“I know you.”

“That’s right. I helped put your ass away.”

Holman remembered-FBI Special Agent Cecil had been with Pollard that day in the bank. Holman wondered if Pollard had sent him, but the way Cecil was holding the gun told him Cecil was not here as his friend.

“Am I under arrest?”

“Here’s what we’re going to do-we’re going down those stairs like we’re the best buddies in the world. That old man down there says anything or tries to stop us, you tell him you’ll see him later and keep walking. We get outside, you’ll see a dark green Ford parked out front. You get in. You do anything but what I’m telling you, I’ll kill you in the street.”

Cecil stepped out of the way and Holman went down the stairs and got into the Ford, wondering what was happening. He watched Cecil cross in front of the car, then get in behind the wheel. Cecil took the pistol from his pocket and held it in his lap with his left hand as he pulled away from the curb. Holman studied him. Cecil’s breath was fast and shallow and his face sheened with sweat. His eyes were large, darting between traffic and Holman like a man watching for snakes. He looked like a man who had stolen a car and was trying to get away.

Holman said, “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Going to get us sixteen million dollars.”

Holman tried to show nothing, but his right eye watered as the skin surrounding it flickered. Cecil was the fifth man. Cecil had killed Richie. Holman glanced at the gun. When he looked up Cecil was watching him.

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, yeah, I was in with them, but I didn’t have anything to do with those killings. Me and your boy were partners until Juarez lost his mind. Sonofabitch went nuts killing everybody, figuring he could keep the money, I guess. That’s why I took him out. I took him out for killing those people.”

Holman knew Cecil was lying. He saw it in how Cecil made eye contact, arching his eyebrows and nodding his head to fake sincerity. Fences and dope dealers had lied to Holman the same way a hundred times. Cecil was trying to play him, but Holman didn’t understand why. Something had driven Cecil into revealing himself and now the man clearly had a plan that included Holman.

Images of Cecil under the bridge flashed in Holman’s head like a shotgun in the darkness: Cecil cutting loose at point-blank range, the white-gold plume, Richie falling…

Holman glanced at the gun again, wondering if he could get it or push it aside. Holman wanted the sonofabitch-everything he had done since that morning in the CCC when Wally Figg told him Richie was dead had led to finding this man. If Holman could keep from being shot he might be able to punch Cecil out, but then where would he be? He would have to shoot Cecil right there or the cops would come and Cecil would flash his creds-who would they believe? Cecil would split while Holman was trying to talk himself out of a squad car.

Holman thought he might be able to jump out of the car before Cecil shot him. They had just turned onto Wilshire Boulevard, where traffic slowed.

“You don’t have to jump. We get where we’re going, I’m gonna let you out.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Cecil laughed.

“Holman, I’ve been hooking up guys like you for almost thirty years. I know what you’re going to think even before you think it.”

“You know what I’m thinking right now?”

“Yeah, but I won’t hold it against you.”

“I’m thinking why the fuck are you still here if you have sixteen million dollars.”

“Know where it is, just couldn’t get it. That’s where you come in.”

Cecil took a cell phone from the console and dropped it in Holman’s lap.

“Here. Call your boy Chee, see what’s shaking.”

Holman caught the phone but did nothing. He stared at Cecil and now he felt a different kind of dread, one that had nothing to do with Richie.

“Chee was arrested.”

“You already know? Well, good, save us a call. Chee was in possession of six pounds of C-4. Among the evidence confiscated from that shithole he calls a body shop are the telephone numbers of two people suspected of being Al Qaeda sympathizers and the plans for building an improvised explosive device. You see where I’m going with this?”

“You set him up.”

“Ironclad, baby, ironclad. And only I know who planted that shit in his shop, so if you don’t help me get this goddamned money your boy is fucked.”

Without warning, Cecil slammed on the brakes. The car screeched to a stop, throwing Holman into the dash. Horns blew and tires screamed behind them, but Cecil didn’t react. His eyes were hard black chips that stayed on Holman.

“Do you get the picture?”

More horns blew and people cursed, but Cecil’s eyes never wavered. Holman wondered if he was crazy.

“Just take the money and go. What in hell do I have to do with this?”

“Told you-couldn’t get it by myself.”

“Why the hell not? Where is it?”

“Right there.”

Holman followed Cecil’s nod. He was looking at the Beverly Hills branch of Grand California Bank.

49

CECIL PULLED his car to the curb out of the flow of traffic, and stared at the bank as if it were the eighth wonder of the world.

“Marchenko and Parsons hid all that money in a goddamned bank.”

“You want me to rob a bank?”

“They didn’t deposit the goddamned money, dumbass. It’s in twenty-two safe-deposit boxes, the big kind, not those little ones.”

Cecil reached under his seat and took out a soft pouch that tinkled. He dropped it into Holman’s lap and took back the phone.

“Got the keys here, all twenty-two.”

Holman poured the keys into his hand. The name MOSLER was cut into one side along with a seven-digit number. A four-digit number was on the opposite side.

“This is what they hid at the sign.”

“Guess he figured if he got pinched for something, those keys would be safe up there. Wasn’t anything saying which bank, either, but the manufacturer keeps a record. One phone call, I had it.”

Holman stared down at the keys filling his hand. He shifted them like coins. Sixteen million dollars.

Cecil said, “So now you’re thinking, if he had the keys and knew where it was, why didn’t he just go get the money.”

Holman already knew. Every bank manager in L.A. would recognize Cecil and the other Bank Squad agents on sight. A bank employee would have to accompany him into the vault with the master key because safe-deposit boxes always required two keys-the customer’s and the bank’s-and Cecil would have to sign their ledger. Sixteen million spread among twenty-two boxes was a lot of trips in and out of a bank where you were recognized by the employees and everyone knew you were not a customer and had rented no boxes. Cecil would have been questioned. His comings and goings would have been recorded by security cameras. He would have been made.

“I know why you didn’t get the money. I was wondering how much sixteen million dollars weighs.”

“I can tell you exactly. Bank gets hit, they tell us how many of each denomination was lost. Tally that up, you know how many bills; you have four hundred fifty-four bills in a pound, doesn’t matter what denominations-just do the math. This particular sixteen million weighs eleven hundred forty-two pounds.”

Holman considered the bank again, then glanced back at Cecil. The man was still staring at the bank. Holman would have sworn his eyes glittered green.

“Did you go look at it?”

“Went in one time. Opened box thirty-seven-oh-one. Took thirteen thousand dollars and never went back. Too scared.”

Cecil frowned at himself, disgusted.

“Even wore a goddamn pissant disguise.”

Cecil had gold fever. Men in the joint used to talk about it, trying to make their bad decisions sound romantic by comparing themselves to Old West prospectors; men who got high by dreaming about the pot-of-gold score that would set them up. They thought about it until they thought about nothing else; they obsessed on it until it consumed them and they had nothing else in their lives; they became desperate for it until their desperation made them stupid. This idiot was looking at six first-degree murder hits and all he could see was the money. Holman saw his way in. He smiled.