Read Online the Two Minute Rule (2006) by Crais Robert - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Crais Robert
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understand how this happened and find the bastards who did it. I'm not racing the cops. I just want this bastard found."
"Well, you're gonna have a lot of help. Over there outside his house in Cypress Park, it looks like a cop convention. My wife and daughter drove by there at lunchtime just to see, a couple of goddamned looky-loos! His wife's gone into hiding herself. The address I gave you, that place is empty right now."
"Where'd his wife go?"
"How can I know something like that, Holman? That boy ain't White Fence. If he was and he killed your son, I would shoot him myself, ese. But he's in with that Frogtown crew."
"Little Chee?"
Witnesses at two of the bank jobs had seen Holman get into cars driven by another man. After Holman's arrest, the FBI had pressured him to name his accomplice. They had asked, but Holman had held fast.
Holman said, "After my arrest--how much sleep did you lose, worrying I was going to rat you out?"
"Not one night. Not a single night, homes."
"Because why?"
"Because I knew you were solid. You were my brother."
"Has that fact changed or is it the same?"
"The same. We're the same."
"Help me, Little Chee. Where can I find the girl?"
Holman knew Chee didn't like it, but Chee did not hesitate. He picked up his phone.
"Get yourself some coffee, homes. I gotta make some calls."
An hour later, Holman walked out, but Chee didn't walk with him. Ten years later, some things were the same, but others were different.
Chapter 9
HOLMAN DECIDED to drive past Juarez's house first to see the cop convention. Even though Chee had warned him that the police commanded the scene, Holman was surprised. Three news vans and an LAPD black-and-white were parked in front of a tiny bungalow. Transmission dishes swayed over the vans like spindly palms, with the uniformed officers and newspeople chatting together on the sidewalk. One look, and Holman knew Juarez would never return even if the officers were gone. A small crowd of neighborhood civilians gawked from across the street, and the line of cars edging past the house made Holman feel like he was passing a traffic fatality on the 405. No wonder Juarez's wife had split.
Holman kept driving.
Chee had learned that Maria Juarez had relocated to her cousin's house in Silver Lake, south of Sunset in an area rich with Central Americans. Holman figured the police knew her location, too, and had probably even helped her move to protect her from the media; if she had gone into hiding on her own they would have declared her a fugitive and issued a warrant.
The address Chee provided led to a small clapboard box crouched behind a row of spotty cypress trees on a steep hill lined with broken sidewalks. Holman thought the house looked like it was hiding. He parked at the curb two blocks uphill, then tried to figure out what to do. The door was closed and the shades were drawn, but it was that way for most of the houses. Holman wondered if Juarez was in the house. It was possible. Holman knew dozens of guys who were bagged in their own garages because they didn't have anyplace else to go. Criminals always returned to their girlfriends, their wives, their mothers, their house, their trailer, their car--they ran to whatever or whoever made them feel safe. Holman probably would have been caught at home, too, only he hadn't had a home.
It occurred to Holman the police knew this and might be watching the house. He twisted around to examine the neighboring cars and houses, but saw nothing suspicious. He got out of his car and went to the front door. He didn't see any reason to get dramatic unless no one answered. If no one answered, he would walk around the side of the place and break in through the back. He knocked.
Holman didn't expect someone to answer so quickly, but a young woman threw open the door right away. She couldn't have been more than twenty or twenty-one, even younger than Richie. She was butt-ugly, with a flat nose, big teeth, and black hair greased flat
"Well, you're gonna have a lot of help. Over there outside his house in Cypress Park, it looks like a cop convention. My wife and daughter drove by there at lunchtime just to see, a couple of goddamned looky-loos! His wife's gone into hiding herself. The address I gave you, that place is empty right now."
"Where'd his wife go?"
"How can I know something like that, Holman? That boy ain't White Fence. If he was and he killed your son, I would shoot him myself, ese. But he's in with that Frogtown crew."
"Little Chee?"
Witnesses at two of the bank jobs had seen Holman get into cars driven by another man. After Holman's arrest, the FBI had pressured him to name his accomplice. They had asked, but Holman had held fast.
Holman said, "After my arrest--how much sleep did you lose, worrying I was going to rat you out?"
"Not one night. Not a single night, homes."
"Because why?"
"Because I knew you were solid. You were my brother."
"Has that fact changed or is it the same?"
"The same. We're the same."
"Help me, Little Chee. Where can I find the girl?"
Holman knew Chee didn't like it, but Chee did not hesitate. He picked up his phone.
"Get yourself some coffee, homes. I gotta make some calls."
An hour later, Holman walked out, but Chee didn't walk with him. Ten years later, some things were the same, but others were different.
Chapter 9
HOLMAN DECIDED to drive past Juarez's house first to see the cop convention. Even though Chee had warned him that the police commanded the scene, Holman was surprised. Three news vans and an LAPD black-and-white were parked in front of a tiny bungalow. Transmission dishes swayed over the vans like spindly palms, with the uniformed officers and newspeople chatting together on the sidewalk. One look, and Holman knew Juarez would never return even if the officers were gone. A small crowd of neighborhood civilians gawked from across the street, and the line of cars edging past the house made Holman feel like he was passing a traffic fatality on the 405. No wonder Juarez's wife had split.
Holman kept driving.
Chee had learned that Maria Juarez had relocated to her cousin's house in Silver Lake, south of Sunset in an area rich with Central Americans. Holman figured the police knew her location, too, and had probably even helped her move to protect her from the media; if she had gone into hiding on her own they would have declared her a fugitive and issued a warrant.
The address Chee provided led to a small clapboard box crouched behind a row of spotty cypress trees on a steep hill lined with broken sidewalks. Holman thought the house looked like it was hiding. He parked at the curb two blocks uphill, then tried to figure out what to do. The door was closed and the shades were drawn, but it was that way for most of the houses. Holman wondered if Juarez was in the house. It was possible. Holman knew dozens of guys who were bagged in their own garages because they didn't have anyplace else to go. Criminals always returned to their girlfriends, their wives, their mothers, their house, their trailer, their car--they ran to whatever or whoever made them feel safe. Holman probably would have been caught at home, too, only he hadn't had a home.
It occurred to Holman the police knew this and might be watching the house. He twisted around to examine the neighboring cars and houses, but saw nothing suspicious. He got out of his car and went to the front door. He didn't see any reason to get dramatic unless no one answered. If no one answered, he would walk around the side of the place and break in through the back. He knocked.
Holman didn't expect someone to answer so quickly, but a young woman threw open the door right away. She couldn't have been more than twenty or twenty-one, even younger than Richie. She was butt-ugly, with a flat nose, big teeth, and black hair greased flat
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