the Two Minute Rule (2006) (23 page)

Holman said, "Did you hear me?"

"I'm thinking."

"You need to listen. I went to see Liz this morning to get the reports, but the police got to her first. They cleaned out Richie's desk. They took the reports."

Pollard turned away from the channel, surprised.

"How did they know she had the reports?"

"I don't know if they went for the reports, but they knew she's been helping me. They made it sound like they had to search his things because I had been there--like they wanted to see what I was up to. Maybe that's when they saw the reports."

"Who?"

"That detective I told you about, Random."

"Random's the homicide detective running the task force?"

"That's right. When I was leaving, Random and three other guys jumped me. They told me Maria Juarez split and they're blaming me for it, but I don't think that's why they jumped me. They knew we went to see Mike Fowler's wife and they didn't like it. They didn't mention you, but they knew about me."

Pollard didn't give a damn if they knew about her or not, but she wondered why a homicide detective had taken robbery reports about Marchenko and Parsons. The same reports April told her were no longer available from Robbery Special because they had been pulled upstairs.

Pollard figured she knew the answer but asked anyway.

"Did you have a chance to speak with Mellon's and Ash's families?"

"I called after I left Liz, but they wouldn't speak to me. Random had already seen them. He told me not to bother Liz anymore. Richie's wife, and he warned me to stay away from her."

Pollard then circled the crime scene again, shaking her head, careful not to step on the clean places where the bodies had dropped. She was glad Holman hadn't asked her about them.

She said, "I want to see what's in those reports."

"They took them."

"That's why I want to see what's in them. What did she say about Thursday night?"

Pollard circled back to her starting point, and realized Holman hadn't answered.

"Did you remember to ask her about Thursday?"

"The floorboard of his car was messy with dirt and grass, she said."

"So Richard was out with Fowler."

"I guess. You think they were down here?"

Pollard had already considered the river and discounted it.

"There's no grass and damned little mud, Holman. Even if they jumped down in the water and waded around, they wouldn't pick up mud and weeds like we saw on Fowler's boots."

Pollard stared at the ramp again, then Holman. Where he was standing, he was perfectly split by the bridge's shadow, half in light, half in darkness.

"Holman, you and I aren't Sherlock-fucking-Holmes. Here we are in the kill zone, and it's obvious the shooter could not have approached without being seen. He wasn't hiding down here and he did not lay in wait--he walked down that ramp, came over here, and shot them. This is freshman detective work. Fowler, your son, Mellon, and Ash--they let him get close."

"I know."

"That's the point. You and I aren't the only two people who would see this. The cops who came down here would have seen it, too. They would know Juarez could not have ambushed these guys, but all their statements in the press claimed that's how it happened. So either they're ignoring the obvious or they're lying about it or there is some mitigating factor that explains it, but I don't see what that might be."

Holman stepped back into the shade and was no longer split by the light.

"I understand."

Pollard wasn't sure he did. If a mitigating factor didn't exist, then the police had been lying about what happened down here. Pollard didn't want to let herself believe it until she had seen the reports. She still held out hope that something in the papers would make it all right.

She said, "Okay, here's where we are. I went through the witness list from the Marchenko case and checked the witnesses against the calls your son and Fowler made. Here's the bad news--Fowler called Marchenko's mother two times."

"That means they were investigating the robberies."

"It means they were investigating the robberies. It doesn't tell us whether or not they were doing it in an official capacity or doing it for themselves. We should talk to this woman and find out what Fowler wanted."

Holman seemed to think about it, then looked away.

"Maybe tomorrow. I can't do it today."

Pollard checked her watch and felt a tick of irritation. Here she was, humiliating herself with her mother to help out Holman, and he couldn't put himself out.

She said, "You know, I don't have all the time in the world for this, Holman. I'm set up to help you today, so today would be a good day to do this."

Holman's mouth tightened and he turned red. He started to say something, then glanced at the ramp before turning back to her again. She thought he looked embarrassed.

He said, "You're really going above and beyond. I appreciate this--"

"Then let's go see her."

"I gotta go see my boss. I haven't been to work in a week, and the guy reamed me out today. He's been really good to me, too, but Random went to see him. I can't lose this job, Agent Pollard. I lose the job, and I'm fucked with my release."

Pollard watched Holman squirming, and felt terrible she had pressed him. She also wondered again why Random was coming down so hard on a poor bastard who had just lost his son. She checked her watch again, then felt like an idiot for being such a slave to the clock.

"Okay, we can go see Marchenko's mother tomorrow. I know a man who might be able to help get the reports. I guess I could do that today."

Holman looked back at the ramp.

"We should go. I don't want you to get in trouble."

Neither spoke as they walked back, but their footsteps were loud in the silence. With every step, Pollard grew more convinced that the investigation into the murder of the four officers was bad, and she wanted to find out the truth.

Pollard thought about Detective Random. He was pulling the shades on Holman's sources of information, which was never a smart move for an officer to make. Pollard had dealt with dozens of journalists and overanxious family members during her own investigations, and shutting them out had always been the worst thing to do--they always dug harder. Pollard felt Random would know this, too, but wanted to protect something so badly he was willing to take the risk.

It was a dangerous risk to take. Pollard wanted to know what he was protecting and she would keep digging to find it.

Chapter
26

POLLARD LEFT Holman at the river, but didn't drive far. She crossed back over the bridge, then followed Alameda north into Chinatown to a tall glass building where Pacific West Bank kept their corporate headquarters. Pollard believed she had only one possible way to see the reports Random had confiscated from Richard Holman's apartment, and that was through Pacific West Bank--if she could pull it off.

