“What the fuck happened? Why did they arrest him?”
Raul lowered his voice like he didn’t want Marisol to hear, but his voice became strained.
“I don’t know what the fuck happened. They came in this morning with warrants, dogs, fuckin’ assholes with machine guns-”
“The police?”
“LAPD, FBI, SWAT, even the fuckin’ ATF-if it’s in the alphabet they were here. They ate this shit up and took his ass in.”
Holman’s mouth had grown dry, but the phone was slippery in his grip. He watched the parking lot and forced himself to breathe.
“Was he hurt? Is he okay?”
“I don’t know.”
Holman almost shouted.
“Why don’t you know? It’s a simple goddamned question.”
“You think they let us stand around an’ watch, muthuhfuckuh?! My ass was proned out! They brought us here in the fuckin’ office!”
“Okay, okay-take it easy. Warrants for what? What were they looking for?”
“Assault rifles and explosives.”
“Jesus Christ, what was Chee doing?”
“Nothin’, bro! Chee’s not into anything over here, fuckin’ explosives! His daughter works here. You think he’d keep explosives? Chee won’t even let us deal stolen air bags.”
“But they arrested him?”
“Hell, yes. They put him in the car right in front of his daughter.”
“Then they must have found something.”
“I don’t know what the fuck they found. They loaded some shit into a truck. They had the fuckin’ Bomb Squad here, Holman! They had those fuckin’ dogs sniffin’ everywhere, but we didn’t have anything like that.”
A computerized voice came on the line, telling Holman he had only one minute left. Holman was out of quarters. His time was running out.
Holman said, “I gotta go, but one more thing. Did they ask about me? Did they try to connect Chee with me in any way?”
Holman waited for the answer, but the line was already dead. Raul had hung up.
Holman put down the phone and studied the parking lot. He believed Chee had been set up, but he didn’t understand why. Chee didn’t know anything of value about Holman that couldn’t be learned from Gail Manelli or Wally Figg or Tony Gilbert. Holman hadn’t even told Chee about the missing sixteen million and his growing suspicions of a police conspiracy, but maybe someone thought he had; maybe someone thought Chee knew more than he did, and this was their way of trying to make him talk. Thinking about it made Holman’s head hurt. Nothing made sense, so Holman stopped thinking about it. He had more immediate problems. No one was coming to give him a ride and more money and a car. Holman was on his own, and his only hope now was to reach Pollard. Reaching Pollard might be her only hope, too.
Holman went back to the Albertsons. He searched out the produce section, then headed for the rear of the store. Every produce section in every market in America had a swinging door in the back, through which produce clerks could push their carts laden with fruits and vegetables. Behind the door was always a refrigerated room into which the perishables were delivered and stored, and all such rooms had still more doors that opened onto loading docks.
Holman let himself out and was once more behind the shopping center. He returned to the Highlander, opened the rear cargo door, and pulled out the floor mats. The emergency tool kit had a screwdriver, pliers, and a jack handle. Holman hadn’t stolen a car in a dozen years, but he still remembered how.
Holman went back to the parking lot.
42
WHEN POLLARD left Holman at the cemetery she climbed onto the freeway in a confused daze and headed for Chinatown, her head so busy she barely noticed the surrounding cars.
Pollard hadn’t known what to expect when she followed Holman from Hollywood, but he had surprised her yet again. Here was Holman, who allowed himself to get pinched for bank robbery rather than let an old man die. Here was Holman, apologizing to his dead girlfriend for screwing up their son. Pollard hadn’t wanted to leave. She had wanted to stay, just hold his hand and comfort him and lose herself to her feelings.
Pollard’s heart broke when Holman started crying, not so much for him as for herself. Here was Holman, and she knew she could love him. Now, driving away, she fought the frightening suspicion she already did.
Max Holman is a degenerate career criminal ex-con and former drug abuser with no education, no skills, and absolutely no legitimate prospects short of an endless series of minimum-wage jobs. He has no respect for Black Letter law and his only friends are known felons. He will almost certainly end up back in jail within the next year. I have two little boys. What kind of example would he set? What would my mother say? What would everyone say? What if he doesn’t find me attractive?
Pollard arrived at the Pacific West Building in Chinatown forty-five minutes later where Alma Wantanabe, the Pac West operations officer, showed her to a windowless conference room on the third floor. Two institutional blue boxes were waiting on a table.
Wantanabe explained that the LAPD summaries were divided into two distinct groups. One group consisted of divisional files specific to the robberies within those divisions-Newton Division Robbery detectives investigating robberies that had occurred in Newton. The second group of files was compiled by Robbery Special, who had synthesized the divisional reports into their larger, citywide investigation. Pollard knew from experience this was a function of resources. Though Robbery Special had been in charge of the citywide investigation, they employed divisional robbery detectives to pound the pavement on robberies in their local divisions. The divisional detectives then shipped their reports up the food chain to Robbery Special, who worked across divisional boundaries to coordinate and direct a Big Picture investigation.
Wantanabe cautioned her again not to remove or copy any material from the files, then left Pollard alone to work.
Pollard opened her own file for the cover-sheet copies Holman had made before Random confiscated the reports. The cover sheets told Pollard nothing except the case and witness numbers, and the witness numbers told her nothing without the identifying witness list:
Case # 11-621
Witness # 318
Marchenko/Parsons
Interview Summary
Pollard hoped to identify the witnesses through the witness lists, then see what they had to say. She didn’t know the source of the cover sheets, so she started with the box of divisional reports. She emptied the box, then methodically searched for witness lists. She found three lists, but it soon became apparent that the divisional numbering system did not match with her cover sheets. She put the divisional files aside and turned to the Parker Center reports.
Her interest spiked the instant she opened the second box. The first page was a case file introduction signed by the commander of Robbery Special and the two lead detectives in charge of the case. The second lead detective was John B. Random.
Pollard stared at his name. She knew Random from his investigation into the murder of the four police officers. She had assumed he was a homicide detective, yet here he was in charge of a robbery investigation. The same robbery that now overlapped with the murders.
Pollard flipped through the following reports until she found the witness list. It was a thirty-seven-page document listing three hundred forty-six numbered names beginning with witness number one, who was identified as a teller employed at the first bank Marchenko and Parsons robbed. The lowest witness number on Pollard’s
