She said, “They never recovered the money.”

“The papers said they got nine hundred thousand in Marchenko’s apartment.”

“Chump change. Those guys netted over sixteen mil in their heists. It’s missing.”

Holman stared at her.

“That’s a lot of money.”

“Yeah.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“What happened to it?”

“No one knows.”

They climbed the 405 out of Westwood toward the Sepulveda Pass. Holman turned in his seat to look out at the city. The city stretched away from him as far as he could see.

He said, “All that money is just…out there?”

“Don’t mention the money to this woman, okay, Holman? If she mentions it, fine, then we’ve learned something, but the idea here is that we want to find out what she knows. We don’t want to put ideas in her head. That’s called witness contamination.”

Holman was still thinking about the sixteen million dollars. His biggest single take had been three thousand, one hundred, and twenty-seven dollars. The combined take from all nine of his robberies had been eighteen thousand, nine hundred, and forty-two dollars.

“You think they were trying to find the money?”

“Finding money isn’t the LAPD’s job. But if they had a lead to someone who had knowingly received stolen money or was holding it for Marchenko and Parsons or was in possession of the stolen cash, then, yeah, it would be their job to conduct an investigation.”

They were steaming north out of the mountains and across the Ventura Interchange. The San Fernando Valley spread out before them to the east and west, and north to the Santa Susana Mountains, a great flat valley filled with buildings and people. Holman kept thinking about the money. He couldn’t get the sixteen million out of his head. It might be anywhere.

Holman said, “They were trying to find the money. You can’t let that much money just go.”

Pollard laughed.

“Holman, you wouldn’t believe how much dough we lose. Not with guys like you who we bag alive-you bag a guy, he’ll give it up if he has any left, trying to cut a deal-but the takeover guys like Marchenko and Parsons who get killed? One-point-two here, five hundred thousand there, just gone, and no one ever finds it. No one who reports it, anyway.”

Holman glanced over at her. She was smiling.

“That’s wild. I never thought about it.”

“The banks don’t want losses like that in the papers. It would only encourage more assholes to rob banks. Anyway, listen-a friend of mine is pulling the LAPD file on this thing. As soon as we have it, we’ll know what’s what or we’ll know who to ask, so don’t worry about it. In the meantime, we’ll see what we get from this woman. For all we know, Fowler told her everything.”

Holman nodded but did not answer. He watched the valley roll past: a pelt of houses and buildings covering the earth that reached to the mountains, cut by remote canyons and shadows. Some men would do anything for sixteen million dollars. Murdering four cops was nothing.

The Fowlers had a small tract home in a development of similar homes, all with the stucco sides, composite roofs, and tiny yards typical of the post-World War II construction boom. Ancient orange trees decorated most of the yards, so old that their trunks were black and gnarled. Holman guessed the development had once been an orange grove. The trees were older than the houses.

The woman who answered the door was Jacki Fowler, but she seemed like a coarse version of the woman Holman met at the memorial. Without makeup, her wide face was loose and blotchy, and her eyes were hard. She stared at him without recognition in a way that made Holman uncomfortable. He wished they had called.

“I’m Max Holman, Mrs. Fowler, Richard Holman’s father. We met at the memorial.”

Pollard held out a small bouquet of daisies. She had swung into a Vons Market to pick up the flowers when they reached Canoga Park.

“My name is Katherine Pollard, Mrs. Fowler. I’m terribly sorry for your loss.”

Jacki Fowler took the flowers without comprehension, then looked at Holman.

“Oh, that’s right. You lost your son.”

Pollard said, “Would you mind if we come in for a few minutes, Mrs. Fowler? We’d like to pay our respects, and Max would like to talk about his son if you have the time.”

Holman admired Pollard. In the time it took them to walk from the car to the door, the fast-talking frenetic driver had been replaced by a reassuring woman with a gentle voice and kind eyes. Holman was glad she was with him. He wouldn’t have known what to say.

Mrs. Fowler showed them into a clean, well-kept living room. Holman saw an open bottle of red wine on a little table at the end of the couch, but no glass. He glanced at Pollard for some direction, but Pollard was still with Mrs. Fowler.

Pollard said, “This must be really hard for you right now. Are you doing all right? Do you need anything?”

“I have four sons, you know. The oldest, now he’s talking the big talk about going on the police. I told him, are you out of your mind?”

“Tell him to be a lawyer. Lawyers make all the money.”

“Do you have children?”

“Two boys.”

“Then you know. This is going to sound terrible, but you know what I used to say? If he’s going to get killed, then please God let him get T-boned by some drunk-driving movie star with millions of dollars. At least I could sue the sonofabitch. But no-he has to get killed by some piece of shit cholo without a pot to piss in.”

She glanced at Holman.

“We should still look into that-me, you, and the other families. They say you can’t get blood from a stone, but who’s to know? Would you like a glass of wine? I was just about to have one, first of the day.”

“No, thanks, but you help yourself.”

Pollard said, “I’ll have one.”

Mrs. Fowler told them to take a seat, then continued out to her dining room. A second bottle of wine was open on the table. She poured two glasses, then returned, offering one of the glasses to Pollard. Holman realized it was a long way from being the first of her day.

As Jacki Fowler took a seat, she asked, “Did you know Mike? Is that why you’re here?”

“No, ma’am. I didn’t know my son very well, either. That’s more why I’m here, about my son. My daughter-in-law-Richie’s wife-she told me that your husband was my son’s training officer. I guess they were good friends.”

“I wouldn’t know. It’s like we lived two lives in this house. Are you a policeman, too?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Are you the one was in prison? Someone at the funeral said there was a convict.”

Holman felt himself flush and glanced at Pollard, but Pollard wasn’t looking at him.

“Yes, ma’am. That’s me. Officer Holman’s father.”

“Jesus, that must have been something. What did you do?”

“I robbed a bank.”

Pollard said, “I used to be a police officer, Mrs. Fowler. I don’t know about you, but these murders have left Max with a lot of questions, like why his son went out in the middle of the night. Did Mike tell you anything about that?”

Mrs. Fowler sipped her wine, then made a dismissive wave with the glass.

“Mike went out in the middle of the night all the damned time. He was hardly ever home.”

Pollard glanced at Holman, nodding that it was his turn to say something.

“Max, why don’t you tell Jacki what your daughter-in-law said? About the call he got that night.”

“My daughter-in-law told me your husband called. Richie was at home, but he got a call from your husband and went out to meet him and the other guys.”

She snorted.

“Well, Mike sure as hell didn’t call me. He was working that night. He had the dog shift. The way it was around here, he came home when he came home. He never showed me the courtesy to call.”

“I got the idea they were working on something.”

She grunted again and had more of the wine.