior service toward her seniority and eventual retirement. Holman thought it was a good deal and encouraged her to take it.
Perry said, “Well, Jesus Christ, that new pansy shampoo must have made you stupid. The woman wouldn’t be coming here if she didn’t want anything to do with you.”
Holman decided to wait on the sidewalk. He went outside, but thirty seconds later Perry appeared in the door. Holman raised both palms.
“Please, I’m begging you—let it rest.”
“I just want to tell you something. All you know about me is I’m a cranky old man in this shitbag motel. Well, I wasn’t always this way. I was young once and I had chances and opportunities in my life. I made choices that put me here. I sure as hell would make different choices if I had it to do over. You think about that.”
Perry stomped off into the empty motel.
Holman stared after him, then heard a horn. He looked up the street. Pollard was a block away
, but she had seen him. Holman raised his hand and saw Pollard smile.
Holman thought about what Perry said, but Perry didn’t understand—Holman was afraid. Katherine Pollard deserved a good man. Holman was trying hard to be better than he had ever been in his life, but he still had a long way to go. He wanted to earn Katherine Pollard. He wanted to deserve her. And he believed—one day he would.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Robert Crais is the author of numerous New York Times, Los Angeles Times, and USA Today bestsellers, including The Forgotten Man, L.A. Requiem, and Hostage. His novels have been translated into twenty-five languages and are available around the planet. Learn more about his work at www.robertcrais.com.
