The Two Minute Rule Part 15

"Marchenko and Parsons are dead. Don't call me again, ex-Agent Pollard."

The phone went dead in her ear.

Pollard sat with her dead phone and cold donut, reviewing their conversation. Fitch had repeatedly told her Marchenko and Parsons were dead, but he hadn't denied that an investigation was ongoing. She wondered why and thought she might know how to find out. She opened her cell phone again and called April Sanders.

"Special Agent Sanders."

"Guess where I am."

Sanders lowered her voice. This had always been Sanders' habit when taking a personal call. They hadn't spoken since Marty's death and Pollard was pleased to see that Sanders hadn't changed.

"Oh my G.o.d--is that really you?"

"Are you in the office?"

"Yeah, but not much longer. Are you here?"

"I'm at Stan's with your name on a dozen donuts. Send down a badge."

The Federal Building in Westwood was headquarters for the eleven hundred FBI agents serving Los Angeles and the surrounding counties. It was a single steel-and-gla.s.s tower set amid acres of parking lots on some of the most expensive real estate in America. The agents often joked that the United States could retire its national debt by converting their offices to condos.

Pollard parked in the civilian lot, then cleared the lobby security station to wait for her escort. It was no longer enough for someone to call down a pa.s.s. Pollard couldn't just board an elevator and punch the b.u.t.ton for any of the eight floors occupied by the FBI; visitors and agents had to swipe their security cards and enter a valid badge number before the elevator would move.

A few moments later an elevator opened and a civilian employee stepped out. He recognized Pollard by the box from Stan's and held the door.

"Miss Pollard?"

"That's me."

"You going to Banks, right?"

"That's right."

Officially, it was known as the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Los Angeles Field Office, Bank Squad, but the agents who worked there called it Banks. Pollard's escort showed her to the thirteenth floor, then let her through a code-locked door. Pollard hadn't been through the door in eight years. She felt as if she had never left.

The Bank Squad occupied a large modern office s.p.a.ce cut into s.p.a.cious cubicles by sea-green part.i.tions. The offices were neat, clean, and corporate, and might have belonged to an insurance firm or a FORTUNE 500 company except for the mug shots of L.A.'s ten most wanted bank robbers hanging on the wall. Pollard smiled when she saw the mug shots. Someone had stuck Post-it notes on the top three suspects, naming them Larry, Moe, and Curly.

Los Angeles and the surrounding seven counties were hit by an average of more than six hundred bank robberies every year--which meant three bank robberies each and every business day, five days per week, fifty-two weeks per year (bank robbers kicked back on Sat.u.r.day and Sunday when most banks were closed). So many banks were being robbed that most of the ten elite Special Agents who worked Banks were always out in the field at any given time and today was no different. Pollard saw only three people when she entered. A bald, light-skinned African-American agent named Bill Cecil was locked in conversation with a young agent Pollard didn't recognize. Cecil smiled when he saw her as April Sanders rushed forward.

Sanders, looking panicked, covered her mouth in case lip-readers were watching. Sanders was a profound paranoid. She believed her calls were monitored, her e-mails were read, and the women's bathroom was bugged. She believed the men's bathroom was bugged, too, but that didn't concern her.

She whispered, "I should have warned you. Leeds is here."

Christopher Leeds was the Bank Squad supervisor. He had run the squad with a brilliant hand for almost twenty years.

Pollard said, "You don't have to whisper. I'm okay with Leeds."

"Shh!"

"No one's listening, April."

They both glanced around to find Cecil and his partner cupping their ears, listening. Pollard laughed.

"Stop it, Big Bill."

Big Bill Cecil slowly rose to his feet. Cecil was not a tall man; he was called Big Bill because he was wide. He had been on the Bank Squad longer than anyone except Leeds.

"Good to see you, lady. How are those babies?"

Cecil had always called her lady. When Pollard first joined the squad, Leeds--then as now--was as much a nightmare tyrant as he was brilliant. Cecil had taken her under his wing, counseled and consoled her, and taught her how to survive Leeds' exacting demands. Cecil was one of the kindest men she had ever known.

"They're good, Bill, thanks. You're getting fat."

Cecil eyed the donut box.

"I'm about to get fatter. One of those has my name on it, I hope."

Pollard held the box for Cecil and his partner, who introduced himself as Kevin Delaney.

They were still chatting when Leeds came around the corner. Delaney immediately returned to his desk and Sanders went back to her cubicle. Cecil, who was ripe for his pension, turned his letterbox smile on his boss.

"Hey, Chris. Look who came to visit."

Leeds was a tall humorless man known for immaculate suits and his brilliance in patterning serial bandits. Serial robbers were hunted in much the same way as serial killers. They were profiled to establish their patterns, and once their patterns were recognized, predictions were made as to when and where they would strike again. Leeds was a legendary profiler. Banks were his pa.s.sion, and the agents who worked on the squad were his handpicked children. Everyone arrived before him; no one left until Leeds left. And Leeds rarely left. The workload was horrendous, but the FBI's L.A. Bank Squad was the top of the game, and Leeds knew it. Working with the squad was an honor. When Pollard resigned, Leeds had taken it as a personal rejection. The day she cleared her desk, he refused to speak to her.

Now he studied her as if he couldn't place her, but then he nodded.

"h.e.l.lo, Katherine."

"Hey, Chris. I stopped by to say h.e.l.lo. How've you been?"

