“Donuts ready. Miss? Your donuts are ready.”

Pollard glanced up.

“What?”

“The hot donuts are ready.”

Pollard had been so involved in the articles she lost track of time. She went inside, collected her donut with a cup of black coffee, then went back to her table to resume reading.

Marchenko and Parsons ran out of luck on their thirteenth robbery.

When they entered the California Central Bank in Culver City to commit their thirteenth armed robbery, they did not know that LAPD Robbery Special detectives, Special Investigations officers, and patrol officers were surveilling a three-mile corridor stretching from downtown L.A. to the eastern edge of Santa Monica. When Marchenko and Parsons entered the bank, all five tellers tripped silent alarms. Though the news story did not contain the specifics, Pollard knew what happened from that point: The bank’s security contractor notified the LAPD, who in turn alerted the surveillance team. The team converged on the bank to take positions in the parking lot. Marchenko exited the bank first. In most such cases, the robber had three typical moves: He surrendered, he tried to escape, or he retreated into the bank, whereupon a negotiation ensued. Marchenko chose none of the above. He opened fire. The surveillance teams-armed with 5.56mm rifles-returned fire, killing Marchenko and Parsons at the scene.

Pollard finished the last article and realized her donut had grown cold. She took a bite. It was delicious even cold, but she paid little attention.

Pollard skimmed through the articles covering the murders of the four officers, then found what appeared to be several cover sheets from LAPD reports about Marchenko and Parsons. Pollard found this curious. Such reports were from the Detective Bureau, but Richard Holman had been a uniformed patrol officer. LAPD detectives used patrol officers to assist in searches and one-on-one street interviews after a robbery, but those jobs didn’t require access to reports or witness statements, and patrol officers rarely stayed involved after the first day or two following a robbery. Marchenko and Parsons had been dead for three months and their loot had been recovered. She wondered why LAPD was maintaining an investigation three months after the fact and why it included patrol officers, but she felt she could learn the answer easily enough. Pollard had gotten to know several LAPD Robbery detectives during her time on the squad. She decided to ask them.

Pollard spent a few minutes recalling their names, then phoned the LAPD’s information office for their current duty assignments. The first two detectives she asked for had retired, but the third, Bill Fitch, was currently assigned to Robbery Special, the elite robbery unit operating out of Parker Center.

When she got Fitch on the phone, he said, “Who is this?”

Fitch didn’t remember her.

“Katherine Pollard. I was on the Bank Squad with the FBI. We worked together a few years ago.”

She rattled off the names of several of the serial bandits they had worked: the Major League Bandit, the Dolly Parton Bandit, the Munchkin Bandits. Serial bandits were given names when they were unknown subjects because the names made them easier to talk about. The Major League Bandit had always worn a Dodgers cap; the Dolly Parton Bandit, one of only two female bank bandits Pollard had worked, had been an ex-stripper with huge breasts; and the Munchkin Bandits had been a takeover team of little people.

Fitch said, “Oh, sure, I remember you. I heard you quit the job.”

“That’s right. Listen, I have a question for you about Marchenko and Parsons. You got a minute?”

“They’re dead.”

“I know. Are you guys still running an open case?”

Fitch hesitated, and Pollard knew this to be a bad sign. Though the FBI and the LAPD bank teams enjoyed a great working relationship, the rules stated you didn’t share information with private citizens.

He said, “Are you back with the Feeb?”

“No. I’m making a personal inquiry.”

“What does that mean, personal inquiry? Who are you working for?”

“I’m not working for anyone-I’m making an inquiry for a friend. I want to find out if the four officers killed last week were working on Marchenko and Parsons.”

Pollard could almost see his eyes roll by the tone that came to his voice.

“Oh, now I get it. Holman’s father. That guy is being a real pain in the ass.”

“He lost his son.”

“Listen, how in hell did he get you involved in this?”

“I put him in prison.”

Fitch laughed, but then his laughter stopped as if he had flipped a switch.

“I don’t know what Holman is talking about and I can’t answer your questions. You’re a civilian.”

“Holman’s son told his wife he was working on something.”

“Marchenko and Parsons are dead. Don’t call me again, ex-Agent Pollard.”

The phone went dead in her ear.

Pollard sat with her dead phone and cold donut, reviewing their conversation. Fitch had repeatedly told her Marchenko and Parsons were dead, but he hadn’t denied that an investigation was ongoing. She wondered why and thought she might know how to find out. She opened her cell phone again and called April Sanders.

“Special Agent Sanders.”

“Guess where I am.”

Sanders lowered her voice. This had always been Sanders’ habit when taking a personal call. They hadn’t spoken since Marty’s death and Pollard was pleased to see that Sanders hadn’t changed.

“Oh my God-is that really you?”

“Are you in the office?”

“Yeah, but not much longer. Are you here?”

“I’m at Stan’s with your name on a dozen donuts. Send down a badge.”

The Federal Building in Westwood was headquarters for the eleven hundred FBI agents serving Los Angeles and the surrounding counties. It was a single steel-and-glass tower set amid acres of parking lots on some of the most expensive real estate in America. The agents often joked that the United States could retire its national debt by converting their offices to condos.

Pollard parked in the civilian lot, then cleared the lobby security station to wait for her escort. It was no longer enough for someone to call down a pass. Pollard couldn’t just board an elevator and punch the button for any of the eight floors occupied by the FBI; visitors and agents had to swipe their security cards and enter a valid badge number before the elevator would move.

A few moments later an elevator opened and a civilian employee stepped out. He recognized Pollard by the box from Stan’s and held the door.

“Miss Pollard?”

“That’s me.”

“You going to Banks, right?”

“That’s right.”

Officially, it was known as the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Los Angeles Field Office, Bank Squad, but the agents who worked there called it Banks. Pollard’s escort showed her to the thirteenth floor, then let her through a code-locked door. Pollard hadn’t been through the door in eight years. She felt as if she had never left.

The Bank Squad occupied a large modern office space cut into spacious cubicles by sea-green partitions. The offices were neat, clean, and corporate, and might have belonged to an insurance firm or a FORTUNE 500 company except for the mug shots of L.A.’s ten most wanted bank robbers hanging on the wall. Pollard smiled when she saw the mug shots. Someone had stuck Post-it notes on the top three suspects, naming them Larry, Moe, and Curly.

Los Angeles and the surrounding seven counties were hit by an average of more than six hundred bank robberies every year-which meant three bank robberies each and every business day, five days per week, fifty-two weeks per year (bank robbers kicked back on Saturday and Sunday when most banks were closed). So many banks were being robbed that most of the ten elite Special Agents who worked Banks were always out in the field at any given time and today was no different. Pollard saw only three people when she entered. A bald, light-skinned African-American agent named Bill Cecil was locked in conversation with a young agent Pollard didn’t recognize. Cecil smiled when he saw her as April Sanders rushed forward.