Cecil said, “What are you smiling at?”

“I thought you knew what I was thinking before I thought it.”

“I do. You’re thinking, why on earth did this pathetic motherfucker pick me?”

“That would be right.”

Cecil’s wet eyes hardened with anger.

“Who would you expect me to get, my wife? You think this is my preferred plan of action? Motherfucker, believe me, I was going to work this out-that money is just sitting there! I had all the time I needed, but you and that bitch got me jammed in a corner. A week ago I had forever; now, I got fifteen minutes, so who in hell should I ask? Call my brother in Denver, maybe the kid who caddies when I play golf? And say what, come help me steal some money? This shit is on you! I will not walk away from sixteen million dollars. I refuse! So here we are. It’s you because I don’t have anyone else. Except for your friend Chee. I own that boy. You fuck me over, I swear to God Almighty that boy will pay the price.”

Cecil settled back like he had run out of gas, but the gun in his lap never wavered.

Holman considered the gun.

“You’ll be gone. What could you do for Chee?”

“You bring out this money, I’ll give you the man who planted those things-tell you when he got the stuff, where, how-everything you need to clear the boy.”

Holman nodded like he was thinking about it, then stared at the bank. He didn’t want Cecil to read his face. Cecil could shoot him right now or wait until Holman brought out the money, but Cecil was going to shoot him either way-this stuff about dealing for Chee was bullshit. Holman knew it and Cecil probably knew he knew it, but Cecil was so crazy needful of the money he had talked himself into believing it like he talked himself into killing four police officers. Holman thought about pretending to go along so he could get away, but then Cecil might escape. Holman wanted the sonofabitch to answer for killing his son. He was beginning to get an idea how he could do it.

“How do you see this playing out?”

“Go to the customer service manager. Tell’m right up front you’re going to be making a lot of trips-you’re picking up tax records and court documents you put here for safekeeping. Make a joke about it, like how you hope they weren’t going on a coffee break. You know how to lie.”

“Sure.”

“The money in those boxes is still bagged up. You’re going to open four boxes at a time. I figure the bag in each box weighs about fifty pounds, two on each shoulder, two hundred pounds, a big guy like you oughta be able to handle that.”

Holman wasn’t listening. He was thinking about something Pollard told him when they believed Random was the fifth man-if they could put Random with Fowler they would own him. Holman decided if he could put Cecil together with the money, Cecil would never be able to explain it away or beat the conviction.

Holman said, “Twenty-two boxes at four boxes a trip. That’s six trips carrying two hundred pounds of money each time. You think they’re not going to stop me?”

“I’m thinking something is better than nothing. Anything goes wrong, just walk away. You’re not robbing the goddamned place, Holman. Just walk away.”

“What if they want to see in the bags?”

“Keep walking. We get what we get.”

Holman had a plan. He thought he could pull it off if he had enough time. Everything depended on having enough time.

“It’s going to take a long time, man. I hate being in a bank that long. I have bad memories.”

“Fuck your memories. You just think about Chee.”

Holman stared at Cecil like he was the stupidest asshole on earth. He wanted Cecil drunk with knowing the money was so close. He wanted Cecil stoned on gold.

“Fuck Chee. I’m the guy risking his ass. What’s in it for me?”

Cecil stared at him, and Holman pressed forward.

“I want half.”

Cecil blinked at him. He glanced at the bank, wet his lips, then looked back at Holman.

“You fuckin’ kidding me?”

“I am not. I figure you owe me, motherfucker, and you know why. You don’t like it, get that fuckin’ money yourself.”

Cecil wet his lips again and Holman knew he was in.

Cecil said, “The first four bags are mine. After that, every four bags you bring out, you get one.”

“Two.”

“One, then two.”

“I can live with that. You be here when I get back with the money or I’m selling your ass to the cops.”

Holman got out of the car and walked toward the bank. His stomach was cramping as if he was going to throw up, but Holman told himself he could make this thing happen if Cecil gave him enough time. Everything depended on Cecil giving him the time.

Holman held the door for a young woman leaving the bank. He smiled at her pleasantly, then stepped inside and took in his surroundings. Banks were usually busy during the lunch hour, but now it was almost four. Five customers were waiting in line for two tellers. Two manager types were at desks behind the teller cages and a young man who was probably a customer service rep manned a desk on the lobby floor. Holman knew right away this bank was a target for robberies. It had no man-trap doors at the entrance, no Plexiglas bandit barriers shielding the tellers, and no security guards. It was a robbery waiting to happen.

Holman went to the head of the customer line, glanced at the customers, then turned to the tellers and raised his voice.

“This is a motherfucking robbery. Empty the drawers. Give me the money.”

Holman checked the time. It was 3:56.

The clock was running.

50

LARA MYER, age twenty-six, was in the final hour of her shift as a security dispatcher at New Guardian Technologies when her computer flashed, indicating a 2-11 alarm was being received from the Grand California Bank on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. This was no big deal. The time log on her screen showed the time at 3:56:27.

New Guardian provided electronic security services for eleven area banking chains, two hundred sixty-one convenience stores, four supermarket chains, and several hundred warehouses and businesses. On any given day, half of the incoming alarms were false, triggered by power surges, computer glitches, electronic or electrical failure, or human error. Twice a week-every week-a bank teller somewhere in the greater L.A. area accidentally tripped an alarm. People are people. It happens.

Lara followed procedure.

She brought up the Grand Cal (Wilshire-BH branch) page on her screen. This page listed the managers and physical particulars of the bank (number of employees, number of teller windows, security enhancements if any, points of egress, etc). More important, the page allowed her to run a system diagnostic particular to the bank. The diagnostic would check for system problems that could trigger a false alarm.

Lara opened the diagnostic window, then clicked the button labeled CONFIRM. The diagnostic automatically reset the alarm as it searched for power anomalies, hardware malfunctions, or software glitches. If a teller had accidentally triggered the alarm, they sometimes reset at the bank, which automatically canceled and cleared the alarm.

The diagnostic took about ten seconds.

Lara watched as the confirmation appeared.

Two tellers at the Grand Cal Beverly Hills branch had triggered their silent alarms.

Lara swiveled in her chair to call over her shift supervisor.

“We got one.”

Her shift supervisor came over and read the confirmation.

“Call it in.”

Lara pressed a button on her console to dial the Beverly Hills Police Department’s emergency services operator. After she notified Beverly Hills, Lara would call the FBI. She patiently waited as the phone rang four times.

“Beverly Hills emergency services.”

“This is New Guardian operator four-four-one. We show a two-eleven in progress at Grand California Bank on Wilshire Boulevard in your area.”