Shell Games (14 page)

“We’ll be there with you.”

Now, he got Keeler on the line and talked over protecting the family, getting the chief to agree they’d move Joe Li and his mo-ther this afternoon, leaving out the Colorado part for the moment. He called Shauf as they finished.

“I have to go to Sacramento to meet with Baird, Keeler, and Buehler, so you’ll need to handle the delivery here,” he told her, “and I’ll call you on the way back. We’re going to get a step closer tonight. We’re going to make it happen.”

“How’s Li taking it?”

“Not well, but he’s tough.” She was silent. “We need him.”

When she still didn’t say anything, he said he’d talk to her later and hung up. He knew she didn’t think this was right or moral. But he didn’t see any other way because they were losing. They were running out of time.

When he left the afternoon sunlight
on J Street and entered the cool conditioned air, Marquez found Chief Keeler and the director of Fish and Game, Jay Buehler, at the far end of a curving concrete bar. The place was new and hip, but conservative enough to draw the political shakers. They served cosmos and martinis and the bar had tall cabinets of cherry wood and expensive cognacs on high shelves in front of mirrored glass. Keeler, who avoided bars whenever he could, looked uncomfortable this afternoon. In the nine years Marquez had known him he’d never seen Keeler finish a drink, though he’d stand at a Christmas party with a rum toddy or glass of champagne in his left hand. The single time Marquez had asked, he’d replied “I had an alcoholic father,” as if that was all the explanation anyone would ever need.

Jay Buehler was single at fifty-five, balding, graying, and known locally for late nights and young women. He was a lawyer first, a successful one, a charismatic rainmaker in a firm that had played
and won in the political casino of California politics. Unlike his predecessor who’d worried constantly about the SOU making a politically embarrassing mistake, and who’d pored over reports with anal intensity, Buehler worried more about being left out of operations and missing out on the fun. He liked having a covert team, liked the excitement of busting bad guys for a good cause and had managed to get the SOU budget temporarily doubled to more than three million a year by regaling legislators with stories of car and boat chases, stings, and midnight apprehensions. The current budget was well below half that and Marquez’s conversa-tions with Buehler often included a schedule of house committee meetings where Buehler had wrangled appearances he wanted Marquez to make and plead the SOU case for more money. It was the legislature’s habit to have the SOU’s patrol lieutenant periodi-cally testify to the efficacy and value of the covert unit.

The meetings had been shorter this year. The state was out of money and Marquez’s team had been cut to five wardens and him-self. Buehler had taken the cut as a personal insult, but it didn’t seem to be on his mind today. He came off his stool and gripped Marquez’s hand with vigor. “Thanks for coming up,” he said, as though there’d been a choice. Marquez caught his own face in the bar mirror as they turned, saw a big man, middle years, harder eyes than he would have wished, a face shaped by wind and sun.

A waiter distributed menus while Marquez recounted the blown Sausalito bust, Buehler interrupting with questions about the leap from the
Emily Jane
and the swim to shore, Keeler listening closely, some intuition telling him something was missing in the account. Buehler stirred his drink with his finger, signaled the waiter, then looked back at Marquez from under heavy white eyebrows.

“What’s the situation with this Jimmy Bailey?” Buehler asked.

“He burned us and we haven’t caught up to him yet.”

“We don’t know where he is?”

“No.”

“Well, his lawyer does, and the lawyer was in touch with the department this morning. He’s threatening a lawsuit and claiming he’ll go to the media. He wants Bailey’s boat back and the rest of the money he says we owe him. He’s got some balls on him. His story is Bailey ran to save himself from being shot and didn’t think there would be any issue with that because he’s on our side and working for us.”

“Where did he go when he ran?”

“Oh, he wouldn’t tell me. He had to talk to the director of Fish and Game, and then he was very coy.” Buehler looked at Keeler from under his eyebrows. “As near as I can tell we have to give him back his boat.”

“I pulled a gun off the
Condor
that DOJ is looking at, right now,” Marquez said. “Maybe that’ll buy us time or a way to hold him when he surfaces.”

“That’s what your chief told me, but you see the problem we’ve got if we hold his boat.”

“Sure.”

“We’re going to cut a deal with this lawyer.”

“You don’t mean pay him?”

