“How much was their take?”

“Sixteen-point-two million, less the nine.”

Pollard whistled.

“Jesus Christ, that’s a lot. What did they do with it?”

Sanders eyed the remaining donuts, but finally closed the box.

“We found no evidence of purchases, deposits, fund transfers, gifts-nothing; no receipts, no conspicuous consumption. We ran their phone calls for the entire year, investigating everyone they called-nothing. We worked that old lady-Marchenko’s mother, man, what a nasty bitch she is, a Ukrainian? Leeds thought for sure she knew what was up, but you know what? At the end of the day we cleared her. She couldn’t even afford to buy medicine. We don’t know what they did with the money. It’s probably sitting in a storage shed somewhere.”

“So you let it drop?”

“Sure. We did what we could.”

The squad’s job was to bust bank robbers. Once the perpetrators of a particular crime were caught, the squad would attempt to recover any missing funds but ultimately its attention was turned to the other fifty or sixty crooks still robbing banks. Unless new evidence surfaced to indicate an at-large accomplice, Pollard knew the recovery of missing funds would be left to banking insurers.

Pollard said, “Maybe LAPD is still running the case.”

“Nah, we were in with Robbery Special every step of the way so we both hit the wall at the same time. That case is closed. The banks might have pooled to run a contract investigation, but I don’t know. I could find out if you want.”

“Yeah. That would be great.”

Pollard considered her options. If Sanders said the case was closed, then it was closed, but Holman’s son told his wife he was working it. Pollard wondered if LAPD had developed a lead to the missing money.

“Listen, could you get a copy of the LAPD file on this?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“I’d like to see their witness lists. I’d like to see yours, too. I might have to talk to those people.”

Sanders hesitated, then suddenly stood to make sure the office was empty. She glanced at her watch.

“Leeds is going to kill me. I have to get going.”

“How about the list?”

“You’d better not let it get back to Leeds. He’ll have my ass.”

“You know better than that.”

“I’ll have to fax it to you.”

Pollard left the building with Sanders, then went to her car. It was one forty-five. Her mother would be hammering the boys to clean their room and the day was still young. Pollard had an idea how she could find out what she wanted to know, but she would need Holman’s help. She found his cell number on the envelope and placed the call.

AFTER HOLMAN left Agent Pollard he returned to his Highlander and called Perry to let him know what was happening with the Mercury.

“A couple of guys are bringing back your car. They’ll put it in the alley.”

“Waitaminute. You let some other asshole drive my car? Where you get off doing something like that?”

“I got a new set of wheels, Perry. How else could I get your car back?”

“That bastard better not pick up a ticket or I’m making you pay.”

“I got a cell phone, too. Let me give you the number.”

“Why? In case I gotta call to say your fuckin’ friends have stolen my car?”

Holman gave him the number, then got off the line. Perry was wearing him out.

Holman walked around Westwood looking for a place to have lunch. Most of the restaurants he passed looked too dressy. Holman was feeling self-conscious about his appearance since meeting with Agent Pollard. Even though he had ironed his clothes, he knew they looked cheap. They were prison clothes, bought from secondhand shops with prison money, ten years behind the style. Holman stopped outside a Gap and watched the kids going in and out with big Gap bags. He could probably set himself up with a new pair of jeans and a couple of shirts, but spending Chee’s money on clothes bothered him, so he talked himself out of it. A block later he bought a pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarers from a street vendor for nine dollars. He liked the way he looked in them, but didn’t realize until he was two blocks away that they were the same style glasses he wore when he was robbing banks.

Holman found a Burger King across the street from the UCLA main gate, settled in with a Whopper and fries and the instruction manual for his new cell phone. He set up his voice mail and was programming the list of numbers he’d been keeping in his wallet into the phone’s memory when the phone made a chiming sound. Holman thought he had caused the chime by pressing the wrong button, then realized he was getting a call. It took him a moment to remember to answer by pressing the Send key.

He said, “Hello?”

“Holman, it’s Katherine Pollard. I have a question for you.”

Holman wondered if anything was wrong. She had left him only an hour ago.

“Okay. Sure.”

“Have you met or spoken with Fowler’s widow?”

“Yeah. I met her at the memorial.”

“Good. We’re going to go see her.”

“Right now?”

“Yeah. I have the free time now, so now would be good. I want you to meet me back in Westwood. There’s a mystery bookstore on Broxton just south of Weyburn with a parking structure next door. Park in the structure and meet me outside the bookstore. I’ll do the driving.”

“Okay, sure, but why are we going to see her? Did you find out something?”

“I’ve asked two people if LAPD was running an investigation and they both denied it, but I think it’s possible something was going on. She might be able to tell us.”

“Why do you think Fowler’s wife knows?”

“Your son told his wife, didn’t he?”

The simplicity of that notion impressed Holman.

“Should we call her or something? What if she isn’t home?”

“You never call them, Holman. When you call, they always say no. We’ll take our chances. How long before you can get back to Westwood?”

“I’m already there.”

“Then I’ll see you in five.”

Holman hung up, regretting that he hadn’t bought new clothes at the Gap.

When Holman stepped out of the parking structure, Pollard was waiting in front of the bookstore in a blue Subaru with the windows raised and the engine running. It was several years old and needed a wash. He climbed into the passenger side and pulled the door closed.

He said, “Man, you got back to me really fast.”

She tore away from the curb.

“Yeah, thanks, now listen-we have three things to cover with this woman: Was her husband participating in some kind of investigation involving Marchenko and Parsons? Did he tell her why he left the house to meet your son and the others that night, and what they were going to do? And, in either of the above conversations or at any other time, did he mention Marchenko and Parsons being connected with Frogtown or any other gang? Got it? That should tell us what you need to know.”

Holman stared at her.

“Is this what it was like when you were on the Feeb?”

“Don’t call it the Feeb, Holman. I can call it the Feeb, but I don’t want to hear that kind of disrespect from you.”

Holman turned to stare out the window. He felt like a child whose hand had been slapped for chewing with his mouth open.

She said, “No sulking. Please don’t sulk, Holman. I’m hitting this fast because we have a lot of ground to cover and I don’t have much time. You came to me, remember?”

“Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Okay. She lives up in Canoga Park. Take us about twenty minutes if we stay ahead of the traffic.”

Holman was irritated, but he liked that she had taken the lead and was pushing forward. He took it as a sign of her experience and professionalism.

“So why do you think something is going on even though your friends said the case was closed?”

Pollard swiveled her head like a fighter pilot on patrol, then gunned the Subaru onto the 405, heading north. Holman held on, wondering if she always drove like this.