Pollard no longer had their phone number, so she called information and was connected with a Pacific West receptionist.

Pollard said, "Is Peter Williams still with the company?"

It had been nine years, and she hoped he would remember her.

"Yes, ma'am. Would you like his office?"

"Yes, please."

A second voice came on the line.

"Mr. Williams' office."

"Is he available for Katherine Pollard? Special Agent Pollard of the FBI."

"Hold, please, and I'll see."

Pollard's most dramatic bust during her time with the Bank Squad was taking down the Front Line Bandits, a team of four Ukranians who were later identified as Craig and Jamison Bepko, their cousin Vartan Bepko, and an associate named Vlad Stepankutza. Leeds tagged the Front Line with their name because of their size; Varton Bepko, the lightest, weighed in at two hundred sixty-four pounds; Stepankutza tipped the scales at an even two-eighty; and brothers Craig and Jamison clocked in at three hundred sixteen and three hundred eighteen pounds respectively. The Front Line hit sixteen branches of Pacific West Bank over a two-week period, and almost put Pacific West out of business.

The Front Line foursome were one-on-one bandits who operated as a team. They entered a bank together, joined the teller line, then intimidated other customers into dropping out of the line. They approached the available tellers en masse to fill the bank counter with a wall of flesh, then made their demands. The Front Line didn't whisper or pass notes like most one-on-one bandits; they shouted, cursed, and often grabbed tellers by the arm or punched them, apparently not caring that everyone now knew the bank was being robbed. Each man stole only the money of his particular teller, and they never attempted to rob the vault. Once they had the money, they fled as a group, punching and kicking customers and bank employees out of their way. The Front Line Bandits robbed four Pacific West branches on their first day in business. Three days later, they robbed three more branches. It went on like that for two weeks, a reign of nightly-news terror that became a public-relations nightmare for Pacific West Bank, a small regional chain with only forty-two branches.

Leeds assigned the case to Pollard after the first group of robberies. By the end of the second group of robberies, Pollard had a good fix on how she would identify the bandits and solve the case. First, they were only hitting branches of Pacific West Bank. This indicated a connection to Pacific West, and most likely some kind of grudge--they weren't just stealing money; they were trying to hurt Pacific West. Second, Pacific West tellers were trained to slip explosive dye packs disguised as cash in with the regular money. The Front Line Bandits successfully recognized and discarded these dye packs before leaving the teller windows. Third, once the Front Line Bandits reached the tellers and demanded the money, they never stayed in a bank longer than two minutes. Pollard was convinced a knowledgeable employee of Pacific West had taught these guys about the dye packs and the Two Minute Rule. Because of the grudge factor, Pollard began screening the bank for disgruntled employees. On the morning of the day the Front Line Bandits committed robberies fifteen and sixteen, Pollard and April Sanders questioned one Kanka Dubrov, a middle-aged woman who had recently been fired as an assistant manager from a Glendale branch of Pacific West. Pollard and Sanders didn't have to resort to torture or truth serum; the moment they flashed their creds and told Ms. Dubrov they wanted to ask her about the recent robberies, she burst into tears. Vlad Stepankutza was her son.

Later that day when Stepankutza and his associates arrived home, they were met by Pollard, Sanders, three LAPD detectives, and a SWAT Tactical Team that had been deployed to assist in the arrest. The general manager and chief operations officer of Pacific West, a man named Peter Williams, presented Pollard with their Pacific West Bank Meritorious Service Award of the Year.

"This is Peter. Katherine, is that you?"

He sounded pleased to hear from her.

"The very one. I wasn't sure if you'd remember."

"I remember those hulking monsters who almost put me out of business. You know what we nicknamed you after you brought those men down? Kat the Giant Killer."

Pollard thought, perfect.

"Peter, I need five minutes with you. I'm in Chinatown now. Can you make time for me?"

"Right now?"

"Yes."

"May I ask what this is regarding?"

"Marchenko and Parsons. I need to discuss them with you, but I'd rather do it face-to-face. It won't take long."

Williams grew distracted for a moment, and Pollard hoped he was making room on his calendar.

"Sure, Katherine. I can do that. When can you be here?"

"Five minutes."

Pollard left her car in a parking lot next to the building, then took an elevator to the top floor. She felt anxious and irritated at having left Williams with the impression she was still with the FBI. Pollard didn't like lying, but she didn't trust telling the truth. If Williams turned her down, she had no other hope of seeing the reports Random was trying to hide.

When Pollard got off the elevator she saw that Peter had been promoted. A burnished sign identified him as the president and CEO. Pollard considered this a lucky break--if she was going to lie she might as well lie to the boss.

Peter Williams was a fit man in his late fifties, short and balding with a tennis player's tan. He seemed geniunely pleased to see her and brought her into his office to show off the sweeping views that let him look out over the entire Los Angeles Basin. Peter didn't retreat to his desk. He brought her to a wall covered with framed photographs and plaques. He pointed at one of the pictures, high in the right corner.

"You see? Here you are."

It was a picture of Peter presenting her with the Pac West Meritorious Service Award nine years earlier. Pollard thought she looked a lot younger in the picture. And thinner.

Peter offered her a seat on the couch, then sat in a leather club chair.

"All right, Agent. What can I do for Kat the Giant Killer after all this time?"