“I’m interviewing with private contractors as a security specialist. Marchenko and Parsons have the highest profile of the recent takeover teams, so I need to know those guys inside and out.”
Peter was nodding, going along.
“They hit us twice.”
“Right. They hit you on their fourth and seventh robberies, two of the thirteen.”
“Fucking animals.”
“I need the backstory in detail, but LAPD won’t share their files with a civilian.”
“But you were an FBI agent.”
“From their side I can see it. They have to dot the i’s and cross the t’s, and the Feeb is even worse. Leeds hates it when an agent goes into the private sector. He considers us traitors. But traitor or not, I have two kids to support and I want this job, so if you can help me I’d appreciate it.”
Pollard thought she had done a pretty good job with the subtle hint that the welfare of her children depended upon his cooperation. Most major banks and banking chains had their own security office that worked hand in hand with authorities to identify, locate, and apprehend bank robbers, as well as prevent or deter future robberies. To that end, banks and authorities openly shared information in an ongoing evolution that began with the initial robbery. What was learned during robbery number two or six or nine might very well help the police capture the bandits during robbery number sixteen. Pollard knew this because she had been part of the process herself. The Pacific West security office had likely been copied on all or part of the LAPD’s detail reports as they were developed. They might not have all of it, but they might have some, even if in redacted form.
Peter frowned, and she could tell he was working it through.
“You know, we have security agreements with these agencies.”
“I know. You signed some of those forms for me when I was profiling the Front Line gang and I shared our interview summaries.”
“They’re supposed to be for our internal use and ours alone.”
“If you want me to read them at your security office, that would be fine. They don’t have to leave the premises.”
Pollard held his eyes for a moment, then looked at the Kat the Giant Killer picture. She stared at it for several seconds before looking back at him.
“And if you’d like me to sign a confidentiality agreement, of course I’d be happy to sign it.”
She stared at him, waiting.
“I don’t know, Katherine.”
Pollard sensed the whole effort going south, and suddenly grew worried he might ask LAPD for their permission. His security office had almost daily contact with robbery detectives and FBI agents. If the Robbery Special dicks found out she was running an end-around after they already turned her down, she would be screwed.
She studied the picture again, then took her final shot.
“Those bastards are getting out in two years.”
Peter made a noncommittal shrug that was not encouraging.
“Tell you what. Leave your contact information with my assistant. Let me think about it and I’ll be in touch.”
Peter stood, and Pollard stood with him. She couldn’t think of anything else to say. He walked her out. She left her information, then rode down in the elevator alone, feeling like a brush salesman who had struck out for the day.
Pollard missed her credentials-the badge and commission card that identified her as an agent of the FBI. The creds gave her the weight and moral authority to ask questions and demand answers, and she had never hesitated to knock on any door or ask any question and she had almost always gotten the answers. She felt worse than a brush salesman. She felt like a chiseler stealing sugar packs from a diner. She felt like nothing.
Pollard drove back to the Simi Valley to make dinner for her kids.
27
HOLMAN WATCHED Pollard drive away from the river with a numb feeling in his chest. He hadn’t told her the real reason he had seen her under the bridge. He had been on his way to Chee’s shop. And he had also lied when he told her he had been to the bridge a dozen times. Holman had returned to this place twenty or thirty times. He found himself at the bridge several times every day and two or three times each night. Sometimes he would find himself at the bridge as if he had fallen asleep at the wheel and the car had driven itself. He didn’t always jump the fence. Most times he cruised the bridge without stopping, but other times he parked, leaning far over the rail to see those terrible scrubbed patches from every possible angle. Holman hadn’t told her the truth about those visits, and knew he could never tell anyone, not about his terrible moments with those bright patches of light.
Holman thought through everything he and Pollard talked about, then decided not to go to Chee’s. He still needed to talk to Chee, but he wanted to keep Chee out of the rest of it.
He turned back toward Culver City and called Chee on his cell.
“Homes! ’Sup, bro? How you like those wheels?”
“I wish you hadn’t sent your boys after the old man. It made me look bad.”
“Homes, please! Muthuhfuckuh billin’ you twenty a day for a cop magnet like that, a man in your position! He knew what he was doing, bro-I couldn’t let him get away with that.”
“He’s an old man, Chee. We had a deal. I knew what I was getting into.”
“You knew he had warrants on that piece of shit?”
“No, but that’s not the point-”
“What you want me to do, send him some flowers? Maybe a little note sayin’ I’m sorry?”
“No, but-”
Holman knew he wasn’t going to get anywhere and was already sorry he brought it up. He had more important things to discuss.
“Look, I’m not asking you to do anything, I guess I just wanted to mention it. I know you meant well.”
“I got your back, bro, don’t ever forget that.”
“This other thing, I heard Maria Juarez disappeared.”
“She left her cousins?”
“Yeah. The cops issued a warrant, and now they’re blaming me for making her run. Think you can ask around?”
“Whatever, bro. I’ll see what I can see. You need anything else?”
Holman needed something, but not from Chee.
He said, “Something else. I got fronted by the cops today about this Juarez thing. Have the cops been talking to you?”
“Why would the cops be talkin’ to me?”
Holman told him that Random had mentioned Chee by name. Chee was silent for a moment, and then his voice was quiet.
“I don’t like that, bro.”
“I didn’t like it, either. I don’t know if they’ve been following me or they’re into my phone at the room, but don’t call me on that phone anymore. Just on the cell.”
Holman put down the phone and drove in silence across the city. He spent almost an hour driving from the Fourth Street Bridge to the City of Industry. Traffic always got heavy at the end of the day when people were getting off work. Holman grew worried he would get there too late, but he reached the sign company a few minutes before quitting time.
Holman didn’t turn into the parking lot and he didn’t intend to see Tony Gilbert. He parked in a red zone across the street and stayed in the car, waiting for five o’clock. The workday ended at five.
Holman glanced at his father’s watch with its frozen hands. Maybe that was why he wore it-time had no meaning. He checked the dashboard clock and watched the minutes tick past.
