The Two Minute Rule Part 26

"Listen, I want to thank you again for going to all this trouble. I didn't mean to put my foot in it back there."

"You're welcome. Forget it."

"I know you already said no, but I'd like to pay you something. At least gas money since you won't let me drive."

"If we have to get gas I'll let you pay. Will that make you feel better?"

"I'm not trying to be a pain. I just feel bad with you putting in so much time."

Pollard didn't respond.

"Your husband doesn't mind you spending all this time?"

"Let's not talk about my husband."

Holman sensed he had stepped over a line with her, so he backed off and fell silent. He had noticed she didn't wear a ring the first time he saw her at Starbucks, but she had mentioned her kids so he didn't know what to make of it. Now he regretted bringing it up.

They drove on without speaking. As they crossed the river, Holman tried to see the Fourth Street Bridge, but it was too far away. He was surprised when Pollard suddenly spoke.

"I don't have a husband. He's dead."

"Sorry. It was none of my business."

"It sounds worse than it was. We were separated. We were on our way to a divorce we both wanted."

Pollard shrugged, but still didn't look at him.

"How about you? How'd it go between you and your wife?"

"Richie's mom?"

"Yeah."

"We never got married."

"Typical."

"If I could go back and do it all over again I would have married her, but that was me. I didn't learn my lesson until I was in prison."

"Some people never learn, Holman. At least you figured it out. Maybe you're ahead of the curve."

Holman had been spiraling down into the inevitable funk, but when he glanced over he saw Pollard smiling.

She said, "I can't believe you went back to fix her fan."

Holman shrugged.

"That was cool, Holman. That was very, very cool."

Holman watched Union Station swing into view and realized he was smiling, too.

Chapter 31.

HOLMAN DIDN'T immediately leave Union Station when Pollard dropped him off. He waited until she had gone, then walked across to Olvera Street. A Mexican dance troop garbed in brilliant feathers was performing Toltec dances to the rhythms of a beating drum. The drumbeats were fast and primitive, and the dancers soared around each other so quickly they appeared to be flying.

Holman watched for a while, then bought a churro and moved through the crowd. Tourists from all over the world crowded the alleys and shops, buying sombreros and Mexican handicrafts. Holman drifted among them. He breathed the air and felt the sun and enjoyed the churro. He wandered along a row of shops, stopping in some when the notion struck him and bypa.s.sing others. Holman felt a lightness he hadn't known in a while. When long-term convicts were first released they often experienced a form of agoraphobia--a fear of open s.p.a.ces. The prison counselors had a special name for this type of agoraphobia when they attributed it to convicts--the fear of life. Freedom gave a man choices and choices could be terrifying. Every choice was a potential failure. Every choice could be another step back toward prison. Choices as simple as leaving a room or asking for directions could leave a man humiliated and unable to act. But now Holman felt the lightness and knew he was putting the fear behind him. He was becoming free again and it felt good.

It occurred to him he could have asked Pollard to join him for lunch. Since she wasn't letting him pay for her time he should have offered to buy her a sandwich. He imagined the two of them having a French Dip at Philippe's or a taco plate at one of the Mexican restaurants, but then he realized he was being stupid. She would have taken it wrong and probably wouldn't have seen him again. Holman told himself to be careful with stuff like that. Maybe he wasn't as free as he thought.

Holman no longer felt hungry, so he picked up his car and was heading for home when his phone rang. He hoped it was Pollard, but the caller ID window showed it was Chee. Holman opened the phone.

"Hey, bro."

"Where are you, Holman?"

Chee's voice was quiet.

"On my way home. I just left Union Station."

"Come see me, bro. Drop around the shop."

Holman wasn't liking how Chee sounded.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. Just come see me, okay?"

Holman was certain that something was wrong and he wondered if it had to do with Random.

"Are you all right?"

"I'll be waiting."

Chee hung up without waiting for an answer.

