“Keys. They found twenty-two keys in a blue metal thermos bottle.”
“Just keys? What kind of keys?”
“Rich didn’t see them. It was Fowler who opened the thermos. He told the others what they had, but kept them in his possession.”
“There was nothing about how to find the locks?”
“Just the keys. The next day, Fowler told the others that his partner thought maybe he could figure out what the keys opened. We believe that’s why the meeting was called on the night they were murdered. The last report I got from Rich, he said everyone thought they were going to learn about the money.”
Pollard was thinking about the keys when she realized almost everything Random knew came from Rich Holman. If Fowler shared the wealth, then Rich passed it on to Random, but Fowler had protected his partner. He kept secrets. Pollard suddenly wondered if she didn’t know more about this case than Random.
“Do you know why Marchenko hid those keys at the Hollywood Sign?”
Pollard could see by his expression he didn’t have a clue. He shrugged, guessing at the reason.
“Remote. Close to his apartment.”
“Alison Whitt.”
Random was lost.
“Alison Whitt was a prostitute. Marchenko used to have sex with her up at the sign. You didn’t know this?”
Vukovich shook his head.
“That’s not possible. We interviewed everyone even remotely connected to Marchenko and Parsons. Everyone we talked to said these clowns were eunuchs. They didn’t even have male friends.”
“Holman and I learned about her from Marchenko’s mother. Random, listen to this-approximately a week before the murders, Fowler and another man went to see Marchenko’s mother. They went specifically to ask about Alison Whitt. The man with Fowler that day wasn’t Rich or Mellon or Ash. He must have been Fowler’s partner. She didn’t have a name for him, but you could work her with an artist.”
Random shot a glance at Vukovich.
“Call Fuentes. Have someone go with an artist.”
Vukovich turned away again with his cell phone as Random turned back to Pollard.
“What’s the story on Whitt?”
“Bad. She was murdered on the same night as the others. Whitt’s the connection here, Random. Holman and I learned about her from Mrs. Marchenko, but Fowler and his friend knew about Whitt
“Waitaminute-how did you find out all this if Whitt was already dead?”
Pollard told him about Marki Collen and the Mayan Grille and Alison Whitt’s stories about Marchenko. Random took out a pad and made notes. When she finished, Random studied what he had written.
“I’ll check her out.”
“You won’t find anything. I had a friend at the Feeb run her name through the roster at Parker. She isn’t on your list.”
Random made a dark smile.
“Thank your friend, but I’ll check it myself.”
Random took out his phone and went to the window as he made his call. While he was talking, Vukovich returned to Pollard.
“Got word on your boy, Chee. It was a righteous bust. Bomb Squad got a tip from the Feeb and rolled in with Metro. They pulled six pounds of C-4 plastic explosive and some det cord out of his shop.”
Pollard stared at Vukovich, then looked at Random, but Random was still talking on his phone.
“The FBI put them onto this?”
“What the man said. Part of a conspiracy investigation, he said, so they rolled over to check it out.”
“When did the call go in?”
“This morning. Early sometime. Is that important?”
Pollard shook her head, feeling a numbness settle low in her legs.
“You sure it was the Feeb?”
“What the man said.”
The numbness spread up into her body.
Random finished his call, then took a business card from his wallet and brought it to Pollard.
“Holman will want to talk to me. That’s okay. Once you reach him, call me, but you have to make him understand he has to back off. That’s imperative here. You can’t tell anyone what I’ve said, and Holman can’t tell his daughter-in-law. You see why we’re playing it like this, don’t you? I hope to Christ it’s not already too late.”
Pollard nodded, but she wasn’t thinking about how Random was playing it. She waited stiffly at the door as they walked away, then turned to face the emptiness of her home. Pollard didn’t believe in coincidence. They taught it at Quantico and she had learned it over hundreds of investigations-coincidence did not occur.
A tip from the Feeb.
Pollard went to her bedroom and dragged a chair into her closet. She pulled the box from her high shelf, the highest shelf where the boys couldn’t reach, and took down her gun.
Pollard knew she might have made a grave and serious mistake. Marki told them Whitt was a registered informant with a cop taking care of her, but “cop” didn’t necessarily mean a policeman and LAPD wasn’t the only law enforcement agency using registered informants. Sheriffs, Secret Service agents, U.S. Marshals, and ATF agents all thought of themselves as cops, and all of them employed registered informants.
Alison Whitt could have been an informant for the FBI. And if she had-
The fifth man was an FBI agent.
Pollard hurried out into the heat and drove into Westwood.
47
REGISTERED INFORMANTS could be and often were integral in solving crimes and obtaining indictments. The information they provided and their methods of obtaining it were included as part of the legal record in investigators’ reports, writs, warrants, grand jury indictments, motions, briefs, and ultimately trials. The true names of informants were never used, as many of these documents were in the public record. In all such documents, the informant’s name was replaced by a number. This number was the informant’s code number, and the codes-along with investigators’ reports regarding the informant’s reliability and pay vouchers when informants were paid for their information-were held under lock and key to protect the anonymity of the informants. Where and how this list was safeguarded varied by agency, but no one was guarding nuclear launch codes; all an agent had to do was ask his boss for the key.
Pollard had used informants only four times during her three years on the Squad. On each of those four occasions she had requested the Bank Squad’s informant list from Leeds and watched him open a locked file cabinet in which he stored the papers. Each time, he used a brass key taken from a small box he kept in his upper right-hand desk drawer. Pollard didn’t know if the box and the key and the file would be in their same places after eight years, but Sanders would know.
The sky over Westwood was a brilliant clear blue when Pollard rolled into the parking lot. It was eight minutes after two. The black tower shimmered against the sky; an optical trick played by the sun.
Pollard studied the tower. She tried telling herself this was the one-in-a-million chance when a coincidence was just a coincidence, but she didn’t believe it. Alison Whitt’s name was going to be on a form in Leeds’ office. The agent who recruited and used her was almost certainly responsible for murdering six people. That agent might be anyone.
Pollard finally opened her phone to call Sanders. She needed a pass into the building, but Sanders did not answer. Her voice mail picked up on the first ring, indicating Sanders was probably at a crime scene interviewing
