Holman smiled, knowing she wouldn’t like it, but at peace with his fate. You just couldn’t beat the bad blood.

“Like son, like father.”

Holman heard a car door close behind him and glanced up into the sun. Two men were coming toward him.

“Max Holman.”

Two more men were coming from the direction of the burial, one with bright red hair.

40

VUKOVICH AND FUENTES were coming from one side and two more men from the other. Holman could not reach his car. They spread apart as they came like they expected him to run and were ready for it. Holman stood anyway, his heart pounding. The empty plain of the cemetery left him exposed like a fly on a dinner plate with no place to hide and no way to lose them.

Vukovich said, “Easy now.”

Holman started for the gate, and both Fuentes and one of the men behind him widened out.

Vukovich said, “Don’t be stupid.”

Holman broke into a trot and all four men suddenly ran forward. Holman shouted at the burial party.

“Help! Help me!”

Holman reversed course toward his car, knowing he couldn’t make it even as he tried.

“Over here! Help!”

Mourners at the far tent turned as the first two officers converged on him. Holman lowered his shoulder at the last moment and drove into the smaller guy hard, then spun, making a sprint for his car as Vukovich shouted.

“Take him down!”

“Help! Help here!”

Someone slammed into Holman from behind, but he kept on his feet and turned as Fuentes charged from the side, Vukovich shouting, “Stop it, goddamnit-give it up.”

Everything blurred into bodies and arms. Holman swung hard, catching Fuentes in the ear, then someone tackled his legs and he went down. Knees dug into his back and his arms were twisted behind him.

“Help! Help!”

“Shut up, asshole. What do you expect those people to do?”

“Witnesses! People are watching, you bastards!”

“Calm down, Holman. You’re being dramatic.”

Holman didn’t stop struggling until he felt the plastic restraints cut into his wrists. Vukovich lifted his head by the hair and twisted him around so they could see each other.

“Relax. Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

“What are you doing?”

“Taking you in. Relax.”

“I haven’t fucking done anything!”

“You’re fucking up our shit, Holman. We tried to be nice, but could you take the hint? You’re fucking up our shit.”

When they lifted him to his feet, Holman saw that everyone in the burial party was now watching them. The two motorcycle cops who had escorted the hearse were walking over, but Fuentes was trotting out to meet them.

Holman said, “They’re witnesses, goddamnit. They’re gonna remember this.”

“All they’re going to remember is some asshole getting arrested. Stop being stupid.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“In.”

“Why?”

“Just relax, man. You’re going to be fine.”

Holman didn’t like the way Vukovich told him he was going to be fine. It sounded like something you heard before you were murdered.

They stood him up outside their car and went through his pockets. They took his wallet, keys, and cell phone, then checked his ankles, waist, and groin. Fuentes came back and the two motorcycle cops returned to their funeral. Holman watched them go as if they were life preservers drifting away on the current.

Vukovich said, “Okay, load’m up.”

Holman said, “What about my car?”

“We’ll get your car. You’re in the limo.”

“People know, damnit. People know what I’m doing.”

“No, Holman, no one knows anything. Now shut the fuck up.”

Fuentes drove away in Holman’s Highlander as the two new guys pushed him into the backseat of their car. The larger man got into the back with Holman and his partner climbed in behind the wheel. They pulled away as soon as they had the doors locked.

Holman knew they were going to kill him. The two cops didn’t speak to each other or look at him, so Holman made himself think. They were in a typical Crown Victoria detective’s car. Like all police cars, the rear seats and windows locked from the front. Holman wouldn’t be able to open the doors even if he could get his hands free. He would have to wait until he was out of the car, but by then it might be too late. He tested his wrists. The plastic ties had no give and did not slide over his skin. He had heard cons say these new plastic ties were stronger than steel, but Holman had never worn them before. He wondered if they would melt.

Holman studied the two cops. They were both in their thirties with solid builds and burnished faces as if they spent time outdoors. They were fit men and young, but neither had Holman’s heavy shoulders and weight. The man seated beside Holman was wearing a wedding ring.

Holman said, “Did either of you know my son?”

The driver shot a glance in the mirror, but neither answered.

“Was it one of you fuckers gunned him down?”

The driver glanced again and started to say something, but the backseat man cut him off.

“That’s up to Random to tell him.”

Holman figured Random was probably the fifth man, but now Vukovich, Fuentes, and these two guys were also part of the action. Add in Fowler, Richie, and the other two, and that made nine. Holman wondered if anyone else was involved. Sixteen million was a lot of money. There was still plenty to go around. Holman wondered what they knew about Pollard. They had probably followed him from his apartment and they would have seen her at the cemetery. They probably didn’t like the idea of stirring up the FBI, but they wouldn’t be willing to take the chance. When they got rid of him they would get rid of her.

They drove for about fifteen minutes. Holman thought they would take him out into the middle of nowhere or maybe a warehouse, but they turned off Centinela onto a cluttered middle-class street in Mar Vista. Small houses set on narrow lots lined both sides of the street, separated by hedges and shrubs. Fuentes had already arrived. Holman saw his Highlander parked ahead at the curb. Fuentes wasn’t in the car and no one was standing nearby. Holman’s heart started to pound and his palms grew cold. He was getting close and he would have to make his move soon. It felt like walking into a bank or circling a hot Porsche. His life was on the line.

They pulled across the drive of a small yellow house. A narrow drive ran past the side of the house under an arching carport to a garage at the rear of the property, and a blue sedan was parked beneath the arch. Holman didn’t recognize the sedan. Fuentes was probably already inside, but he didn’t know about Vukovich and Random. The entire house might be crawling with people.

The driver shut off their car and unlocked the back doors. The driver got out first, but the backseat man waited. The driver opened Holman’s door, but stood close as if he wanted to block Holman’s way.

“Okay, dude. Get out, but don’t move away from the car. When you’re out, stand straight up, then turn to face the car. You understand what I’m telling you?”

“I think I can handle it.”

They didn’t want the neighbors to see that Holman’s hands were bound behind his back.

“Get out and turn.”

Holman stepped out and turned. The driver immediately stepped up behind him and took a firm grip on his wrists.

“Okay, Tom.”

Tom was the backseater. He got out, then moved to the front of the car, waiting for Holman and the driver.

Holman took in the surrounding houses. Bikes in the front yards and knotted ropes hanging from trees told him this was a family neighborhood. An outboard powerboat was parked in a drive two houses away. He glimpsed low chain-link fences through breaks in the shrubs. No one was outside, but people would be inside with their air conditioners, mostly women with small children this time of day. He could scream his ass off, but no one would hear. If he ran, he would have to go over fences. He hoped none of these people had pit bulls.