HOLMAN DROVE until he spotted a tiny sports bar with its front door wedged open. He jockeyed the beater into a red zone, then hesitated in the door, taking the measure of the place until he saw a television. Holman hadn't been in a bar since the week before he was arrested, but this was no different: A young bartender with sharp sideburns worked a half-dozen alkies sipping their lunch. The television was showing ESPN but no one was looking at it. Holman went to the bar.

"You mind if we get the news?"

The bartender glanced over like the toughest thing he would do that day was pour Holman a drink.

"Whatever you want. Can I get you something?"

Holman glanced at the two women next to him. They were watching him.

"Club soda, I guess. How about that news?"

The bartender added a squeeze of lime to the ice, brimmed the gla.s.s, then set it on the bar before changing the channel to a couple of heads talking about the Middle East.

Holman said, "How about the local news?"

"I don't know if you're gonna get news right now. It's nothing but soap operas."

The nearest of the two women said, "Try five or nine."

The bartender found a local station and there it was, several high-ranking LAPD suits holding a press conference.

The bartender said, "What happened? This about those cops who were killed?"

"Yeah, they know who did it. Let's listen."

The second woman said, "What happened?"

Holman said, "Can we listen?"

The first woman said, "I saw that this morning. There isn't anything new."

Holman said, "Can we listen to what they're saying, please?"

The woman made a snorting sound and rolled her eyes like where did Holman get off. The bartender turned up the sound, but now an a.s.sistant chief named Donnelly was recounting the crime and stating information Holman already knew. Pictures of the murdered officers flashed on the screen as Donnelly identified them, Richie being the last. It was the same picture Holman had seen in the papers, but now the picture left Holman feeling creepy. It was as if Richie was staring down at him from the screen.

A man at the far end of the bar said, "I hope they catch the b.a.s.t.a.r.d did this."

The first woman said, "Can't we get something else? I'm tired of all this killing."

Holman said, "Listen."

She turned to her friend as if they were having a private conversation, only loud.

"Nothing but the bad news and they wonder why no one watches."

Holman said, "Shut the f.u.c.k up and listen."

The picture cut back to Donnelly, who looked determined as another picture appeared on the screen to his right.

Donnelly said, "We have issued a warrant for the arrest of this man, Warren Alberto Juarez, for the murder of these officers."

The woman swiveled toward Holman.

"You can't talk to me like that. How dare you use the F word when you're talking to me?"

Holman strained to hear past her as Donnelly continued.

"Mr. Juarez is a resident of Cypress Park. He has an extensive criminal history including a.s.sault, robbery, possession of a concealed weapon, and known gang a.s.sociations--"

The woman said, "Don't pretend you can't hear me!"

Holman concentrated on what Donnelly was saying, but he still missed some of it.

"--contact us at the number appearing on your screen. Do NOT--I repeat--do NOT try to apprehend this man yourself."

Holman stared hard at the face on the screen. Warren Alberto Juarez looked like a g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger, with a thick mustache and hair slicked tight like a skullcap. He was making his eyes sleepy to look tough for the booking photo. The sleepy look was popular with black and Latino criminals, but Holman wasn't impressed. Back in the day when he pulled state time at Men's Colony and Pleasant Valley, he had kicked the s.h.i.t out of plenty of sleepy a.s.sholes just to stay alive.

The woman said, "I'm talking to you, G.o.dd.a.m.nit. How dare you say such a thing, using that word with me!"

Holman nodded at the bartender.

"How much for the soda?"

"I said I'm talking to you."

"Two."

"You got a pay phone?"

"Look at me when I'm talking to you."

"Back by the bathrooms."

Holman put two dollars on the bar, then followed the bartender's finger back toward the pay phone as the woman called him an a.s.shole. When Holman reached the phone he dug out his list for Levy's number up at the Devonshire Station. He had to wait while Levy got off another call, then Levy came on.

Holman said, "I heard on the news."

"Then you know what I know. Parker Center called less than an hour ago."

"Do they have him yet?"

"Mr. Holman, they just issued the warrant. They'll notify me as soon as an arrest is made."

Holman was so jacked up that he shook as if he had been on meth for a week. He didn't want to put off Levy, so he took a couple of deep breaths and forced himself to relax.

"All right, I understand that. Do they know why it happened?"

"The word I have so far is it was a personal vendetta between Juarez and Sergeant Fowler. Fowler arrested Juarez's younger brother last year, and apparently the brother was killed in prison."

"How was Richie involved with Juarez?"

"He wasn't."

Holman waited for more. He waited for Levy to tell him the reason that would st.i.tch the four murders together but Levy was silent.

"Waitaminute--wait--this a.s.shole killed all four of these people just to get Fowler?"

"Mr. Holman, listen, I know what you're looking for here--you want this to make sense. I would like this to make sense, too, but sometimes they don't. Richard had nothing to do with the Juarez arrest. So far as I know neither did Mellon or Ash. I can't say that definitively, but that's the impression I have from speaking with their captains. Maybe we'll know more later and this will make sense."

