Marisol told Holman it was a pleasure to meet him.

Chee said, "Baby, have Raul come up here, would you? In my office. Here, bro, c'mon inside."

Marisol used an intercom to summon Raul as Holman followed Chee into his office. Chee closed the door behind them, shutting her out.

Holman said, "Pretty girl, Chee. Congratulations."

"What you smilin' at, bro? You better not be thinking bad thoughts."

"I'm smiling at the notorious Lil' Chee calling his daughter 'sweetie.'"

Chee went to a file drawer and pulled out a camera.

"Girl is my heart, bro, that one and the others. I thank G.o.d every day for the air she breathes and the ground beneath her feet. Here--stand right there and look at me."

"You get me lined up with a ride?"

"Am I the Chee? Let's get you squared up with this license."

Chee positioned Holman before a dark blue wall, then lined up the camera.

"Digital, baby--state of the art. G.o.dd.a.m.nit, Holman, this ain't a mug shot--try not to look like you want to kill me."

Holman smiled.

"s.h.i.t. You look like you're pa.s.sing a stone."

The flash went off as someone knocked at the door. A short, hard-eyed young man stepped inside. His arms and face were streaked with grease from working in the body shop. Chee studied the digital image in the camera, then grudgingly decided it would do. He tossed the camera to the new guy.

"California DL, date of issue is today, no restrictions. You don't wear gla.s.ses, do you, Holman, now you got some age?"

"No."

"No restrictions."

Raul glanced at Holman.

"Gonna need an address, his date of birth, the stats, and a signature."

Chee took a pad and pen from his desk and handed them to Holman.

"Here. Put down your height and weight, too. Sign your name on a separate page."

Holman did what he was told.

"How long before I get the license? I have an appointment."

"Time you leave with the car, bro. It won't take long."

Chee had a brief conversation with Raul in Spanish, then Holman followed him out through the shop into a parking area where a row of cars was waiting. Chee eyeballed the beater.

"Man, no wonder you got pinched. That thing got 'work release' written all over it."

"Can you have someone bring it back to the motel for me?"

"Yeah, no problem. Here's what I got for you over here--a nice Ford Taurus or this brand-new Highlander, either one carry you in boring middle-cla.s.s style. Both these vehicles are registered to a rental company I own without wants, warrants, or--unlike that piece of s.h.i.t you driving now--traffic citations. You get stopped, I rented you the car. That's it."

Holman had never seen a Highlander before. It was black and shiny, and sat high on its big tires. He liked the idea of being able to see what was coming.

"The Highlander, I guess."

"Sweet choice, bro--black, leather trim, a sunroof--you gonna look like a yuppie on your way to the Whole Foods. C'mon, get in. I got something else for you, too, make your life a little easier now you back in the world. Look in the console."

Holman didn't know what a Whole Foods was, but he was tired of looking like he had just spent ten years in the can and he was growing worried all of this was going to take too much time. He climbed into his new car and opened the console. Inside was a cell phone.

Chee beamed proudly.

"Got you a cell phone, bro. This ain't ten years ago, stoppin' at pay phones and digging for quarters--you got to stay on the grid twenty-four seven. Instruction book's in there with your number in it. You plug that cord into the cigarette lighter to keep it charged up."

Holman looked back at Chee.

He said, "Remember when you offered to front me some cash? I hate to do it, man, you being so nice with the car and this phone, but I gotta go back on what I said. I need a pack."

A pack was a thousand dollars. When banks wrapped used twenties, they bundled fifty bills to a pack. A thousand dollars.

Chee didn't bat an eye. He studied Holman, then touched his own nose.

"Whatever you want, homes, but I gotta ask--you back on the crank? I don't want to help you f.u.c.k yourself up."

"It's nothing like that. I got someone to help me with this thing about Richie; a professional, bro--she really knows what she's doing. I want to be ready in case there's expenses."

Holman had been both relieved and worried when Special Agent Pollard contacted him through Gail Manelli. He hadn't held much hope he would hear from her, but he had. In typical paranoid FBI fashion, she had checked him out with both Manelli and Wally Figg at the CCC before calling him, and had refused to give him her phone number, but Holman wasn't complaining--she had finally agreed to meet him at a Starbucks in Westwood to listen to his case. It wasn't lost on Holman that she gave him a location near the FBI office.

Chee squinted at him.

"What do you mean, she? What kind of professional?"

"The Fed who arrested me."

Chee's eyes tightened even more and he waved his hands.

"Bro! Holman, you lost your f.u.c.kin' mind, homes?"

"She treated me right, Chee. She went to bat for me with the AUSA, man. She helped me get a reduced charge."

"That's because you d.a.m.n near gave yourself up, you dumb muthuhf.u.c.kuh! I remember that b.i.t.c.h runnin' into the bank, Holman! She's gonna set you up, homes! You even fart crooked this b.i.t.c.h gonna send you up!"

Holman decided not to mention that Pollard was no longer an agent. He had been disappointed when she told him, but he believed she would still have the connections and still be able to help him get answers.

He said, "Chee, listen, I gotta go. I have to meet her. You going to be able to help me with that money?"

Chee waved his hand again, axing away his disgust.

"Yeah, I'll get you the money. Don't mention my name to her, Holman. Do not let my name pa.s.s your lips in her presence, man. I don't want her to know I'm alive."

"I didn't mention you ten years ago when they were sweating me, homes. Why would I mention you now?"

Chee looked embarra.s.sed and waved his hand again as he left.

Holman familiarized himself with the Highlander and tried to figure out how to use the cell phone while he waited. When Chee returned, he handed Holman a plain white envelope and the driver's license. Holman didn't look in the envelope. He tucked it into the console, then looked at the license. It was a perfect California driver's license, showing a seven-year expiration date and the state seal over Holman's picture. A miniature version of his signature had been inserted beneath his address and description.

