"The Two Minute Rule" - читать интересную книгу автора (Crais Robert)

12

THE NEXT MORNING, Holman climbed out of bed at a quarter past five. His back hurt from the crappy mattress and a fitful night’s sleep. He decided he either had to sandwich a board between the mattress and springs or pull the mattress onto the floor. The beds at Lompoc were better.

He went down for a paper and chocolate milk, then returned to his room to read the newspaper accounts of last night’s developments.

The newspaper reported that three boys had discovered Juarez’s body in an abandoned house in Cypress Park less than one mile from Juarez’s home. The newspaper showed a picture of the three boys posing outside a dilapidated house with police officers in the background. One of the officers looked like Random, but the photo was too grainy for Holman to be sure. Police stated that a neighbor living near the abandoned house reported hearing a gunshot early during the morning following the murders. Holman wondered why the neighbor hadn’t called the police when he first heard the shot, but let it go. He knew from personal experience that people heard things all the time they didn’t report; silence was a thief’s best friend.

Statements made by both the boys and officers at the scene described Juarez as having been seated on the floor with his back to a wall and a twelve-gauge shotgun clutched in his right hand. A representative of the coroner’s office stated that death appeared instantaneous from a massive head wound fired upward through the deceased’s jaw. Holman knew from Random’s description that the shotgun was short, so Juarez could easily have tucked it up under his chin. Holman pictured the body and decided Juarez’s finger had been caught in the trigger guard or else the shotgun would have kicked free. The buckshot would have blown out the top of his head and likely taken most of his face with it. Holman could picture the body easily enough, but something about it troubled him and he wasn’t sure why. He continued reading.

The article spent a few paragraphs explaining the connection between Warren Juarez and Michael Fowler, but offered nothing Holman hadn’t learned from Random and Vukovich. Holman knew men serving life sentences because they killed other men for offenses much less than the death of a sibling; veteranos who didn’t regret a day of their time because their notion of pride had demanded no other response. Holman was thinking of these men when he realized what bothered him about the nature of Juarez’s death. Suicide didn’t jibe with the man Maria Juarez had described. Random had suggested that Juarez and his wife made the video the morning after the murders. If Random was right, Juarez had committed the murders, spent the next morning giving his daughter donkey rides and mugging for the camera, then fled to the abandoned house where he had grown so despondent that he killed himself. Mugging and donkey rides didn’t add up to suicide. Juarez would have had the admiration of his homies for avenging his brother’s death and his daughter would have been protected by them like a queen. Juarez had plenty to live for even if he had to spend the rest of his life behind bars.

Holman was still thinking about it when the six A.M. news opened with the same story. He put aside the paper to watch taped coverage of the press conference that had been held the night before while Holman was being interrogated. Assistant Chief Donnelly did most of the talking again, but this time Holman recognized Random in the background.

Holman was still watching when his phone rang. The sudden noise startled him and he lurched as if he had been shocked. This was the first phone call he had received since he was arrested in the bank. Holman answered tentatively.

“Hello?”

“Bro! I thought you was in jail, homes! I heard you got busted!”

Holman hesitated, then realized what Chee meant.

“You mean last night?”

“MuthuhfuckinHolman! What you think I mean? The whole neighborhood saw you get hooked up, homes! I thought they violated your ass! Whatchu do over there?”

“I just talked to the lady. No law against knocking on a door.”

“Muthuhfuckin’ muthuhfucker! I oughta come over there kick your ass myself, worryin’ me like this! I got your back, homes! I got your back!”

“I’m okay, bro. They just talked to me.”

“You need a lawyer? I can set you up.”

“I’m okay, man.”

“You kill her old man?”

“I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

“I thought for sure that was you, homes.”

“He killed himself.”

“I didn’t believe that suicide shit. I figured you took his ass out.”

Holman didn’t know what to say, so he changed the subject.

“Hey, Chee. I’ve been renting a guy’s car for twenty dollars a day and it’s killing me. Could you set me up with some wheels?”

“Sure, bro, whatever you want.”

“I don’t have a driver’s license.”

“I can take care of you. All we need is the picture.”

“A real one from the DMV.”

“I got you covered, bro. I even got the camera.”

In the day, Chee had fabricated driver’s licenses, green cards, and Social Security cards for his uncles. Apparently, he still had the skills.

Holman made arrangements to stop by later, then hung up. He showered and dressed, then pushed his remaining clothes into a grocery bag, intending to find a Laundromat. It was six-fifty when he left his room.