“Bailey was in our employ and we’re not charging him with anything. We don’t want the lawyer going to the media. No, of course, we don’t need to roll over but we can’t hold his boat indefinitely and maybe it makes sense to give it back. See where he takes us. We can stall but only so far.”

Marquez thought it over, didn’t say anything.

“Let’s talk about why you’re here,” Buehler said, and Marquez knew the prelude was over. Despite the conditioned air he felt sweat prickle on his spine. He didn’t want the FBI’s heavy hand over him. Before they knew it they’d be getting three sets of papers stamped just so they could set up surveillance in a harbor. “We’ve had very direct inquiries from the FBI that we believe you should
know about. They’ve asked for and we’ve provided the names of the members of the SOU.”

“You’re kidding, sir.”

“I’m not. We also got asked for information through the DFG liaison to the California antiterrorism unit here in Sacto even though nothing in this has anything to do with terrorism.” Marquez knew that by nightfall the FBI would have photos and be building a file on the team. He picked at the food, no longer hungry and very sur-prised the Feds had been given that information. No doubt the line was that they needed to know for the safety of Marquez’s team, in case there was another overlap, but his gut said the truth lay some-where else. He watched Buehler drink a full glass of water, diluting the scotch, and was glad it was Buehler, not him. Marquez didn’t miss walking out into hot afternoon sunlight and needing to take a nap to metabolize alcohol. But he was roaming a different country of the mind now, in many ways a worse one, about Katherine. He focused on the table again. This FBI request only reaffirmed his certainty about Kline’s presence. The waiter returned and they ordered coffees after the dishes were cleared, both Buehler and himself ordering double espressos, the chief ordering black coffee. “How old are you, Lieutenant?” Buehler asked.

“Forty-six.”

“I’m ten years older than you and I was too young for it, but what I’m leading to are the similarities between this post 9/11 gear-up and the way the FBI responded to the Cold War communist threat in the fifties. They spent a lot of money and threw a lot of agents at the problem and our enemies just adapted. They’re in the process of making the very same mistakes. Their real problem is their ability to get inside these organizations; it always has been. Now, I don’t know what they’ve got going with this individual they say they’re trying to apprehend, but I do know they hold the power right now. Trying to fight the Feds this year is like wading up a
fast, cold river. We’d only get so far. They have their good years and their bad ones, and right now everything is running their way.”

When no one said anything Buehler folded the credit card receipt and stood up. “Let’s go, gentlemen.” They stepped outside and Buehler clapped Marquez on the back, telling him not to worry about the FBI getting their names. “If we can’t trust them, we’ve lost anyway.” Marquez watched him get in a black Mercedes convertible and wave as he drove off. He turned to Keeler.

“You were quiet, Ed.”

“I didn’t want to do anything that would interfere with him hearing himself.”

Marquez smiled. “What’s your take on the Feds?”

“They do have something they’re afraid you’re going to inter-fere with and they plan to keep track of your whereabouts. If they had their way your team would be wearing mountain lion collars.”

“They’re protecting poachers.”

“I won’t argue with that, but don’t start preaching at me. Buehler’s correct, we’re not going to fight them and win.”

Twenty minutes later, Sacramento was a skyline behind Mar-quez and in his rearview mirror the windows of the taller build-ings reflected orange and red in the late sun. He crossed the causeway and rode through Davis in a stream of cars running fifteen miles an hour over the speed limit and still jockeying with each other for better position. He called Katherine. Maria answered, giggling, her teenage voice carrying relief at having her mom home, setting aside her war with her for a few hours. She put Katherine on.

“I’m on my way in,” he said.

“I’ll handle it alone, John.” Her voice got quieter. “Maria and I are going to dinner together.”

“You’re sure? I’m only an hour away. I’ve got something hap-pening tonight, but not until later. Or tell me what restaurant and I’ll come there.”

Kath was silent, keeping her distance, still upset over this morning, then saying she had to get off the phone as though talking to a business acquaintance. A profound sadness welled up from deep in him after he’d hung up, and he drove without taking any calls, letting the phone ring through to voice mail until he was coming through the dry hills above Vallejo and could see the bay in the distance, a milky haze above it, the sky red behind. He thought about the fragility of the connection now with Katherine, how the smallest thing said could trigger all the anger and an immediate turning away. She’d flown home and driven to find him and he’d failed her the next morning.

