He said, "Listen, I don't want to go to Chinatown. I'd like you to bring me home."

Pollard felt another flash of irritation. She felt bad for Holman with what he was going through, but here he was with the big shoulders filling the other side of her car like a giant depressed lump, not even looking at her. He reminded her of herself when she sat in the kitchen staring at the G.o.dd.a.m.ned clock.

She said, "We won't be at the bank that long."

"I have something else to do. Just drop me home first."

They were on Gower heading south to the freeway, stopped at a traffic light. Pollard planned to hop on the 101 for an easy slide into Chinatown.

"Holman, listen, we are close, okay? We are really close to making this case happen."

He didn't look at her.

"We can make it happen later."

"G.o.dd.a.m.n it, we're halfway to Chinatown. If I have to bring you to Culver City it's really out of the way."

"Forget it. I'll ride the f.u.c.kin' bus."

Holman suddenly pushed open the door and stepped out into traffic. Pollard was caught off guard, but she jammed on the brake.

"Holman!"

Horns blew as Holman trotted across traffic.

"Holman! Would you come back here? What are you doing?"

He didn't look at her. He kept walking.

"Get back in the car!"

He walked south on Gower toward Hollywood. The cars behind her leaned on their horns and Pollard finally crept forward. She watched Holman walking, wondering what he so badly wanted to do. He no longer moved like a zombie or seemed depressed. Pollard thought he looked furious. She had seen his expression on men before, and it frightened her. Holman looked like he wanted to kill someone.

Pollard didn't turn onto the freeway. She let the traffic flow around her, then eased to the curb, letting Holman walk, but keeping him in sight.

Holman hadn't lied about taking the bus. Pollard watched him board a westbound bus on Hollywood Boulevard. Following it was a pain in the a.s.s because it stopped at d.a.m.n near every corner. Each time it stopped she had to wedge her Subaru to the curb even when there was no place to park, then crane her head to see past pedestrians and vehicles in case Holman got off.

When Holman reached Fairfax he finally stepped off, then caught a Fairfax bus heading south. He stayed on the Fairfax bus to Pico, then changed buses again, once more heading west. Pollard believed Holman was going home like he had said, but she couldn't be sure and didn't want to lose him, so she followed him, furious at herself for wasting so much time.

Holman left the bus two blocks from his motel. Pollard was worried he might see her, but he never once looked around. Pollard found that odd, as if he had no awareness of his surroundings or maybe he no longer cared.

When he reached his motel she expected him to go inside, but he didn't. He continued around the side and got into his car, and then she was following him again.

Holman picked up Sepulveda Boulevard and dropped south through the city. Pollard stayed five or six cars back, following him steadily south until Holman surprised her. He stopped near a freeway off-ramp and bought a bouquet of flowers from one of the vendors who haunt the ramps.

Pollard thought, what in h.e.l.l is he doing?

She found out a few blocks later when Holman arrived at the cemetery.

Chapter 39.

THE LATE-MORNING sun was breathtakingly hot as Holman turned onto the cemetery grounds. Polished head markers caught the light like coins strewn onto the gra.s.s, and the immaculate rolling lawn was so bright Holman squinted behind his sungla.s.ses. The outside temperature gauge on his dashboard showed 98 degrees. The dashboard clock showed 11:19. Holman caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, and froze--in that instant, he saw the dated Ray-Ban Wayfarers with his hair s.h.a.ggy over the temples and was his younger self; the same Holman who ran wild with Chee, doing dope and stealing cars until his life spun out of control. Holman took off the Wayfarers. He must have been stupid, buying the same gla.s.ses.

With the midweek morning and the heat, only a few other visitors were scattered throughout the cemetery. A burial was taking place on the far side of the grounds, but only the one, with a small crowd of mourners gathered around a tent.

Holman followed the road up to Donna and parked exactly where he had parked the last time he came. When he opened his car the heat crushed into him like a wave and the glare made him wince. He started to reach for the sungla.s.ses, but thought, no, he didn't want to remind her of what he used to be.

Holman brought the flowers to her grave. His earlier flowers were now black and brittle. Holman collected the old flowers, then policed the headstone of dead leaves and petals. He took the dead stuff to a trash can by the drive, then brought the fresh flowers back and put them on her grave.

Holman felt badly he hadn't brought some kind of vase. In this heat, without water, the flowers would be shriveled and dead by the end of the day.

Holman grew even angrier with himself, thinking maybe he was just one of those people who f.u.c.ked up everything.

He squatted and pressed his hand onto Donna's marker. The hot metal burned his palm, but Holman pressed harder. He let it burn.

He whispered, "I'm sorry."

"Holman?"

Holman glanced over his shoulder to see Pollard coming toward him. He pulled himself up.

"What did you think I was going to do, rob a bank?"

Pollard stopped beside him and gazed down at the grave.

"Richard's mother?"

"Yeah. Donna. I should've married this girl, but...you know."

