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,
“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.
32
POLLARD CALLED IT the blood tingle. She blasted up the Hollywood Freeway, high-fiving the dashboard and pumping her fist, feeling the electric buzz in her fingers and legs that had always come with making a breakthrough in a case-the blood tingle. Now she wasn’t just covering someone else’s old case notes-the girlfriend was new. Pollard had turned a new lead and now the investigation felt totally hers.
She called April Sanders as she hit Hollywood and climbed the Cahuenga Pass.
“Hey, girl, can you talk?”
April came back whispering so softly Pollard could barely understand.
“Office. You got more donuts?”
“I have an out-of-service phone number and I’m in my car. Can you pull the subscriber for me?”
“Yeah, I think-hang on.”
Pollard smiled. She knew Sanders would be peeking out of her cubicle to make sure she wasn’t being watched.
“Yeah, sure. What is it?”
Pollard read off the number.
“Three-ten area code.”
“Stand by. I show a Verizon account for one Alison Whitt, W-HI-T-T, billed to what looks like a Hollywood POB. You want it?”
“Yeah. Go.”
The address appeared to be a private mailbox service on Sunset Boulevard.
“What was the date of termination?”
“Last week…six days ago.”
Pollard thought about it. If Fowler had discovered her number at about the time he visited Leyla Marchenko he would have been able to contact her. Maybe Fowler’s contact is why she dropped the number.
“April, see if she has a new listing.”
“Ah…hang on. No, negative. No Alison Whitt in the listings.”
Pollard found the absence of a new listing notable but not unusual. Unlisted numbers didn’t show on the regular database, so Whitt’s new number might be unlisted. Also, it was possible Whitt had taken a number under a different name or was sharing a phone billed to another party. The bad news was that none of this would help Pollard find her.
“Listen, one more thing. I hate to ask, but could you check this girl in the system?”
“The NCIC?”
“Whatever. The DMV should be fine. I’m trying to find her.”
“Is this something I should know about?”
“If it turns out to be I’ll let you know.”
Sanders hesitated, and Pollard thought she might be peeking at the office again. Running a government database check couldn’t be handled at her desk. Sanders returned to the line.
“I can’t right now. Leeds is here but I can’t see him. I don’t want him to ask what I’m doing.”
“So call me later.”
“Out.”
Pollard felt good about the progress she was making. The disconnection of Alison’s phone number so close in time to Fowler’s questioning of Mrs. Marchenko was too coincidental. Coincidences occurred, but, like all cops, Pollard had learned to be suspicious of them. She put down her phone, anxious to go through Fowler’s phone records and hear back from Sanders. If Sanders struck out, Pollard knew she could try for contact information through the mailbox service. Learning anything from the mail service would be difficult without her creds, but it left
