“It was one in the morning. It was dark. Besides, that thing probably isn’t drawn to scale.”
Holman took out a second map, one he had made himself.
“No, it’s not, so I made this one myself. The service drive was way more visible from under the bridge than the newspaper drawing made it seem. And something else-there’s a gate here at the top of the drive, see? You have to either climb the fence or cut the lock. Either way would make a helluva lot of noise.”
Holman watched Pollard compare the two drawings. She appeared to be thinking about it, and thinking was a good thing. Thinking meant she was becoming involved. But finally she sat back again and shrugged.
“The officers left the gate open when they drove down.”
“I asked the cops how the gate was found, but they wouldn’t tell me. I don’t think Richie and those other officers would have left it open. If you leave the gate open, you take the chance a security patrol might see it and then you’re screwed. We always closed the gate and ran the chain back through, and I’ll bet that’s what Richie and those other guys did, too.”
Pollard sat back.
“When you were stealing cars.”
Holman was setting her up for the hook and he thought he was doing pretty well. She was following his logic train even though she didn’t know where he was going. He felt encouraged.
“If the gate was closed, the shooter had to open it or go over it, and that makes noise. I know those guys were drinking but they only had a six-pack. That’s four grown men and a six-pack-how drunk could they be? If Juarez was stoned like you suggested, how quiet could
“What are you saying, Holman? You think Juarez didn’t do it?”
“I’m saying it didn’t matter what the officers heard. I think they knew the shooter.”
Now Pollard crossed her arms, the ultimate signal she was walling him off. Holman knew he was losing her, but he was ready with his hook and she would either go for it or pass.
He said, “Have you heard of two bank hitters named Marchenko and Parsons?”
Holman watched her stiffen and knew she was finally interested. Now she wasn’t just being nice or killing time until she could jump up and run. She took off her sunglasses. He saw that the skin around her eyes had grown papery. She had changed a lot since he had last seen her, but something beyond her appearance was different that he couldn’t quite place.
She said, “I’ve heard of them. And?”
Holman placed the map Richie made showing Marchenko’s and Parsons’ robberies in front of her.
“My son did this. His wife, Liz, let me make a copy.”
“It’s a map of their robberies.”
“The night he died, Richie got a call from Fowler, and that’s when he left. He was going to meet Fowler to talk about Marchenko and Parsons.”
“Marchenko and Parsons are dead. That case would have closed three months ago.”
Holman peeled off copies of the articles and reports he found on Richie’s desk and put them in front of her.
“Richie told his wife they were working on the case. His desk at home, it was covered with stuff like this. I asked the police what Richie was doing. I tried to see the detectives who worked on Marchenko and Parsons, but no one would talk to me. They told me what you just told me, that the case was closed, but Richie told his wife he was going to see Fowler about it, and now he’s dead.”
Holman watched Pollard skim through the pages. He watched her mouth work, like maybe she was chewing the inside of her lip. She finally looked up, and he thought her eyes were webbed with way too many lines for such a young woman.
She said, “I’m not sure what you want from me.”
“I want to know why Richie was working on a dead case. I want to know how Juarez was connected to a couple of bank hitters. I want to know why my son and his friends let someone get close enough to kill them. I want to know who killed them.”
Pollard stared at him and Holman stared back. He did not let his eyes show hostility or rage. He kept that part hidden. She wet her lips.
“I guess I could make a couple of calls. I’d be willing to do that.”
Holman returned all his papers to the envelope, then wrote his new cell number on the cover.
“This is everything I found in the library on Marchenko and Parsons, and what was in the
She looked at the envelope without touching it. Holman sensed she was still struggling with the decision she had already made.
He said, “I don’t expect you to do this for free, Agent Pollard. I’ll pay you. I don’t have much, but we could work out a payment plan or something.”
She wet her lips again. Holman wondered at her hesitation, but then she shook her head.
“That won’t be necessary. It might take a few days, but I just have to make a few calls.”
Holman nodded. His heart was hammering, but he kept his excitement hidden along with the fear and the rage.
“Thanks, Agent Pollard. I really appreciate this.”
“You probably shouldn’t call me Agent Pollard. I’m not a Special Agent anymore.”
“What should I call you?”
“Katherine.”
“Okay, Katherine. I’m Max.”
Holman held out his hand, but Pollard did not accept it. She picked up the envelope instead.
“This doesn’t mean I’m your friend, Max. All it means is I think you deserve answers.”
Holman lowered his hand. He was hurt, but wouldn’t show it. He wondered why she had agreed to waste her time if she felt that way about him, but he kept these feelings hidden, also.
“Sure. I understand.”
“It’ll probably be a few days before you hear from me.”
“I understand.”
Holman watched her walk out of the Starbucks. She picked up speed as she passed through the crowd, then hurried away down the sidewalk. He was still watching her when he remembered the feeling that something was different about her and now he realized what-
Pollard seemed afraid. The young agent who arrested him ten years ago had been fearless, but now she had changed. Thinking these things made him wonder how much he had changed, too, and whether or not he still had what it took to see this thing through.
Holman got up and stepped out into the bright Westwood sun, thinking it felt good to no longer be alone. He liked Pollard even if she seemed hesitant. He hoped she wouldn’t get hurt.
17
POLLARD WASN’T sure why she agreed to help Holman, but she was in no hurry to drive back to Simi Valley. Westwood was twenty degrees cooler and her mother would take care of the boys when they got home from camp, so it was like having a day off from the rest of her life. Pollard felt as if she had been paroled.
She walked to Stan’s Donuts and ordered one plain all-American round-with-a-hole glazed donut-no sprinkles, jelly, candy, or chocolate; nothing that would cut into the silky taste of melted sugar and warm grease. Pollard’s ass needed a donut like a goldfish needed a bowling ball, but she hadn’t been to Stan’s since she left the Bureau. When Pollard was working out of the Westwood office, she and another agent named April Sanders had snuck away to Stan’s at least twice a week. Taking their donut break, they called it.
The woman behind the counter offered a donut off the rack, but a fresh batch was coming out of the fryer, so Pollard opted to wait. She brought Holman’s file to one of the outside tables to read while she waited, but found
