him.
“Keep the money, Perry. I’m sorry this happened.”
Holman left the sixty dollars on Perry’s desk and went up to his room. The clunky old window unit had the place like a deep freeze. He looked at Richie’s picture on the bureau, eight years old and smiling. He still had a bad feeling in his stomach that Pollard’s pep talk hadn’t been able to shake.
He turned off the air conditioner, then went downstairs again, hoping to catch Perry still at his desk.
Perry was locking the front door, but stopped when he saw Holman.
Perry said, “That sixty is still on the desk.”
“Then put it in your goddamned pocket. I wouldn’t have you shaken down. My son was a police officer. What would he think if I did something like that?”
“I guess he’d think it was pretty damned low.”
“I guess he would. You keep that sixty. It’s yours.”
Holman went back upstairs and climbed into bed, telling himself that Richie sure as hell would think it was low, shaking an old man for sixty damned dollars.
But saying it didn’t make it so, and sleep did not come.
PART THREE
21
POLLARD HAD NEVER been good in the morning. Every morning for as long as she could remember-months, maybe years-she woke feeling depleted, and dreading the pain of beginning her day. She drank two cups of black coffee just to give herself a pulse.
But when Pollard woke that morning, she jumped her alarm by more than an hour and immediately went to the little desk she had shared with Marty. She had stayed up the night before until almost two, comparing numbers and call times between Fowler’s and Richard Holman’s phone bills, and searching the Internet for information about Marchenko and Parsons. She had reread and organized the material Holman had given her, but was frustrated by not having the complete LAPD reports. She hoped Holman would get them from his daughter-in-law soon. Pollard admired Holman’s commitment to his son. She felt a sudden sense of satisfaction that she had spoken on his behalf to the Assistant U.S. Attorney all those years ago. Leeds had been pissed for a month and a couple of the more cynical agents had told her she was an asshole, but Pollard thought the guy had earned a break, and she felt even more strongly about it now. Holman had been a career criminal, but the evidence suggested he was basically a decent guy.
Pollard reviewed her notes from the night before, then set about drawing up a work plan for the day. She was still working on it when her oldest son, David, pushed at her arm. David was seven and looked like a miniature version of Marty.
“Mom! We’re gonna be late for camp!”
Pollard glanced at her watch. It was ten before eight. The camp bus arrived at eight. She hadn’t even made coffee or felt the time pass, and she had been working for more than an hour.
“Is your brother dressed?”
“He won’t come out of the bathroom.”
“Lyle! Get him dressed, David.”
She pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, then slammed together two bologna sandwiches.
“David, is Lyle ready?”
“He won’t get dressed!”
Lyle, who was six, shouted over his brother.
“I hate camp! They stick us with pins!”
Pollard heard the fax phone ring as she was packing the sandwiches into lunch-size paper bags. She ran back to the office bedroom to see the first page emerging. She smiled when she saw the FBI emblem cover page-April was delivering the goods.
Pollard ran back to the kitchen, topped off the sandwiches with two containers of fruit cocktail, two bags of Cheetos, and a couple of boxes of juice.
David pounded breathlessly in from the living room.
“Mom! I can hear the bus! They’re gonna leave us!”
Everything had to be a drama.
Pollard sent David out to stop the bus, then forced a T-shirt over Lyle’s head. She had Lyle and the lunches through the front door just as the bus rumbled to a stop.
Lyle said, “I miss Daddy.”
Pollard looked down at him, all hurt eyes and knotted frown, then squatted so they would be the same height. She touched his cheek, and thought it was as soft as when he was newborn. Where David looked like his father, Lyle looked like her.
“I know you do, baby.”
“I dreamed he got eaten by a monster.”
“That must have been very scary. You should have come into bed with me.”
“You kick and toss.”
The bus driver beeped his horn. He had a schedule to keep.
Pollard said, “I miss him, too, little man. What are we going to do about that?”
It was a script they had played before.
“Keep him in our hearts?”
Pollard smiled and touched her youngest son’s chest.
“Yeah. He’s right here in your heart. Now let’s get you on the bus.”
The pebbles and grit on the driveway hurt Pollard’s bare feet as she walked Lyle to the bus. She kissed her boys, saw them away, then hurried back to the house. She went directly back to work and skimmed through the fax. April had sent sixteen pages, including a witness list, interview summaries, and a case summation. The witness list contained names, addresses, and phone numbers, which was what Pollard wanted. Pollard was going to compare the numbers against the calls that appeared on Richard Holman’s and Mike Fowler’s phone bills. If Holman or Fowler were running their own investigation into Marchenko and Parsons, they would have called the witnesses. If so, Pollard would ask the witness what they talked about, and then Pollard would know.
She called her mother and arranged for her to stay with the boys when they got home from camp.
Her mother said, “Why are you spending so much time in the city all of a sudden? Did you take a job?”
She had always resented her mother’s questions. Thirty-six years old, and her mother still questioned her.
“I have things to do. I’m busy.”
“Doing what? Are you seeing a man?”
“You’ll be here at one, right? You’ll stay with the boys?”
“I hope you’re seeing a man. You have to think of those boys.”
“Goodbye, Mom.”
“Go easy on the desserts, Katherine. Your bottom isn’t as small as it used to be.”
Pollard hung up and went back to her desk. She still hadn’t made coffee, but she didn’t take the time to make it now. She didn’t need the coffee.
She sat down with her case plan, then paged through all the documents she had read and reread the night before. She studied the map of the crime scene that Holman had sketched, then compared it with the drawing that had appeared in the Times. The Feeb had taught her that all investigations begin at the crime scene, so she knew she would have to make the drive. She would have to see for herself. Alone there in her little house in the Simi
