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 reassure him that the murder scenario the police described and their conclusions regarding Warren Juarez were reasonable, but she had had only a passing familiarity with the case and hadn’t been able to answer his torrent of questions or see the evidence he had amassed. 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 documents, 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 sunglasses.

“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.”

Her mouth remained firm, but now her laced fingers tightened.

“The police have legal issues, like the right to privacy. If they opened their files, they could be sued.”

Holman decided to move on and fingered through his papers until he found what he wanted. He turned it so she could see.

“The newspaper ran this diagram of the crime scene. See how they drew in the cars and the bodies? I went down there to see for myself-”

“You went down into the riverbed?”

“When I was stealing cars-that was before I got into banks-I spent time down in those flats. That’s what it is-flat. The bed on either side of the channel is an empty expanse of concrete like a parking lot. Only way you can get down there is by the service drive the maintenance people use.”

Pollard leaned forward to follow what he was saying on the map.

“All right. What’s your point?”

“The drive comes down the embankment right here in full view of where the officers were parked. See? The shooter had to come down this drive, but if he came down the drive, they would have been able to see him.”

“It was one in the morning. It was dark. Besides, that thing probably isn’t drawn to scale.”

Holman took out a second map, one he had made himself.

“No, it’s not, so I made this one myself. The service drive was way more visible from under the bridge than the newspaper drawing made it seem. And something else-there’s a gate here at the top of the drive, see? You have to either climb the fence or cut the lock. Either way would make a helluva lot of noise.”

Holman watched Pollard compare the two drawings. She appeared to be thinking about it, and thinking was a good thing. Thinking meant she was becoming involved. But finally she sat back again and shrugged.

“The officers left the gate open when they drove down.”

“I asked the cops how the gate was found, but they wouldn’t tell me. I don’t think Richie and those other officers would have left it open. If you leave the gate open, you take the chance a security patrol might see it and then you’re screwed. We always closed the gate and ran the chain back through, and I’ll bet that’s what Richie and those other guys did, too.”

Pollard sat back.

“When you were stealing cars.”

Holman was setting her up for the hook and he thought he was doing pretty well. She was following his logic train even though she didn’t know where he was going. He felt encouraged.

“If the gate was closed, the shooter had to open it or go over it, and that makes noise. I know those guys were drinking but they only had a six-pack. That’s four grown men and a six-pack-how drunk could they be? If Juarez was stoned like you suggested, how quiet could he be? Those officers would have heard something.”

“What are you saying, Holman? You think Juarez didn’t do it?”

“I’m saying it didn’t matter what the officers heard. I think they knew the shooter.”

Now Pollard crossed her arms, the ultimate signal she was walling him off. Holman knew he was losing her, but he was ready with his hook and she would either go for it or pass.

He said, “Have you heard of two bank hitters named Marchenko and Parsons?”

Holman watched her stiffen and knew she was finally interested. Now she wasn’t just being nice or killing time until she could jump up and run. She took off her sunglasses. He saw that the skin around her eyes had grown papery. She had changed a lot since he had last seen her, but something beyond her appearance was different that he couldn’t quite place.

She said, “I’ve heard of them. And?”

Holman placed the map Richie made showing Marchenko’s and Parsons’ robberies in front of her.

“My son did this. His wife, Liz, let me make a copy.”

“It’s a map of their robberies.”

“The night he died, Richie got a call from Fowler, and that’s when he left. He was going to meet Fowler to talk about Marchenko and Parsons.”