He listened to his messages, gassed the truck, and got back on the freeway. He talked with Shauf, Petersen, and Alvarez, and when he got into Marin he was still on his cell phone, finalizing how they’d track Li tonight, using all the team, bringing Roberts back down from Bragg, and still it wasn’t enough wardens if the other side was smart. He drove through Marin and checked for Katherine and Maria at the Indian restaurant that was one of Maria’s favorites, but didn’t see them and didn’t know what he would have done if he had. He bought a burrito and coffee and ate as he crossed the bay again and hooked up with the team in Oakland.

Two lights were on in Li’s house, both downstairs. At 10:20 the garage door opened and Marquez rang through to the hands-free setup they’d installed in Li’s truck. Li took three or four rings to answer and his voice was nervous and high-pitched.

“They call already.”

“We’re right with you. Leave this phone open now like we talked about.”

“Yes, I know.”

Marquez brought the SOU up behind and ahead of Li now. They floated him in a bubble and he listened to Li answer the phone with his own heart thumping hard at the poacher’s voice,
the clipped instructions to Li, the racial condescension as the man asked Li, did he understand. Li went east on I-80 and exited into Emeryville, crossing under the freeway and running up the frontage road on the bay side and then making a U-turn as the frontage road passed the base of Berkeley. In the darkness away from any street-light and out along the road to the Berkeley Marina he eased to the shoulder and parked. It could go down right here, Marquez knew, a car pulling up behind Li, a casual transfer of coolers. No big deal, a little business, nothing more than that and over in seconds.

“Can you believe that?” Petersen asked, her voice soft and quiet. “If the
Marlin
was in port the crew could walk up and be our backup.”

Li wasn’t a mile from where the
Marlin
regularly docked, but the boat was on patrol. Marquez called Hansen, let him know where they were, that they were waiting. He talked with Li again, reassuring him. Then Li’s phone rang, sharp and hard and loud in the truck. New instructions came and Li got on the freeway east-bound again, took the 580 cutoff and headed north toward the Richmond/San Rafael Bridge before reversing himself at the toll plaza. The caller said get off in Point Richmond, then directed him to the tunnel and ran him out the empty road toward Brickyard Landing and the marina there.

Marquez remembered a rock quarry filled with water, a dirt road running through the low humped rockbound hills behind the marina. It was another way to approach Brickyard, but after think-ing about it he discarded it, and drifted the SOU in, one, then a second car down the long open road past the shoreline park and around the curve. To the left was a condo project built into the low rounded hills, and to the right, the harbor and the dark water reflecting the marina lights. The first warden turned up toward the condos, would have to talk to the guard at the gate.

Li had parked near Brickyard Cove Marina, and Marquez drove the road now, was the only car to follow Li’s truck and anyone
watching was watching now. He brought Petersen in behind him as Li got out and walked into the marina parking and stood where they’d told him to wait, away from the boats at the lot perimeter and under the lights. Marquez scanned the shingled and wood-sided buildings surrounding the marina lot. The metal-roofed condos across the street were quiet, a few lights on, no one visible outside, glass faces staring across the water. He drove past and parked, nodded to Petersen as she joined him and slipped her hand into his, walking side by side with him, leaning into him as they ran their ploy.

They walked out slowly along the dock, Marquez wearing a billed cap, an old leather coat, Petersen’s hand firm and strong hold-ing his hand. They passed a line of houses with boats docked out front as Alvarez reported steadily through an earpiece Marquez wore.

“I really am going to miss you,” Petersen said, making light of it, though he knew that was her shyness. She was tender and made her way in the world with joking and humor, even with those they’d just busted. It was the innate mark of her gentleness. “I’m so used to seeing that big old scarred head of yours.”

“You make me sound like an old elephant.”

“In a way you are.”

“I’m going to miss you, too. I really am.”

“Roberts will tell you how to run things.”

“Bet on that.”

“John, how come you never had any kids? I mean, you were alone so long before Katherine and Maria.”

“I had girlfriends.”

“Yeah, I was one of them. You know what I mean.”

“I thought I told you once.”

“I don’t think so.”

“There was someone who I thought I was going to be with for-ever and she got killed on a trip we made together to Africa. This was a long time ago and we were pretty young and stupid about
where we camped. I got drafted at the tail end of Vietnam, but never shipped out, and when I got out Julie and I went to Africa. Do you see Li still?”