didn’t react.
She said, “Did you hear me?”
“Yeah.”
“We’re getting close, Holman. We catch a break with these reports or with Whitt being an informant, and everything will come together. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
Pollard got pissed off when he didn’t answer. She was about to say something when Holman finally spoke.
He said, “I guess they did it.”
Pollard realized what was bothering him, but she wasn’t sure what to say. Holman had probably been holding out hope his son wasn’t a bad cop but now that hope was gone.
“We still have to find out what happened.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry, Max.”
Holman kept walking.
When they reached the car, Holman got in without a word, but Pollard tried to be encouraging. She turned the car around and headed back down the canyon into Hollywood, telling him what she hoped to find when they reached Pacific West Bank.
He said, “Listen, I don’t want to go to Chinatown. I’d like you to bring me home.”
Pollard felt another flash of irritation. She felt bad for Holman with what he was going through, but here he was with the big shoulders filling the other side of her car like a giant depressed lump, not even looking at her. He reminded her of herself when she sat in the kitchen staring at the goddamned clock.
She said, “We won’t be at the bank that long.”
“I have something else to do. Just drop me home first.”
They were on Gower heading south to the freeway, stopped at a traffic light. Pollard planned to hop on the 101 for an easy slide into Chinatown.
“Holman, listen, we are close, okay? We are really close to making this case happen.”
He didn’t look at her.
“We can make it happen later.”
“Goddamn it, we’re halfway to Chinatown. If I have to bring you to Culver City it’s really out of the way.”
“Forget it. I’ll ride the fuckin’ bus.”
Holman suddenly pushed open the door and stepped out into traffic. Pollard was caught off guard, but she jammed on the brake.
“Holman!”
Horns blew as Holman trotted across traffic.
“Holman! Would you come back here? What are you doing?”
He didn’t look at her. He kept walking.
“Get back in the car!”
He walked south on Gower toward Hollywood. The cars behind her leaned on their horns and Pollard finally crept forward. She watched Holman walking, wondering what he so badly wanted to do. He no longer moved like a zombie or seemed depressed. Pollard thought he looked furious. She had seen his expression on men before, and it frightened her. Holman looked like he wanted to kill someone.
Pollard didn’t turn onto the freeway. She let the traffic flow around her, then eased to the curb, letting Holman walk, but keeping him in sight.
Holman hadn’t lied about taking the bus. Pollard watched him board a westbound bus on Hollywood Boulevard. Following it was a pain in the ass because it stopped at damn near every corner. Each time it stopped she had to wedge her Subaru to the curb even when there was no place to park, then crane her head to see past pedestrians and vehicles in case Holman got off.
When Holman reached Fairfax he finally stepped off, then caught a Fairfax bus heading south. He stayed on the Fairfax bus to Pico, then changed buses again, once more heading west. Pollard believed Holman was going home like he had said, but she couldn’t be sure and didn’t want to lose him, so she followed him, furious at herself for wasting so much time.
Holman left the bus two blocks from his motel. Pollard was worried he might see her, but he never once looked around. Pollard found that odd, as if he had no awareness of his surroundings or maybe he no longer cared.
When he reached his motel she expected him to go inside, but he didn’t. He continued around the side and got into his car, and then she was following him again.
Holman picked up Sepulveda Boulevard and dropped south through the city. Pollard stayed five or six cars back, following him steadily south until Holman surprised her. He stopped near a freeway off-ramp and bought a bouquet of flowers from one of the vendors who haunt the ramps.
Pollard thought, what in hell is he doing?
She found out a few blocks later when Holman arrived at the cemetery.
39
THE LATE-MORNING sun was breathtakingly hot as Holman turned onto the cemetery grounds. Polished head markers caught the light like coins strewn onto the grass, and the immaculate rolling lawn was so bright Holman squinted behind his sunglasses. The outside temperature gauge on his dashboard showed 98 degrees. The dashboard clock showed 11:19. Holman caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and froze-in that instant, he saw the dated Ray-Ban Wayfarers with his hair shaggy over the temples and was his younger self; the same Holman who ran wild with Chee, doing dope and stealing cars until his life spun out of control. Holman took off the Wayfarers. He must have been stupid, buying the same glasses.
With the midweek morning and the heat, only a few other visitors were scattered throughout the cemetery. A burial was taking place on the far side of the grounds, but only the one, with a small crowd of mourners gathered around a tent.
Holman followed the road up to Donna and parked exactly where he had parked the last time he came. When he opened his car the heat crushed into him like a wave and the glare made him wince. He started to reach for the sunglasses, but thought, no, he didn’t want to remind her of what he used to be.
Holman brought the flowers to her grave. His earlier flowers were now black and brittle. Holman collected the old flowers, then policed the headstone of dead leaves and petals. He took the dead stuff to a trash can by the drive, then brought the fresh flowers back and put them on her grave.
Holman felt badly he hadn’t brought some kind of vase. In this heat, without water, the flowers would be shriveled and dead by the end of the day.
Holman grew even angrier with himself, thinking maybe he was just one of those people who fucked up everything.
He squatted and pressed his hand onto Donna’s marker. The hot metal burned his palm, but Holman pressed harder. He let it burn.
He whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“Holman?”
Holman glanced over his shoulder to see Pollard coming toward him. He pulled himself up.
“What did you think I was going to do, rob a bank?”
Pollard stopped beside him and gazed down at the grave.
“Richard’s mother?”
“Yeah. Donna. I should’ve married this girl, but…you know.”
Holman let it drop. Pollard looked up and seemed to study him.
“You okay?”
“Not so good.”
Holman studied Donna’s name on the marker. Donna Banik. It should have been Holman.