Holman picked up the freeway and headed south. He wanted to call Chee back, but he knew Chee would have already told him if he wanted to say it over the phone, and that worried him even more.

When he reached Chee's shop he pulled into the lot and was parking his car when Chee came out. As soon as Holman saw him he knew it was bad. Chee's face was grim, and he didn't wait for Holman to park. He motioned Holman to stop, then climbed into the pa.s.senger seat.

"Let's take a little drive, bro. Swing on around the block."

"What's wrong?"

"Just drive, bro. Get away from this place."

As they pulled into traffic, Chee swiveled his head left and right as if searching the surrounding cars. He adjusted the outside pa.s.senger mirror so he could see behind them.

He said, "It was the cops told you Maria Juarez went on the run?"

"Yeah. They put out a warrant."

"That's bulls.h.i.+t, man. They fed you bulls.h.i.+t."

"What are you talking about?"

"She didn't go on the run, bro. The f.u.c.kin' cops took her."

"They said she split. They put out a warrant."

"Night before last?"

"Yeah, it would've been--yeah, the night before last."

"Their warrant can kiss my a.s.s. They bagged her in the middle of the night. Some people over there, they saw it happen, ese. They heard the noise and saw these two muthuhf.u.c.kuhs shove her in a car."

"A police car?"

"A car car."

"How do they know it was the police?"

"It was that red-haired guy, homes--that same f.u.c.kin' guy who jumped you. That's how they know. These are the people who told me that you got bagged, homes! They said it was the same f.u.c.kin' guy who grabbed you."

Holman drove in silence for a while. The red-haired man was Vukovich, and Vukovich worked for Random.

"They get the plate?"

"No, man, that time of night?"

"What kind of car?"

"Dark blue or brown Crown Victoria. You tell me anyone who drives a Crown Vic but the cops?"

Holman fell silent, and Chee shook his head.

"What the f.u.c.k are those cops doin', homes? What you got into?"

Holman kept driving. He was thinking. He had to tell Pollard.

Chapter 32.

POLLARD CALLED IT the blood tingle. She blasted up the Hollywood Freeway, high-fiving the dashboard and pumping her fist, feeling the electric buzz in her fingers and legs that had always come with making a breakthrough in a case--the blood tingle. Now she wasn't just covering someone else's old case notes--the girlfriend was new. Pollard had turned a new lead and now the investigation felt totally hers.

She called April Sanders as she hit Hollywood and climbed the Cahuenga Pa.s.s.

"Hey, girl, can you talk?"

April came back whispering so softly Pollard could barely understand.

"Office. You got more donuts?"

"I have an out-of-service phone number and I'm in my car. Can you pull the subscriber for me?"

"Yeah, I think--hang on."

Pollard smiled. She knew Sanders would be peeking out of her cubicle to make sure she wasn't being watched.

"Yeah, sure. What is it?"

Pollard read off the number.

"Three-ten area code."

"Stand by. I show a Verizon account for one Alison Whitt, W-HI-T-T, billed to what looks like a Hollywood POB. You want it?"

"Yeah. Go."

The address appeared to be a private mailbox service on Sunset Boulevard.

"What was the date of termination?"

"Last week...six days ago."

Pollard thought about it. If Fowler had discovered her number at about the time he visited Leyla Marchenko he would have been able to contact her. Maybe Fowler's contact is why she dropped the number.

"April, see if she has a new listing."

"Ah...hang on. No, negative. No Alison Whitt in the listings."

Pollard found the absence of a new listing notable but not unusual. Unlisted numbers didn't show on the regular database, so Whitt's new number might be unlisted. Also, it was possible Whitt had taken a number under a different name or was sharing a phone billed to another party. The bad news was that none of this would help Pollard find her.

"Listen, one more thing. I hate to ask, but could you check this girl in the system?"

"The NCIC?"

"Whatever. The DMV should be fine. I'm trying to find her."