looking for loiterers and people waiting in parked cars. Pollard had made good points about the confusing nature of Random’s actions, but whatever their intentions Holman was certain they would come for him again. He circled the block twice more, then parked up the street, watching the motel for almost twenty minutes before he decided to make his move.
Holman left the Jeep on the street alongside the motel and entered through the rear by Perry’s room. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, but heard and saw nothing unusual. Perry wasn’t at his desk.
Holman moved back to Perry’s room and rapped lightly at the door. Inside the room, Perry answered.
“What is it?”
Holman kept his voice low.
“It’s me. Open up.”
Holman heard Perry cursing, but soon the door opened enough for Perry to see out. His pants were bunched around his thighs. Only Perry would answer a door this way.
“I was on the goddamned crapper. What is it?”
“Has anyone been here looking for me?”
“Like who?”
“Like anyone. I thought some people might come around.”
“That woman?”
“No, not her.”
“I’ve been out there all mornin’ til my bowels started to move. I didn’t see anyone.”
“Okay, Perry. Thanks.”
Holman returned to the lobby, then crept up the stairs. When he reached the second floor, he checked the hall in both directions but the hall was empty. Holman didn’t stop at his room; he went directly to the utility closet and eased open the door. Holman pushed the mops out of the way and reached into the wall beneath the water valve. The wad of cash and the gun were still behind the pipe. Holman was fishing them out when the muzzle of a gun dug hard behind his left ear.
“Leave go whatever you’ve got, boy. Nothing better come out of there but your hand.”
Holman didn’t move. He didn’t even turn to look, but went rigid with his hand in the wall.
“Pull that hand out slow and empty.”
Holman showed his hand, opening his fingers wide so the man could see.
“That’s good. Now stand there while I cop a feel.”
The man felt Holman’s waist and his crotch and the seat of his pants, then checked down along the inside of his legs to his ankles.
“All right then. You and I have a little problem, but we’re gonna work it out. Turn around slow.”
Holman turned as the man stepped back, giving himself room to react if Holman tried something. Holman saw a bald light-skinned black man wearing a blue suit. The man slipped his pistol into his coat pocket, but held on to it, showing Holman it was ready to go. It took a minute before Holman recognized him.
“I know you.”
“That’s right. I helped put your ass away.”
Holman remembered-FBI Special Agent Cecil had been with Pollard that day in the bank. Holman wondered if Pollard had sent him, but the way Cecil was holding the gun told him Cecil was not here as his friend.
“Am I under arrest?”
“Here’s what we’re going to do-we’re going down those stairs like we’re the best buddies in the world. That old man down there says anything or tries to stop us, you tell him you’ll see him later and keep walking. We get outside, you’ll see a dark green Ford parked out front. You get in. You do anything but what I’m telling you, I’ll kill you in the street.”
Cecil stepped out of the way and Holman went down the stairs and got into the Ford, wondering what was happening. He watched Cecil cross in front of the car, then get in behind the wheel. Cecil took the pistol from his pocket and held it in his lap with his left hand as he pulled away from the curb. Holman studied him. Cecil’s breath was fast and shallow and his face sheened with sweat. His eyes were large, darting between traffic and Holman like a man watching for snakes. He looked like a man who had stolen a car and was trying to get away.
Holman said, “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Going to get us sixteen million dollars.”
Holman tried to show nothing, but his right eye watered as the skin surrounding it flickered. Cecil was the fifth man. Cecil had killed Richie. Holman glanced at the gun. When he looked up Cecil was watching him.
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, yeah, I was in with them, but I didn’t have anything to do with those killings. Me and your boy were partners until Juarez lost his mind. Sonofabitch went nuts killing everybody, figuring he could keep the money, I guess. That’s why I took him out. I took him out for killing those people.”
Holman knew Cecil was lying. He saw it in how Cecil made eye contact, arching his eyebrows and nodding his head to fake sincerity. Fences and dope dealers had lied to Holman the same way a hundred times. Cecil was trying to play him, but Holman didn’t understand why. Something had driven Cecil into revealing himself and now the man clearly had a plan that included Holman.
Images of Cecil under the bridge flashed in Holman’s head like a shotgun in the darkness: Cecil cutting loose at point-blank range, the white-gold plume, Richie falling…
Holman glanced at the gun again, wondering if he could get it or push it aside. Holman wanted the sonofabitch-everything he had done since that morning in the CCC when Wally Figg told him Richie was dead had led to finding this man. If Holman could keep from being shot he might be able to punch Cecil out, but then where would he be? He would have to shoot Cecil right there or the cops would come and Cecil would flash his creds- who would they believe? Cecil would split while Holman was trying to talk himself out of a squad car.
Holman thought he might be able to jump out of the car before Cecil shot him. They had just turned onto Wilshire Boulevard, where traffic slowed.
“You don’t have to jump. We get where we’re going, I’m gonna let you out.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Cecil laughed.
“Holman, I’ve been hooking up guys like you for almost thirty years. I know what you’re going to think even before you think it.”
“You know what I’m thinking right now?”
“Yeah, but I won’t hold it against you.”
“I’m thinking why the fuck are you still here if you have sixteen million dollars.”
“Know where it is, just couldn’t get it. That’s where you come in.”
Cecil took a cell phone from the console and dropped it in Holman’s lap.
“Here. Call your boy Chee, see what’s shaking.”
Holman caught the phone but did nothing. He stared at Cecil and now he felt a different kind of dread, one that had nothing to do with Richie.
“Chee was arrested.”
“You already know? Well, good, save us a call. Chee was in possession of six pounds of C-4. Among the evidence confiscated from that shithole he calls a body shop are the telephone numbers of two people suspected of being Al Qaeda sympathizers and the plans for building an improvised explosive device. You see where I’m going with this?”
“You set him up.”
“Ironclad, baby, ironclad. And only I know who planted that shit in his shop, so if you don’t help me get this goddamned money your boy is fucked.”
Without warning, Cecil slammed on the brakes. The car screeched to a stop, throwing Holman into the dash. Horns blew and tires screamed behind them, but Cecil didn’t react. His eyes were hard black chips that stayed on Holman.
“Do you get the picture?”
More horns blew and people cursed, but Cecil’s eyes never wavered. Holman wondered if he was crazy.
“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?”