Richie’s address was a four-story courtyard apartment south of Wilshire Boulevard in Westwood near UCLA. Since the address dated from Donna’s burial almost two years before, Holman had spent much of the night worried that Richie had moved. He debated using the phone number, but Richie’s wife had not called, so it was clear she wanted no contact. If Holman phoned now and reached her, she might refuse to see him and might even call the police. Holman figured his best chance was to catch her early and not warn her he was coming. If she still lived there.

The building’s main entrance was a glass security door that required a key. Mailboxes were on the street side of the door, along with a security phone so guests could call to be buzzed in by the tenants. Holman went to the boxes and searched through the apartment numbers, hoping to find his son’s name on 216.

He did.

HOLMAN.

Donna had given the boy Holman’s name even though they weren’t married, and seeing it now moved him. He touched the name-HOLMAN-thinking, this was my son. He felt an angry ache in his chest and abruptly turned away.

Holman waited by the security door for almost ten minutes until a young Asian man with a book bag pushed open the door on his way out to class. Holman caught the door before it closed and let himself in.

The interior courtyard was small and filled with lush bird-of-paradise plants. The inside of the building was ringed with exposed walkways which could be reached by a common elevator that opened into the courtyard or by an adjoining staircase. Holman used the stairs. He climbed to the second floor, then followed the numbers until he found 216. He knocked lightly, then knocked again, harder, wrapping himself in a numbness that was designed to protect him from his own feelings.

A young woman opened the door, and his numbness was gone.

Her face was focused and contained, as if she was concentrating on something more important than answering the door. She was slight, with dark eyes, a thin face, and prominent ears. She was wearing denim shorts, a light green blouse, and sandals. Her hair was damp, as if she wasn’t long from the shower. Holman thought she looked like a child.

She stared at him with curious indifference.

“Yes?”

“I’m Max Holman. Richie’s father.”

Holman waited for her to unload. He expected her to tell him what a rotten bastard and lousy father he was, but the indifference vanished and she canted her head as if seeing him for the first time.

“Ohmigod. Well. This is awkward.”

“It’s awkward for me, too. I don’t know your name.”

“Elizabeth. Liz.”

“I’d like to talk with you a little bit if you don’t mind. It would mean a lot to me.”

She suddenly opened the door.

“I have to apologize. I was going to call, but I just-I didn’t know what to say. Please. Come in. I’m getting ready for class, but I have a few minutes. There’s some coffee-”

Holman stepped past her and waited in the living room as she closed the door. He told her not to go to any trouble, but she went to her kitchen anyway and took two mugs from the cupboard, leaving him in her living room.

“This is just so weird. I’m sorry. I don’t use sugar. We might have Sweeta-”

“Black is fine.”

“I have nonfat milk.”

“Just black.”

It was a large apartment, with the living room, a dining area, and the kitchen all sharing space. Holman was suddenly overcome by being in Richie’s home. He had told himself to be all business, just ask his questions and get out, but now his son’s life was all around him and he wanted to fill himself with it: A mismatched couch and chair faced a TV on a pedestal stand in the corner; racks cluttered with CDs and DVDs tipped against the wall-Green Day, Beck, Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back; a gas fireplace was built into the wall, its mantel filled with rows of overlapping pictures. Holman let himself drift closer.

“This is a nice place,” he said.

“It’s more than we can afford, but it’s close to campus. I’m getting my master’s in child psychology.”

“That sounds real good.”

Holman felt like a dummy and wished he could think of something better to say.

“I just got out of prison.”

“I know.”

Stupid.

The pictures showed Richie and Liz together, alone, and with other couples. One shot showed them on a boat; another wearing flare-bright parkas in the snow; in another, they were at a picnic where everyone wore LAPD T-shirts. Holman found himself smiling, but then he saw a picture of Richie with Donna and his smile collapsed. Donna had been younger than Holman, but in the picture she looked older. Her hair was badly colored and her face was cut by deep lines and shadows. Holman turned away, hiding from the memories and the sudden flush of shame, and found Liz beside him with the coffee. She offered a cup, and Holman accepted it. He shrugged to encompass the apartment.

“You have a nice place. I like the pictures. It’s like getting to know him a little bit.”

Her eyes never left him and and now Holman felt watched. Her being a psych major, he wondered if she was analyzing him.

She suddenly lowered the cup.

“You look like him. He was a little taller but not much. You’re heavier.”

“I got fat.”

“I didn’t mean fat. Richard was a runner. That’s all I meant.”

Her eyes filled then, and Holman didn’t know what to do. He raised a hand, thinking to touch her shoulder, but he was afraid he might scare her. Then she pulled herself together and rubbed her eyes clear with the flat of her free hand.

