the Two Minute Rule (2006) (26 page)

"Well, there we go. Let's see who answers."

Pollard dialed the number, and Holman watched as her smile faded. She closed her phone.

"It's no longer in service."

Mrs. Marchenko said, "Is this bad?"

"Maybe not. I'm pretty sure we can use this number to find her."

Pollard copied the number into her notebook along with the time, date, and duration of the call, then searched through the remaining bills, but found the number only one other time on a call placed three weeks before the first.

Pollard glanced at Holman, then smiled at Mrs. Marchenko.

"I think we've taken enough of your time. Thank you very much."

Mrs. Marchenko's face folded in disappointment.

"Don't you want to talk about the fan and how they lied?"

Pollard stood and Holman stood with her.

"I think we have enough. We'll see what Allie has to say and we'll get back to you. Come on, Holman."

Mrs. Marchenko waddled after them to the door.

"They did not have to kill my boy. I don't believe any of those things they said. Will you put that in your story?"

"Goodbye and thank you again."

Pollard walked out to the car, but Holman hesitated. He felt awkward just leaving.

Mrs. Marchenko said, "Anton was trying to give up. Put in your story how they murdered my son."

Pollard was waving for him to join her, but here was this old woman with her pleading eyes, thinking they were going to help her and they were going to leave her with nothing. Holman felt ashamed of himself. He looked at the broken fan.

"You couldn't fix it?"

"How could I get it fixed? My Anton is dead. How could I get it fixed until I sue and get the money?"

Pollard beeped the horn. Holman glanced at her, then turned back to Mrs. Marchenko.

"Let me take a look."

Holman went back into the house and examined the fan. The safety cage was supposed to be attached at the back of the motor by a little screw, but the screw was broken. It had probably snapped when the cops knocked over the fan. The head of the screw had popped off and the body of the screw was still in the hole. It would have to be drilled and rethreaded. It would be cheaper to buy a new fan.

"I can't fix it, Mrs. Marchenko. I'm sorry."

"This is outrageous, what they did to my son. I am going to sue them."

The horn beeped.

Holman went back to the door and saw Pollard waving, but he still didn't leave. Here was this woman with her son who had robbed thirteen banks, murdered three people, and wounded four others; her little boy who had modified semiautomatic rifles to fire like machine guns, dressed up like a lunatic, and shot it out with the police, but here she was, defending her son to the last.

Holman said, "Was he a good son?"

"He came and we watched the TV."

"Then that's all you need to know. You hang on to that."

Holman left her then and went to join Pollard.

Chapter
30

WHEN HOLMAN pulled the door closed, Pollard roared back toward Union station.

"What were you doing? Why'd you go back inside?"

"To see if I could fix her fan."

"We have something important here and you're wasting time with that?"

"The woman thinks we're helping her. I didn't feel right just leaving."

Holman felt so bad he didn't notice that Pollard had gone silent. When he finally glanced over, her mouth was a hard line and her brow was cut by a vertical line.

He said, "What?"

"It might not have dawned on you, but I did not enjoy that. I don't like lying to some poor woman who lost her son and I don't like sneaking around pretending to be something I'm not. This kind of thing was easier and simpler when I was on the Feeb, but I'm not, so this is what we have. I don't need you making me feel even worse."

Holman stared at her. He had spent much of the night regretting he had gotten her involved, and now he felt like a moron.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that."

"Forget it. I know you didn't."

She was clearly in a bad mood now, but Holman didn't know what to say. The more he thought about everything she was doing for him, the more he felt like an idiot.

"I'm sorry."

Her mouth tightened, so he decided not to apologize again. He decided to change the subject.

"Hey, I know this Allie thing is important. Can you find her with a disconnected number?"

"I'll have a friend of mine at the Feeb do it. They can run the number through a database that will show prior subscribers even though it's no longer in use."

"How long will it take?"

"It's computers. Milliseconds."

"Why wasn't she on the witness list?"

"Because they didn't know about her, Holman. Duh."

"Sorry."

"That's why this is important. They didn't know about her, but Fowler did. That means he learned about her from some other source."

"Fowler and the new guy."

Pollard glanced over at him.

"Yeah, and the new guy. I'm looking forward to talking with this girl, Holman. I want to find out what she told them."

Holman grew thoughtful. They were driving west on Main Street toward the river. He was thinking about what she might have told them, too.

"Maybe she told them to meet her under the bridge to cut up the money."

Pollard didn't look at him. She was silent for a moment and then she shrugged.

"We'll see. I'll go back through his phone bills to see if and when they made contact, and I'll see if we can find her. I'll call you later with whatever I find."

Holman watched her drive, feeling even more guilty that she would be spending her afternoon with this.

"Listen, I want to thank you again for going to all this trouble. I didn't mean to put my foot in it back there."

"You're welcome. Forget it."

"I know you already said no, but I'd like to pay you something. At least gas money since you won't let me drive."

"If we have to get gas I'll let you pay. Will that make you feel better?"

"I'm not trying to be a pain. I just feel bad with you putting in so much time."

Pollard didn't respond.

"Your husband doesn't mind you spending all this time?"

"Let's not talk about my husband."

Holman sensed he had stepped over a line with her, so he backed off and fell silent. He had noticed she didn't wear a ring the first time he saw her at Starbucks, but she had mentioned her kids so he didn't know what to make of it. Now he regretted bringing it up.

They drove on without speaking. As they crossed the river, Holman tried to see the Fourth Street Bridge, but it was too far away. He was surprised when Pollard suddenly spoke.

"I don't have a husband. He's dead."

"Sorry. It was none of my business."

"It sounds worse than it was. We were separated. We were on our way to a divorce we both wanted."

Pollard shrugged, but still didn't look at him.

"How about you? How'd it go between you and your wife?"

"Richie's mom?"

"Yeah."

"We never got married."

"Typical."

"If I could go back and do it all over again I would have married her, but that was me. I didn't learn my lesson until I was in prison."

"Some people never learn, Holman. At least you figured it out. Maybe you're ahead of the curve."

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.

Chapter
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.

Chapter
32