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 a.s.sociate 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 ma.s.se to fill the bank counter with a wall of flesh, then made their demands. The Front Line didn't whisper or pa.s.s 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 a.s.signed 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 a.s.sistant 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 a.s.sociates arrived home, they were met by Pollard, Sanders, three LAPD detectives, and a SWAT Tactical Team that had been deployed to a.s.sist 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?"

"I'm not with the FBI anymore. That's why I need your help."

Peter seemed to stiffen, so Pollard gave him her most charming smile.

"I'm not talking about a loan. It's nothing like that."

Peter laughed.

"Loans are easy. What can I do?"

"I'm interviewing with private contractors as a security specialist. Marchenko and Parsons have the highest profile of the recent takeover teams, so I need to know those guys inside and out."

Peter was nodding, going along.

"They hit us twice."

"Right. They hit you on their fourth and seventh robberies, two of the thirteen."

"f.u.c.king animals."

"I need the backstory in detail, but LAPD won't share their files with a civilian."

"But you were an FBI agent."

"From their side I can see it. They have to dot the i's and cross the t's, and the Feeb is even worse. Leeds hates it when an agent goes into the private sector. He considers us traitors. But traitor or not, I have two kids to support and I want this job, so if you can help me I'd appreciate it."

Pollard thought she had done a pretty good job with the subtle hint that the welfare of her children depended upon his cooperation. Most major banks and banking chains had their own security office that worked hand in hand with authorities to identify, locate, and apprehend bank robbers, as well as prevent or deter future robberies. To that end, banks and authorities openly shared information in an ongoing evolution that began with the initial robbery. What was learned during robbery number two or six or nine might very well help the police capture the bandits during robbery number sixteen. Pollard knew this because she had been part of the process herself. The Pacific West security office had likely been copied on all or part of the LAPD's detail reports as they were developed. They might not have all of it, but they might have some, even if in redacted form.

Peter frowned, and she could tell he was working it through.

"You know, we have security agreements with these agencies."

"I know. You signed some of those forms for me when I was profiling the Front Line gang and I shared our interview summaries."

"They're supposed to be for our internal use and ours alone."

"If you want me to read them at your security office, that would be fine. They don't have to leave the premises."

Pollard held his eyes for a moment, then looked at the Kat the Giant Killer picture. She stared at it for several seconds before looking back at him.

"And if you'd like me to sign a confidentiality agreement, of course I'd be happy to sign it."

She stared at him, waiting.

"I don't know, Katherine."

Pollard sensed the whole effort going south, and suddenly grew worried he might ask LAPD for their permission. His security office had almost daily contact with robbery detectives and FBI agents. If the Robbery Special d.i.c.ks found out she was running an end-around after they already turned her down, she would be screwed.

She studied the picture again, then took her final shot.

"Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds are getting out in two years."

Peter made a noncommittal shrug that was not encouraging.

"Tell you what. Leave your contact information with my a.s.sistant. Let me think about it and I'll be in touch."

Peter stood, and Pollard stood with him. She couldn't think of anything else to say. He walked her out. She left her information, then rode down in the elevator alone, feeling like a brush salesman who had struck out for the day.

Pollard missed her credentials--the badge and commission card that identified her as an agent of the FBI. The creds gave her the weight and moral authority to ask questions and demand answers, and she had never hesitated to knock on any door or ask any question and she had almost always gotten the answers. She felt worse than a brush salesman. She felt like a chiseler stealing sugar packs from a diner. She felt like nothing.

Pollard drove back to the Simi Valley to make dinner for her kids.

Chapter 27.

HOLMAN WATCHED Pollard drive away from the river with a numb feeling in his chest. He hadn't told her the real reason he had seen her under the bridge. He had been on his way to Chee's shop. And he had also lied when he told her he had been to the bridge a dozen times. Holman had returned to this place twenty or thirty times. He found himself at the bridge several times every day and two or three times each night. Sometimes he would find himself at the bridge as if he had fallen asleep at the wheel and the car had driven itself. He didn't always jump the fence. Most times he cruised the bridge without stopping, but other times he parked, leaning far over the rail to see those terrible scrubbed patches from every possible angle. Holman hadn't told her the truth about those visits, and knew he could never tell anyone, not about his terrible moments with those bright patches of light.

Holman thought through everything he and Pollard talked about, then decided not to go to Chee's. He still needed to talk to Chee, but he wanted to keep Chee out of the rest of it.

He turned back toward Culver City and called Chee on his cell.

"Homes! 'Sup, bro? How you like those wheels?"

"I wish you hadn't sent your boys after the old man. It made me look bad."

"Homes, please! Muthuhf.u.c.kuh billin' you twenty a day for a cop magnet like that, a man in your position! He knew what he was doing, bro--I couldn't let him get away with that."

"He's an old man, Chee. We had a deal. I knew what I was getting into."

"You knew he had warrants on that piece of s.h.i.t?"

"No, but that's not the point--"

"What you want me to do, send him some flowers? Maybe a little note sayin' I'm sorry?"

"No, but--"

Holman knew he wasn't going to get anywhere and was already sorry he brought it up. He had more important things to discuss.

"Look, I'm not asking you to do anything, I guess I just wanted to mention it. I know you meant well."

"I got your back, bro, don't ever forget that."

"This other thing, I heard Maria Juarez disappeared."

"She left her cousins?"

"Yeah. The cops issued a warrant, and now they're blaming me for making her run. Think you can ask around?"

"Whatever, bro. I'll see what I can see. You need anything else?"

Holman needed something, but not from Chee.

He said, "Something else. I got fronted by the cops today about this Juarez thing. Have the cops been talking to you?"

"Why would the cops be talkin' to me?"

Holman told him that Random had mentioned Chee by name. Chee was silent for a moment, and then his voice was quiet.

"I don't like that, bro."

"I didn't like it, either. I don't know if they've been following me or they're into my phone at the room, but don't call me on that phone anymore. Just on the cell."

Holman put down the phone and drove in silence across the city. He spent almost an hour driving from the Fourth Street Bridge to the City of Industry. Traffic always got heavy at the end of the day when people were getting off work. Holman grew worried he would get there too late, but he reached the sign company a few minutes before quitting time.

Holman didn't turn into the parking lot and he didn't intend to see Tony Gilbert. He parked in a red zone across the street and stayed in the car, waiting for five o'clock. The workday ended at five.

Holman glanced at his father's watch with its frozen hands. Maybe that was why he wore it--time had no meaning. He checked the dashboard clock and watched the minutes tick past.

At exactly five o'clock, men and women came out of the printing plant and filed through the parking lot to their cars. Holman watched Tony Gilbert go to a Cadillac and the two front-office girls get into a Jetta. Three minutes later he watched Pitchess exit the building and get into a Dodge Charger that was almost as bad as Perry's beater.

Holman waited until Pitchess pulled out, then slipped into traffic a few cars behind him. He followed the Charger for almost a mile until he was sure no one else from the printing plant was around. He accelerated around the cars ahead, and swerved back into the lane so he was directly behind Pitchess.

Holman tapped his horn and saw Pitchess's eyes go to the rearview mirror, but Pitchess kept driving.

Holman tapped his horn again, and when Pitchess looked, Holman gestured for him to pull over.

Pitchess got the message and turned into a Safeway parking lot. He stopped near the entrance, but didn't get out of his car. Holman thought the sonofab.i.t.c.h was probably scared.

Holman parked behind him, got out, and walked forward. Pitchess's window rolled down as Holman approached.

Holman said, "Can you get me a gun?"

"I knew I'd see you again."

"Can you get me a gun or not?"

"You got the money?"