“I’m sorry. This really sucks. This so really sucks. Listen-”

She rubbed her eye again, then held out her hand.

“It’s good to finally meet you.”

“You really think I look like him?”

She made a thin smile.

“Clones. Donna always said the same thing.”

Holman changed the subject. If they got into talking about Donna he would start crying, too.

He said, “Listen, I know you have to get to class and all, but can I ask you a couple of questions about what happened? It won’t take long.”

“They found that man who killed them.”

“I know. I’m just trying to…I talked to Detective Random. Have you met him?”

“Yes, I’ve spoken with him and Captain Levy. Levy was Richard’s commander.”

“Right. I’ve spoken with him, too, but I still have some questions about how this could happen.”

“Juarez blamed Mike for what happened to his brother. Do you know that whole story?”

“Yeah, it’s in the paper. You knew Sergeant Fowler?”

“Mike was Richard’s training officer. They were still really good friends.”

“Random told me that Juarez had been making threats ever since his brother was killed. Was Mike worried about it?”

She frowned as she thought about it, trying to remember, then shook her head.

“Mike never seemed worried about anything. It wasn’t like I saw him that often, just every couple of months or so, but he didn’t seem worried about anything like this.”

“Did Richie maybe mention that Mike was worried?”

“The first I heard about this gang business was when they issued the warrant. Richard never said anything, but he wouldn’t have. He never brought that kind of thing home.”

Holman figured if some guy was shooting off his mouth and making threats, he would pay the guy a visit. He would let the guy have his shot straight up or put the guy in his place, but either way he would deal with it. He wondered if that’s what the four officers were doing that night, making a plan to deal with Juarez, only Juarez got the jump on them. It seemed possible, but Holman didn’t want to suggest it to Elizabeth.

Instead, Holman said, “Fowler probably didn’t want to worry anyone. Guys like Juarez are always threatening policemen. Cops get that all the time.”

Elizabeth nodded, but her eyes began to redden again and Holman knew he had made a mistake. She was thinking that this time it wasn’t just threats-this time the guy like Juarez had gone through with it and now her husband was dead. Holman quickly changed the subject.

“Another thing I’m wondering about-Random told me Richie wasn’t on duty that night?”

“No. He was here working. I was studying. He went out to meet the guys sometimes, but never that late. He told me he had to go meet them. That’s all he said.”

“Did he say he was going to the river?”

“No. I just assumed they would meet at a bar.”

Holman took that in, but it still didn’t help him.

“I guess what’s bothering me is how Juarez found them. The police haven’t been able to explain that yet. It’d be tough to follow someone into that riverbed and not be seen. So I’m thinking maybe if they went down there all the time-you know, a regular thing-maybe Juarez heard about it and knew where to find them.”

“I just don’t know. I can’t believe they went down there all the time and he didn’t tell me about it-it’s so far out of the way.”

Holman agreed. They could have sat around getting drunk anywhere, but they had gone down into a deserted, off-limits place like the riverbed. This implied they didn’t want to be seen, but Holman also knew that cops were like anyone else-they might have gone down there just for the thrill of being someplace no one else could go, like kids breaking into an empty house or climbing up to the Hollywood Sign.

Holman was still thinking it through when he recalled something she mentioned earlier and he asked her about it.

“You said he almost never went out late like that, but on that night he did. What was different about that night?”

She seemed surprised, but then her face darkened and a single vertical line cut her forehead. She glanced away, then looked back and seemed to be studying him. Her face was still, but Holman felt the furious motion of wheels and cogs and levers behind her eyes as she struggled with her answer.

She said, “You.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You were being released the next day. That’s what was different that night, and we both knew it. We knew you were being released the next day. Richard never spoke about you with me. Do you mind me telling you these things? This is just so awful, what we’re going through right now. I don’t want to make it worse for you.”

“I asked you. I want to know.”

She went on.

“I tried talking to him about you-I was curious. You’re his father. You were my father-in-law. When Donna was still alive we both tried-but he just wouldn’t. I knew your release date was coming up. Richard knew, but he still wouldn’t talk about it, and I knew it was bothering him.”

Holman was feeling sick and cold.

“Did he say something, how it was bothering him?”

She cocked her head again, then put down her cup and turned away.

“Come see.”

He followed her back to a bedroom that was arranged as an office. Two desks were set up, one for him and one for her. The first desk, hers, was stacked with textbooks and binders and paperwork. Richie’s desk was backed into a corner where corkboards were fixed to the adjoining walls. The corkboards were covered with so many clippings and Post-it notes and little slips of paper they overlapped each other like scales on a fish. Liz brought him to Richie’s desk and pointed out the clippings.