"Busy."

He glanced across the room at Sanders.

"I want you with Dugan in Montclair. He needs help with the one-on-ones. You should have left ten minutes ago."

One-on-ones were the face-to-face interviews of possible witnesses. Local shopkeepers, workmen, and pedestrians were questioned in hopes they could provide a description of the suspects or their vehicle.

Sanders peeked over the top of her cubicle.

"On it, boss."

He turned to Cecil and tapped his watch.

"Meeting. Let's go."

Cecil and Delaney hurried toward the door, but Leeds turned back to Pollard.

He said, "I appreciated the card. Thank you."

"I was sorry when I heard."

Leeds' wife had died three years ago, almost two months exactly after Marty. When Pollard heard, she had written a short note. Leeds had never responded.

"It was good to see you, Katherine. I hope you still feel you made the right decision."

Leeds didn't wait for her to respond. He followed Cecil and Delaney out the door like a grave digger on his way to church.

Pollard brought the donuts to Sanders' cubicle.

"Man, some things never change."

Sanders reached for the box.

"I wish I could say the same about my a.s.s."

They laughed and enjoyed the moment, but then Sanders frowned.

"s.h.i.+t, you heard what he said. I'm sorry, Kat, I gotta roll."

"Listen, I didn't stop by just to bring donuts. I need some information."

Sanders looked suspicious, then lowered her voice again.

"We should eat. Eating will distort our voices."

"Yeah, let's eat."

They fished out a couple of donuts.

Pollard said, "Did you guys close the Marchenko and Parsons case?"

Sanders spoke with her mouth full.

"They're dead, man. Those guys were iced. Why you want to know about Marchenko and Parsons?"

Pollard knew Sanders would ask, and had worried over how she should answer. Sanders had been on the squad when they tracked and busted Holman. Even though Holman had earned their respect with how he went down, many of the agents had grown resentful because of the publicity he got when the Times dubbed him the Hero Bandit. Within the squad, Holman's name had been the Beach b.u.m Bandit because of his dark tan, Tommy Bahama s.h.i.+rts, and shades. Bank robbers were not heroes.

She said, "I took a job. Raising two kids is expensive."

Pollard didn't want to lie, but she didn't see any other way around it. And it wasn't like it was totally a lie. It was almost the truth.

Sanders finished her first donut and started a second.

"So where are you working?"

"It's a private job, banking security, that kind of thing."

Sanders nodded. Retired agents often took jobs with security firms or the smaller banking chains.

Pollard said, "Anyway, I was told that LAPD was still running a case. You know anything about that?"

"No. Why would they?"

"That's what I was hoping you could tell me."

"We're not. They're not. It's a done deal."

"You sure?"

"Run a case for what? We bagged'm. Marchenko and Parsons had no accomplices inside or outside the banks. We ran this thing, man--I mean we ran it--so we know. We found no evidence of any other party being involved either before or after the fact, so there was no reason to continue the investigation. LAPD knows that."

Pollard thought back over her conversation with Holman.

"Were Marchenko and Parsons plugged in with the Frogtown gang?"

"Nope. Never came up."

"Any gangs other than Frogtown?"

Sanders pinched her donut between her thumb and forefinger, and ticked off the points she wanted to make on her remaining fingers.

"We questioned Marchenko's mother, their landlord, their mailman, some dork at a video store they frequented, and the neighbors at their apartment house. These guys had no friends or a.s.sociates. They didn't tell anyone--not anyone--what they were doing, so they sure as h.e.l.l had no accomplices. And, except for a somewhat cheesy collection of gold necklaces and a two-thousand-dollar Rolex, they sat on the money. No flashy cars, no diamond rings--they lived in a dump."

"They must have spent something. You only recovered nine hundred K."

Nine hundred thousand was a lot of cash, but Marchenko and Parsons had hit twelve vaults. Pollard had done the math when she read the articles at Stan's. Teller drawers could yield a couple of thousand at most, but a vault could net two or three hundred thousand and sometimes more. If Marchenko and Parsons scored three hundred K from each of the twelve vaults, that was 3.6 million, which left two and half million missing. Pollard hadn't found this unusual because she had once bagged a thief who spent twenty thousand a night on strippers and lap dances, and a South Central gang who had flown to Vegas after their scores for two-hundred-thousand-dollar orgies of chartered jets, crack, and Texas Hold'em. Pollard a.s.sumed that Marchenko and Parsons had blown the missing money.

Sanders finished her donut.

"No, they didn't blow it. They hid it. That nine we got was a freak scene. Parsons made up a little bed with it. He liked to sleep on it and jerk off."

"How much was their take?"

"Sixteen-point-two million, less the nine."

Pollard whistled.

"Jesus Christ, that's a lot. What did they do with it?"

Sanders eyed the remaining donuts, but finally closed the box.

"We found no evidence of purchases, deposits, fund transfers, gifts--nothing; no receipts, no conspicuous consumption. We ran their phone calls for the entire year, investigating everyone they called--nothing. We worked that old lady--Marchenko's mother, man, what a nasty b.i.t.c.h she is, a Ukrainian? Leeds thought for sure she knew what was up, but you know what? At the end of the day we cleared her. She couldn't even afford to buy medicine. We don't know what they did with the money. It's probably sitting in a storage shed somewhere."

"So you let it drop?"

"Sure. We did what we could."