"They know who was with him?"

"It's my understanding that he acted alone."

Holman felt his voice shake again and fought hard to stop it.

"This doesn't make sense. How did he know they were down under that bridge? Did he follow them? Was he laying in wait, one guy, and he shotguns four men just to get one of them? This doesn't make sense."

"I know it doesn't. I'm sorry."

"They're sure it was Juarez?"

"They are positive. They matched fingerprints found on sh.e.l.l casings at the scene with Mr. Juarez. My understanding is they also have witnesses who heard Juarez make numerous threats and placed him at the scene earlier that night. They attempted to arrest Juarez at his home earlier today, but he had already fled. Listen, I have other calls--"

"Are they close to an arrest?"

"I don't know. Now I really do--"

"One more thing, Captain, please. On the news, they said he was a g.a.n.g.b.a.n.ger."

"That's my understanding, yes."

"You know his gang affiliation?"

"I don't--no, sir. I really do have to go now."

Holman thanked him, then went back to the bartender for change of a dollar. The woman with the loud mouth gave him a nasty glance, but this time she didn't say anything. Holman took his change back to the phone and called Gail Manelli.

"Hey, it's Holman. You got a second?"

"Of course, Max. I was just about to call you."

Holman figured she wanted to tell him that the police had named a suspect, but he plowed on.

"Remember you said if I needed a few days you'd square it with Gilbert?"

"Do you need some time off?"

"Yes. There's a lot to deal with, Gail. More than I thought."

"Have you spoken with the police today?"

"I just got off the phone with Captain Levy. Can you square a few days with Gilbert? That guy has been good to me with the job--"

"I'll call him right now, Max--I'm sure he'll understand. Now listen, would you like to see a counselor?"

"I'm doing fine, Gail. I don't need a counselor."

"This isn't a time to lose sight of everything you've learned, Max. Use the coping tools you have. Don't try to be an iron man and think you have to weather this alone."

Holman wanted to ask her if she would like to share the guilt and shame he felt. He was tired of everyone treating him as if they were scared s.h.i.tless he would explode, but he reminded himself Gail was doing her job.

"I just need the time, is all. If I change my mind about the counselor I'll let you know."

"I just want you to understand I'm here."

"I know. Listen--I have to go. Thanks for squaring up the job for me. Tell Tony I'll call him in a few days."

"I will, Max. You take care of yourself. I know you're hurting, but the most important thing you can do right now is take care of yourself. Your son would want that."

"Thanks, Gail. I'll see you."

Holman put down the phone. Gail had her ideas about what was important, but Holman had his. The criminal world was a world he knew. And knew how to use.

Chapter 8.

CRIMINALS DID not have friends. They had a.s.sociates, suppliers, fences, wh.o.r.es, sugar daddies, enablers, dealers, collaborators, coconspirators, victims, and bosses, any of whom they might rat out and none of whom could be trusted. Most everyone Holman met on the yard during his ten years at Lompoc had not been arrested and convicted because d.i.c.k Tracy or Sherlock Holmes made their case; they had been fingered by someone they knew and trusted. Police work only went so far; Holman wanted to find someone who would rat out Warren Juarez.

That afternoon, Gary "L'Chee" Moreno said, "You gotta be the dumbest gringo ever s.h.i.t between two feet."

"Tell me you love me, bro."

"Here's what I'm tellin' you, Holman: Why didn't you run? I been waiting ten years to ask that, dumbf.u.c.kinAnglo."

"Didn't have to wait ten years, Chee. You coulda come seen me in Lompoc."

"That's why they caught you, thinkin' like that, dumbf.u.c.kinHolman! Me, I would'a jetted outta that bank straight to Zacatecas like a chili pepper was up my a.s.s. C'mere. Give a brother some love."

Chee came around the counter there at his body shop in East L.A. He wrapped Holman in a tight hug, it being ten years since they had seen each other--since the day Chee had waited outside the bank for Holman as the police and FBI arrived; whereupon--by mutual agreement--Chee had driven away.

Holman first met Chee when they were serving stints at the California Youth Authority, both fourteen years old; Holman for a string of shoplifting and burglary arrests, Chee on his second auto theft conviction. Chee, small but fearless, was being pounded by three bloods on the main yard when Holman, large for his size even then with the thick neck and shoulders, whaled in and beat the bloods down. Chee couldn't do enough for him after that, and neither could Chee's family. Chee was a fifth-generation White Fence homeboy, nephew to the infamous Chihuahua Brothers from Pacoima, two miniature Guatemalans who macheted their way to the top of the L.A. stolen car market in the seventies. In the day, Holman had fed Porsches and 'vettes to Chee when he was sober enough to steal them, which wasn't so very often toward the end, and Chee had even driven on a few of the bank jobs; done it, Holman knew, only for the in-your-face outlaw rush of living crazy with his good buddy Holman.

Now, Chee stepped back, and Holman saw that his eyes were serious. Holman really did mean something to him; meant something deep for all those past times.