“Take a look.”

Shootout Ends Crime Spree, Takeover Bandits Stopped, Bystander Killed in Robbery. The articles Holman skimmed were about a pair of takeover lunatics named Marchenko and Parsons. Holman had heard about them in Lompoc. Marchenko and Parsons dressed like commandos and shot up the banks before escaping with their loot.

She said, “He became fascinated with bank robberies. He clipped stories and pulled articles off the Internet and spent all of his time in here with this stuff. It doesn’t take a doctorate to figure out why.”

“Because of me?”

“Wanting to know you. A way of being close to you without being close to you was my guess. We knew you were approaching your release date. We didn’t know if you would try to contact us or if we should contact you or what to do about you. It was pretty clear he was working out his anxiety about you.”

Holman felt a flush of guilt and hoped she was wrong.

“Did he say that?”

Elizabeth didn’t look at him. Her face had closed, and now she stared at the clippings and crossed her arms.

“He wouldn’t. He never talked about you with me or his mother, but when he told me he was going to see the guys, he had been in here all evening. I think he needed to talk to them. He couldn’t talk to me about it, and now look-now look.”

Her face tightened even more with the hardness that anger brings. Holman watched her eyes fill, but was too scared to touch her.

He said, “Hey-”

She shook her head and Holman took it as a warning-like maybe she sensed he wanted to comfort her-and Holman felt even worse. Her neck and arms were bowstrings pulled taut by her anger.

“Goddamnit, he just had to go out. He had to go. Goddamnit-”

“Maybe we should go back in the living room.”

She closed her eyes, then shook her head again, but this time she was telling him she was all right-she was fighting the terrible pain and determined to kill it. She finally opened her eyes and finished her original thought.

“Sometimes it’s easier for a man to show what he feels is a weakness to another male rather than to a female. It’s easier to pretend it’s work than to deal honestly with the emotions. I think that’s what he did that night. I think that’s why he died.”

“Talking about me?”

“No, not you, not specifically-these bank robberies. That was his way of talking about you. The work was like an extra duty assignment. He wanted to be a detective and move up the ladder.”

Holman glanced at Richie’s desk, but he didn’t feel comforted. Copies of what looked like official police reports and case files were spread over the desk. Holman skimmed the top pages and realized that everything was about Marchenko and Parsons. A small map of the city was push-pinned to the board with lines connecting small X’s numbered from 1 to 13 to make a rough pattern. Richie had gone so far as to map their robberies.

Holman suddenly wondered if Richie and Liz believed he had been like them.

He said, “I robbed banks, but I never did anything like this. I never hurt anyone. I wasn’t anything like these guys.”

Her expression softened.

“I didn’t mean it like that. Donna told us how you got caught. Richard knew you weren’t like them.”

Holman appreciated her effort, but the wall was filled with clippings about two degenerates who got off by pistol-whipping their victims. It didn’t take a doctorate.

Liz said, “I don’t want to be rude, but I have to finish getting ready or I’ll end up blowing off class.”

Holman reluctantly turned away, then hesitated.

“He was working on this before he went out?”

“Yeah. He had been here all evening.”

“Were those other guys on the Marchenko thing, too?”

“Mike, maybe. He talked with Mike about it a lot. I don’t know about the others.”

Holman nodded, taking a last look at his dead son’s workplace. He wanted to read everything on Richie’s desk. He wanted to know why a uniformed officer with only a couple of years on the job was involved in a major investigation and why his son had left home in the middle of the night. He had come here for answers, but now had more questions.

Holman turned away for the final time.

“They haven’t told me about the arrangements yet. For his funeral.”

He hated to ask and hated it even more when the hardness again flashed across her face. But then she fought it back and shook her head.

“They’re having a memorial for the four of them this Saturday at the Police Academy. The police haven’t released them for burial. I guess they’re still…”

Her voice faded, but Holman understood why. These officers had been murdered. The medical examiner was probably still gathering evidence and they couldn’t be buried until all of the tests and fact-finding were complete.

Elizabeth suddenly touched his arm.

“You’ll come, won’t you? I would like you to be there.”

Holman felt relieved. He had been worried she might try to keep him away from the services. It also wasn’t lost on him that neither Levy nor Random had told him about the memorial.

“I would like that, Liz. Thank you.”

She stared up at him for a moment, then lifted on her toes to kiss Holman’s cheek.

“I wish it had been different.”

Holman had spent the past ten years wishing everything had been different.

He thanked her again when she let him out, then returned to his car. He wondered if Random would attend the memorial. Holman had questions. He expected Random to have answers.