Holman let it drop. Pollard looked up and seemed to study him.

"You okay?"

"Not so good."

Holman studied Donna's name on the marker. Donna Banik. It should have been Holman.

"She was proud of him. So was I, but I guess the kid never really had a chance, not with the way I was."

"Max, don't do this."

Pollard touched his arm, but Holman barely felt it, a gesture with no more weight than a wave from a pa.s.sing car. He studied Pollard, who he knew to be a bright and educated woman.

"I tried to believe in G.o.d when I was in prison. That's part of the twelve-step thing--you have to give yourself to a higher power. They say it doesn't have to be G.o.d, but, c'mon, who are they kidding? I really wanted there to be a Heaven, man--Heaven, angels, G.o.d on a throne."

Holman shrugged, then looked back at the marker. Donna Banik. He wondered if she would mind if he had it changed. He could save up the money and buy a new marker. Donna Holman. Then his eyes suddenly filled when he thought, no, she would probably be ashamed.

Holman wiped at his eyes.

"I got this letter--Donna wrote when Richie finished the police academy. She said how proud she was he wasn't like me, here he was a policeman and nothing like me. Now, you might think she was being cruel, but she wasn't. I was grateful. Donna made our boy good and she did it alone. I didn't give them a G.o.dd.a.m.ned thing. I left them with nothing. Now I hope there's no G.o.dd.a.m.ned Heaven. I don't want her up there seeing all this. I don't want her knowing he turned out like me."

Holman felt ashamed of himself for saying such things. Pollard was as rigid as a statue. Her mouth was a tight line and her face was grim. When Holman glanced at her, a tear leaked down from behind her sungla.s.ses and rolled to her chin.

Holman lost it when he saw the tear and a sob shuddered his body. He tried to fight it, but he gasped and heaved as tears flooded his eyes, and all he knew in that moment was how much pain he had caused.

He felt Pollard's arms. She murmured words, but he did not understand what she was saying. She held him hard, and he held her back, but all he knew were the sobs. He wasn't sure how long he cried. After a while Holman calmed, but he still held her. They just stood there, holding each other. Then Holman realized he was holding her. He stepped back.

"Sorry."

Pollard's hand lingered on his arm, but she didn't say anything. He thought she might, but she turned aside to wipe her eyes.

Holman cleared his throat. He still needed to talk with Donna and he didn't want Pollard to hear.

"Listen, I want to stick around here for a while. I'll be okay."

"Sure. I understand."

"Why don't we call it quits for today?"

"No. No, I want to see the reports. I can do that without you."

"You don't mind?"

"Of course not."

Pollard touched his arm again and he reached to touch her hand, but then she turned away. Holman watched her walk to her car in the brutal heat and watched as she drove away. Then he looked back at Donna's marker.

Holman's eyes filled again, and now he was glad Pollard had gone. He squatted once more and adjusted the flowers. They were already beginning to wilt.

"Bad or not, he was ours. I'll do what I have to do."

Holman smiled, knowing she wouldn't like it, but at peace with his fate. You just couldn't beat the bad blood.

"Like son, like father."

Holman heard a car door close behind him and glanced up into the sun. Two men were coming toward him.

"Max Holman."

Two more men were coming from the direction of the burial, one with bright red hair.

Chapter 40.

VUKOVICH AND FUENTES were coming from one side and two more men from the other. Holman could not reach his car. They spread apart as they came like they expected him to run and were ready for it. Holman stood anyway, his heart pounding. The empty plain of the cemetery left him exposed like a fly on a dinner plate with no place to hide and no way to lose them.

Vukovich said, "Easy now."

Holman started for the gate, and both Fuentes and one of the men behind him widened out.

Vukovich said, "Don't be stupid."

Holman broke into a trot and all four men suddenly ran forward. Holman shouted at the burial party.

"Help! Help me!"

Holman reversed course toward his car, knowing he couldn't make it even as he tried.

"Over here! Help!"

Mourners at the far tent turned as the first two officers converged on him. Holman lowered his shoulder at the last moment and drove into the smaller guy hard, then spun, making a sprint for his car as Vukovich shouted.

"Take him down!"

"Help! Help here!"

Someone slammed into Holman from behind, but he kept on his feet and turned as Fuentes charged from the side, Vukovich shouting, "Stop it, G.o.dd.a.m.nit--give it up."

Everything blurred into bodies and arms. Holman swung hard, catching Fuentes in the ear, then someone tackled his legs and he went down. Knees dug into his back and his arms were twisted behind him.

"Help! Help!"

"Shut up, a.s.shole. What do you expect those people to do?"

"Witnesses! People are watching, you b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!"

"Calm down, Holman. You're being dramatic."

Holman didn't stop struggling until he felt the plastic restraints cut into his wrists. Vukovich lifted his head by the hair and twisted him around so they could see each other.

"Relax. Nothing's going to happen to you."

"What are you doing?"

"Taking you in. Relax."

"I haven't f.u.c.king done anything!"