“Right there.”
Holman followed Cecil’s nod. He was looking at the Beverly Hills branch of Grand California Bank.
49
CECIL PULLED his car to the curb out of the flow of traffic, and stared at the bank as if it were the eighth wonder of the world.
“Marchenko and Parsons hid all that money in a goddamned bank.”
“You want me to rob a bank?”
“They didn’t deposit the goddamned money, dumbass. It’s in twenty-two safe-deposit boxes, the big kind, not those little ones.”
Cecil reached under his seat and took out a soft pouch that tinkled. He dropped it into Holman’s lap and took back the phone.
“Got the keys here, all twenty-two.”
Holman poured the keys into his hand. The name MOSLER was cut into one side along with a seven-digit number. A four-digit number was on the opposite side.
“This is what they hid at the sign.”
“Guess he figured if he got pinched for something, those keys would be safe up there. Wasn’t anything saying which bank, either, but the manufacturer keeps a record. One phone call, I had it.”
Holman stared down at the keys filling his hand. He shifted them like coins. Sixteen million dollars.
Cecil said, “So now you’re thinking, if he had the keys and knew where it was, why didn’t he just go get the money.”
Holman already knew. Every bank manager in L.A. would recognize Cecil and the other Bank Squad agents on sight. A bank employee would have to accompany him into the vault with the master key because safe-deposit boxes always required two keys-the customer’s and the bank’s-and Cecil would have to sign their ledger. Sixteen million spread among twenty-two boxes was a lot of trips in and out of a bank where you were recognized by the employees and everyone knew you were not a customer and had rented no boxes. Cecil would have been questioned. His comings and goings would have been recorded by security cameras. He would have been made.
“I know why you didn’t get the money. I was wondering how much sixteen million dollars weighs.”
“I can tell you exactly. Bank gets hit, they tell us how many of each denomination was lost. Tally that up, you know how many bills; you have four hundred fifty-four bills in a pound, doesn’t matter what denominations-just do the math. This particular sixteen million weighs eleven hundred forty-two pounds.”
Holman considered the bank again, then glanced back at Cecil. The man was still staring at the bank. Holman would have sworn his eyes glittered green.
“Did you go look at it?”
“Went in one time. Opened box thirty-seven-oh-one. Took thirteen thousand dollars and never went back. Too scared.”
Cecil frowned at himself, disgusted.
“Even wore a goddamn pissant disguise.”
Cecil had gold fever. Men in the joint used to talk about it, trying to make their bad decisions sound romantic by comparing themselves to Old West prospectors; men who got high by dreaming about the pot-of-gold score that would set them up. They thought about it until they thought about nothing else; they obsessed on it until it consumed them and they had nothing else in their lives; they became desperate for it until their desperation made them stupid. This idiot was looking at six first-degree murder hits and all he could see was the money. Holman saw his way in. He smiled.
Cecil said, “What are you smiling at?”
“I thought you knew what I was thinking before I thought it.”
“I do. You’re thinking, why on earth did this pathetic motherfucker pick me?”
“That would be right.”
Cecil’s wet eyes hardened with anger.
“Who would you expect me to get, my
Cecil settled back like he had run out of gas, but the gun in his lap never wavered.
Holman considered the gun.
“You’ll be gone. What could you do for Chee?”
“You bring out this money, I’ll give you the man who planted those things-tell you when he got the stuff, where, how-everything you need to clear the boy.”
Holman nodded like he was thinking about it, then stared at the bank. He didn’t want Cecil to read his face. Cecil could shoot him right now or wait until Holman brought out the money, but Cecil was going to shoot him either way-this stuff about dealing for Chee was bullshit. Holman knew it and Cecil probably knew he knew it, but Cecil was so crazy needful of the money he had talked himself into believing it like he talked himself into killing four police officers. Holman thought about pretending to go along so he could get away, but then Cecil might escape. Holman wanted the sonofabitch to answer for killing his son. He was beginning to get an idea how he could do it.
“How do you see this playing out?”
“Go to the customer service manager. Tell’m right up front you’re going to be making a lot of trips-you’re picking up tax records and court documents you put here for safekeeping. Make a joke about it, like how you hope they weren’t going on a coffee break. You know how to lie.”
“Sure.”
“The money in those boxes is still bagged up. You’re going to open four boxes at a time. I figure the bag in each box weighs about fifty pounds, two on each shoulder, two hundred pounds, a big guy like you oughta be able to handle that.”
Holman wasn’t listening. He was thinking about something Pollard told him when they believed Random was the fifth man-if they could put Random with Fowler they would own him. Holman decided if he could put Cecil together with the money, Cecil would never be able to explain it away or beat the conviction.
Holman said, “Twenty-two boxes at four boxes a trip. That’s six trips carrying two hundred pounds of money each time. You think they’re not going to stop me?”
“I’m thinking something is better than nothing. Anything goes wrong, just walk away. You’re not robbing the goddamned place, Holman. Just walk away.”
“What if they want to see in the bags?”
“Keep walking. We get what we get.”
Holman had a plan. He thought he could pull it off if he had enough time. Everything depended on having enough time.
“It’s going to take a long time, man. I hate being in a bank that long. I have bad memories.”
“Fuck your memories. You just think about Chee.”
Holman stared at Cecil like he was the stupidest asshole on earth. He wanted Cecil drunk with knowing the money was so close. He wanted Cecil stoned on gold.
“Fuck Chee. I’m the guy risking his ass. What’s in it for me?”
Cecil stared at him, and Holman pressed forward.
“I want half.”
