When she entered the squad area she scanned the room. Delaney was alone in a cubicle near the door. Pollard flashed a big smile at Delaney as she approached him.

“Man, I used to hate having the duty. I think you need a donut.”

Delaney fished a donut from the box, but seemed uncertain where to put it and had probably taken it only to be polite. His desk was covered in paperwork.

Pollard said, “You want me to leave the box with you?”

Delaney glanced at his desk, noting there was no place to put it.

“Why don’t you leave it in the coffee room?”

“You bet. I’m going to drop these things in Leeds’ office, then I’ll be out of your hair.”

She gestured with the file so he would see it, then turned away. Pollard tried to move with an easy grace, as if her actions were expected and normal. She dropped off the donuts in the coffee room, then stole a glance at Delaney as she stepped back into the squad area. His head was down, busy with his work.

Pollard went to Leeds’ office. She opened the door without hesitation and entered the dragon’s lair. Pollard had not been in Leeds’ office since the day she resigned, but it was as intimidating now as she remembered. Pictures of Leeds with every president since Nixon adorned the walls, along with an inscribed portrait of J. Edgar Hoover, who Leeds revered as an American hero. An actual Wanted poster of John Dillinger hung among the presidents, presented to Leeds by President Reagan.

Pollard took in the office to get her bearings and was relieved to see the file cabinet was still in the corner and Leeds’ desk was unchanged. She hurried to the desk and opened the upper right-hand drawer. Several keys were now in the box, but Pollard recognized the brass key. Now she hurried to the cabinet, worried Delaney would start wondering why she was taking so long. She unlocked the cabinet, opened the drawer, and scanned through the file folders, which were divided alphabetically. She found the W’s, pulled out the folder, then searched through the files. Each file was labeled by the informant’s name and code number.

She was still hoping this would be the one-in-a-million coincidence when she saw the name: Alison Carrie Whitt.

Pollard opened the file to the cover sheet, which contained Alison Whitt’s identifying information. She scanned down the page, searching for the fifth man’s name-

“What in the hell are you doing?”

Pollard jerked at the sound of his voice. Leeds filled the door, his face furious.

“Pollard, stand up! Get away from those files. Delaney! Get in here!”

Pollard slowly stood, but she didn’t put down the file. Delaney appeared in the door behind Leeds. She studied them. Either of their names might be on the sheet, but she didn’t believe it would be Delaney. He was too new.

Pollard pulled herself together. She stood tall and looked Leeds in the eye.

“An agent in this office was involved in the murder of the four officers under the Fourth Street Bridge.”

Even as she said it she thought: Leeds. It could be Leeds.

He advanced toward her across the office, moving carefully.

“Put down the file, Katherine. What you’re doing now is a federal crime.”

“Murdering four police officers is a crime. So is murdering a registered federal informant named Alison Whitt-”

Pollard held out the file.

“Is she your informant, Chris?”

Leeds glanced at Delaney, then hesitated. Delaney was her witness. Pollard went on.

“She’s in your file-Alison Whitt. She was a friend of Marchenko’s. An agent in this office knew that because he knew her. That same agent was involved with Mike Fowler and the other officers in trying to find the sixteen million dollars.”

Leeds glanced at Delaney again, but now Pollard read his hesitancy in a different light. He didn’t seem threatening; now, he was curious.

“What kind of proof do you have?”

She nodded toward the file with all of Holman’s notes and articles and documents.

“It’s all in there. You can call an LAPD detective named Random. He’ll back me up. Alison Whitt was murdered on the same night as the four officers. She was murdered by the person named in her file.”

Leeds stared at her.

“You think it’s me, Katherine?”

“I think it could be.”

Leeds nodded, then slowly smiled.

“Look.”

Pollard skimmed the last few entries on the cover sheet until she found the name.

The name she found was Special Agent William J. Cecil.

Bill Cecil.

One of the kindest men she had ever known.

48

HOLMAN CRUISED three mall parking lots before he found a red Jeep Cherokee similar to the one he had stolen. Swapping plates with the same make, model, and color vehicle was a trick Holman learned when he stole cars for a living-now if an officer checked Holman’s plate, the vehicle report wouldn’t show that his Jeep had been stolen.

Holman switched the plates, then headed for Culver City. He did not like the idea of returning to his apartment, but he needed the money and the gun. He didn’t even have change to call Perry to see if anyone had come around. Holman kicked himself for not asking Pollard to loan him a few bucks, but it hadn’t occurred to him until later. And this stolen Jeep was clean. He searched the floorboards, seats, console, and cushions, and found nothing-not even trash.

The lunch-hour crush was beginning to ease when Holman reached the Pacific Gardens. He circled the block, looking for loiterers and people waiting in parked cars. Pollard had made good points about the confusing nature of Random’s actions, but whatever their intentions Holman was certain they would come for him again. He circled the block twice more, then parked up the street, watching the motel for almost twenty minutes before he decided to make his move.

Holman left the Jeep on the street alongside the motel and entered through the rear by Perry’s room. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs, but heard and saw nothing unusual. Perry wasn’t at his desk.

Holman moved back to Perry’s room and rapped lightly at the door. Inside the room, Perry answered.

“What is it?”

Holman kept his voice low.

“It’s me. Open up.”

Holman heard Perry cursing, but soon the door opened enough for Perry to see out. His pants were bunched around his thighs. Only Perry would answer a door this way.

“I was on the goddamned crapper. What is it?”

“Has anyone been here looking for me?”

“Like who?”

“Like anyone. I thought some people might come around.”

“That woman?”

“No, not her.”

“I’ve been out there all mornin’ til my bowels started to move. I didn’t see anyone.”

“Okay, Perry. Thanks.”

Holman returned to the lobby, then crept up the stairs. When he reached the second floor, he checked the hall in both directions but the hall was empty. Holman didn’t stop at his room; he went directly to the utility closet and eased open the door. Holman pushed the mops out of the way and reached into the wall beneath the water valve. The wad of cash and the gun were still behind the pipe. Holman was fishing them out when the muzzle of a gun dug hard behind his left ear.

“Leave go whatever you’ve got, boy. Nothing better come out of there but your hand.”

Holman didn’t move. He didn’t even turn to look, but went rigid with his hand in the wall.

“Pull that hand out slow and empty.”

Holman showed his hand, opening his fingers wide so the man could see.

“That’s good. Now stand there while I cop a feel.”

The man felt Holman’s waist and his crotch and the seat of his pants, then checked down along the inside of his legs to his ankles.

“All right then. You and I have a little problem, but we’re gonna work it out. Turn around slow.”

Holman turned as the man stepped back, giving himself room to react if Holman tried something. Holman saw a bald light-skinned black man wearing a blue suit. The man slipped his pistol into his coat pocket, but held on to it, showing Holman it was ready to go. It took a minute before Holman recognized him.