TOCK.

Like a gunshot.

Pollard got up and went back into the living room, wondering if Leeds was right. She had felt a kind of admiration for Holman both back in the day and now, for how he went down and how he had brought himself back. And she had felt a kind of attraction, too. Pollard didn’t like admitting to the attraction. It made her feel stupid. Maybe she had gone Indian without even knowing it. Maybe that’s the way going Indian happened. Maybe it snuck up on you when you weren’t looking and took over before you knew.

Pollard stared at the papers on the couch and felt disgusted with herself. Her Holman file.

She said, “Jesus Christ.”

Sixteen million dollars was a fortune. It was buried treasure, a winning lotto ticket, the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. It was the Lost Dutchman Mine and the Treasure of the Sierra Madre. Holman had robbed nine banks for a total score of less than forty thousand. He had pulled ten years and come out with nothing, so why wouldn’t he want the money? Pollard wanted the money. She had dreamed about it, seeing herself in the dream, opening a shitty garage door in a shitty neighborhood, everything covered in grime; pushing up the door and finding the money, a great huge vacuum-packed block of it, sixteen million dollars. She would be set up for life. The boys would be set. Their kids would be set. Her problems would be solved.

Pollard, of course, would not steal it. Keeping the money was just a fantasy. Like finding Prince Charming.

But Holman was a lifelong degenerate criminal who had stolen cars, ripped off warehouses, and robbed nine banks-he probably wouldn’t think twice about stealing the money.

The phone rang. Her house phone, not the cell.

Pollard’s gut clenched because she was sure it was her mother. The boys had probably bitched about staying over, and now her mother was calling to lay on both barrels of guilt.

Pollard returned to the kitchen. She didn’t want to answer, but she did. She was already guilty enough.

April Sanders said, “Are you really helping out the Hero?”

Pollard closed her eyes and shouldered a fresh load of guilt.

“I am so sorry, April. Are you in trouble?”

“Oh, fuck Leeds. Is it true about the Hero?”

Pollard sighed.

“Yes.”

“Are you fucking him?”

“No! How could you even ask a question like that?”

“I’d fuck him.”

“April, shut up!”

“I wouldn’t marry him, but I’d fuck him.”

“April-”

“I found Alison Whitt.”

“Are you still going to help me?”

“Of course I’m going to help you, Pollard. Give a sista some credit.”

Pollard reached for a pen.

“Okay, April. I owe you, girl. Where is she?”

“The morgue.”

Pollard froze with her pen in the air as April’s voice turned somber and professional.

“What have you gotten yourself into, Pollard? Why are you looking for a dead girl?”

“She was Marchenko’s girlfriend.”

“Marchenko didn’t have a girlfriend.”

“He saw her on multiple occasions. Marchenko’s mother spoke with her at least twice.”

“Bill and I ran his phone logs, Kat. If we had ID’d a potential girlfriend on the callbacks we would have followed up on her.”

“I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe he never phoned her at home or maybe he only called her from his mother’s.”

Sanders hesitated and Pollard knew she was thinking about it.

Sanders said, “Whatever. The sheet shows a couple of busts for prostitution, shoplifting, drugs-the usual. She was just a kid-twenty-two years old-and now she’s been killed.”

Pollard felt the blood tingle again.

“She was murdered?”

“The body was found in a Dumpster off Yucca in Hollywood. Ligature marks on the neck indicate strangulation, but the cause of death was cardiac arrest brought on by blood loss. She was stabbed twelve times in the chest and abdomen. Yeah, I’d call that murder.”

“Was there an arrest?”

“Nope.”

“When was she killed?”

“The same night Holman’s son was killed.”

Neither of them spoke for a moment. Pollard was thinking of Maria Juarez. She wondered if Maria Juarez would turn up dead, too. Finally, Sanders asked the question.

“Kat? Do you know what happened to this girl?”

“No.”

“Would you tell me if you did?”

“Yes, I would tell you. Of course I would.”

“Okay.”

“What was the time of death?”

“Between eleven and eleven-thirty that night.”

Pollard hesitated, unsure what this might mean or how much she should say, but she owed April the truth.

“Mike Fowler knew her or knew of her. Do you recognize Fowler’s name?”

“No, who’s that?”

“One of the officers killed with Richard Holman that night. He was the senior officer.”

Pollard knew Sanders was taking notes. Everything she now said would be part of Sanders’ records.

“Fowler approached Marchenko’s mother about a girl named Allie. He knew Allie and Anton Marchenko were linked, and asked Mrs. Marchenko about her.”

“What did Mrs. Marchenko tell him?”

“She denied knowing the girl.”

“What did she tell you?”

“She gave us the first name and allowed us to look through her phone bills to find the number.”

“You mean you and the Hero?”

Pollard closed her eyes again.

“Yeah, me and Holman.”

“Huh.”

“Stop.”

“When were the four officers killed that night?”

Pollard knew where Sanders was going and had already considered it.

“One thirty-two. A shotgun pellet broke Mellon’s watch at one thirty-two, so they know the exact time.”

“So it was possible Fowler and these guys killed the girl earlier. They had time to kill her, then get to the river.”

“It’s also possible someone else killed the girl, then went to the river to kill the four officers.”

“Where was the Hero that night?”

Pollard had already thought of that, too.

“He has a name, April. Holman was still in custody. He wasn’t released until the next day.”

“Lucky him.”

“Listen, April, can you get the police report on Alison Whitt?”

“Already have it. I’ll fax you a copy when I get home. I don’t want to do it from here.”

“Thanks, babe.”

“You and the Hero. Man, that’s a shiver.”

Pollard put down the phone and returned to her living room. Her home didn’t seem quiet anymore, but she knew the sounds now came from her heart. She considered the papers on her couch, thinking more papers would soon be added. The Holman file was growing. A girl had been murdered before his release and now Holman believed the police were lying about Maria Juarez. She wondered again if Maria Juarez was going to turn up dead and whether the fifth man would have something to do with it.

Pollard thought about the timing and found herself hoping that Holman’s son had nothing to do with murdering Alison Whitt. She had seen him struggle with the guilt he felt about his son’s death and agonize over the growing evidence that his son had been involved in an illegal scheme to recover the stolen money. Holman would be crushed if his son was a murderer.

Pollard knew she had to tell him about Alison Whitt and find out more about Maria Juarez. Pollard picked up the phone, but hesitated. Leeds’ appearance had taken a toll. His comments about her going Indian had left her feeling foolish and ashamed of herself. She hadn’t gone Indian, but she had been thinking about Holman in ways that disturbed her. Even Sanders had laughed. You and the Hero. Man, that’s a shiver.

Pollard had to call him, but not just yet. She tossed the phone back onto the couch and went back through the kitchen into the garage. It was hotter than hell even though the sun was down and night had fallen. She waded around bicycles, skateboards, and the vacuum cleaner to a battered grey file cabinet layered with dust. She hadn’t opened the damned thing in years.

She pulled the top drawer and found the folder containing her old case clippings. Pollard had saved press clippings from her cases and arrests. She had almost tossed the stuff a hundred times, but now was glad she hadn’t. She wanted to read about him again. She needed to remember why the Times had called him the Hero Bandit, and why he deserved a second chance.