Holman said, "d.a.m.n, this looks real."

"Is real, bro. That's a legitimate Cal state driver's license number straight up in the system. You get stopped, they run that license through DMV, it's gonna show you at your address with a brand-new driving record as of today. The magnetic strip on back? It shows just what it's supposed to show."

"Thanks, man."

"Give me the keys to that piece of s.h.i.t you been driving. I'll have a couple of boys bring it back."

"Thanks, Chee. I really appreciate this."

"Don't mention my name to that cop, Holman. You keep me out of this."

"You're out of it, Chee. You were never in it."

Chee put his hands on the Highlander's door and leaned into the window, his eyes fierce.

"I'm just sayin', is all. Don't trust this woman, Holman. She put you in the joint once, bro. Don't trust her."

"I gotta go."

Chee stepped back, watching Holman with disgusted eyes, and Holman heard him mutter.

"Hero Bandit, my G.o.dd.a.m.ned a.s.s."

Holman pulled out into traffic, thinking he hadn't been called the Hero Bandit in years.

Chapter 16.

HOLMAN ARRIVED fifteen minutes early and seated himself at a table with a clear view of the door. He wasn't sure he would recognize Agent Pollard, but more importantly he wanted her to have an un.o.bstructed view of him when she entered. He wanted her to feel safe.

The Starbucks was predictably crowded, but Holman knew this was one of her reasons for choosing it as their meeting place. She would feel safer with other people around and probably believed he would be intimidated by their proximity to the Federal Building.

Holman settled in, expecting her to be late. She would arrive late to establish her authority and to make sure he understood the power in this situation was hers. Holman didn't mind. He had trimmed his hair that morning, shaved twice to get a close shave, and polished his shoes. He had handwashed his clothes the night before and rented Perry's iron and ironing board for two dollars so he would appear as unthreatening as possible.

Holman was watching the entrance at twelve minutes after the hour when Agent Pollard finally entered. He wasn't sure it was Pollard at first. The agent who arrested him had been bony and angular, with a thin face and light, short-cropped hair. This woman was heavier than he remembered, with dark hair to her shoulders. The longer hair was nice. She wore a straw-colored jacket over slacks and a dark shirt and sungla.s.ses. Her expression gave her away. The serious game-face expression screamed FED. Holman wondered if she practiced it on the way over.

Holman placed his hands palms down on the table and waited for her to notice him. When she finally saw him Holman offered a smile, but she did not return it. She stepped between the people waiting for their lattes and approached the empty chair opposite him.

She said, "Mr. Holman."

"Hi, Agent Pollard. Okay if I stand? It'd be polite, but I don't want you to think I'm attacking you or anything. Could I get you a cup of coffee?"

Holman kept his hands on the table, letting her see them, and smiled again. She still didn't return the smile or offer her hand. She took her seat, brusque and all business.

"You don't have to stand and I don't have time for the coffee. I want to make sure you understand the ground rules here--I'm happy you completed your term and you're set up with a job and all that--congratulations. I mean that, Holman--congratulations. But I want you to understand--even though Ms. Manelli and Mr. Figg vouched for you, I'm here out of respect for your son. If you abuse that respect in any way, I'm gone."

"Yes, ma'am. If you want to pat me down or anything, it's okay."

"If I thought you would try something like that I wouldn't have come. Again, I'm sorry about your son. That's a terrible loss."

Holman knew he wouldn't have long to make his case. Pollard was already antsy, and probably not happy she had agreed to see him. Cops never had contact with the criminals they arrested. It just wasn't done. Most criminals--even true mental defectives--knew better than to seek out the officers who had arrested them, and those few who did usually found themselves rearrested or dead. During their one and only phone conversation, Pollard had tried to rea.s.sure him that the murder scenario the police described and their conclusions regarding Warren Juarez were reasonable, but she had had only a pa.s.sing familiarity with the case and hadn't been able to answer his torrent of questions or see the evidence he had ama.s.sed. Reluctantly, she had finally agreed to familiarize herself with the news reports and let him present his case in person. Holman knew she hadn't agreed to see him because she believed the police might be wrong; she was doing it to help a grieving father with the loss of his son. She probably felt he had earned the face time for the way he went down, but the face time would be the end of her consideration. Holman knew he only had one shot, so he had saved his best hook for last, the hook he hoped she could not resist.

He opened the envelope in which he kept his growing collection of clippings and doc.u.ments, and shook out the thick sheaf of papers.

He said, "Did you have a chance to review what happened?"

"Yes, I did. I read everything that appeared in the Times. Can I speak bluntly?"

"That's what I want--to get your opinion."

She settled back and laced her fingers in her lap, her body language telling him she wanted to get through this as quickly as possible. Holman wished she would take off the sungla.s.ses.

"All right. Let's start with Juarez. You described your conversation with Maria Juarez and expressed your doubt that Juarez would have killed himself after the murders, correct?"

"That's right. Here's a guy with a wife and kid, why would he kill himself like that?"

"If I had to guess, which is all I'm doing here, I'd say Juarez was huffing, living on crank, probably smoking the rock. Guys like this always get loaded before they pull the trigger. The drugs would contribute to paranoia and possibly even a psychotic break, which would explain the suicide."

Holman had already considered this.

"Would the autopsy report show all that?"

"Yes--"

"Could you get the autopsy report?"

Holman saw her mouth tighten. He warned himself not to interrupt her again.

"No, I can't get the autopsy report. I'm just offering you a plausible explanation based on my experience. You were troubled by the suicide, so I'm explaining how it was possible."

"Just so you know, I asked the police to let me talk to the coroner or somebody, but they said no."