by Kirk Russell
The pickup’s headlights had started to close on him, though that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Still, he cut his speed and as the highway climbed a grade, fell in behind a slow-moving semi, passed it at the crest, and then slid over in front of it. The big semi’s lights lit up the cab, and he accelerated away, running with a long downgrade, watching to see how the pickup would react. What it did was come around the semi and start closing the gap.
Ten miles later he called Shauf.
“I’m twenty minutes from Sacramento and I’ve got a pickup tailing me. He’s not shy and I’m not sure what he’s up to. He’s either real bad at tailing or doesn’t care that I know.” Marquez heard children in the background and hated pulling Shauf from her sister’s house. “How long would it take you to get out to the freeway?”
“Five minutes.”
“I think you ought to roll. He’s coming up alongside me, and I’m going to play dumb.”
The truck, a modified Toyota SR5, silver-gray, a 2002 model, sat high off the ground, the driver looking down at him, his face unreadable through tinted glass. Marquez took his foot off the accelerator, letting the speed drift down. The Toyota stayed with him, the driver’s head just an outline, the truck running with him, crowding him a little.
The phone rang. “I’m on the highway,” Shauf said. “What’s he doing?”
“Messing with me. I’m driving fifty miles an hour and he’s staying with me. He’s got a stainless-steel platform welded on the back bed.”
“Bear hunter.”
“Or the truck belongs to one.”
Marquez kept the line open with her. The Toyota driver started riding the reflectors, easing closer to him, before braking hard and swinging in tight behind him. Their bumpers clicked hard, and Marquez fishtailed out into the fast lane. He fought for control, his truck going sideways, then a full tires-squealing spin, and he slid onto the center median, racked through oleander bushes, and clicked off the guardrail. He bounced back into the fast lane, and a big semi bore down on him, horn blaring as it swung right, just missing him.
He let a wave of traffic go past, then cut straight across two lanes and backed up along the shoulder until he could climb the off-ramp the Toyota had taken. He was still shaking when he talked to Shauf again.
“I heard your tires,” Shauf said.
“He tapped me, sent me spinning.”
“He could have killed you.”
He told her the off-ramp, then swung right at the stop sign and drove toward the lights of a subdivision. Beyond the stucco houses was a strip mall, beyond that, dark farmland. He saw headlights way out there, told Shauf he was going after them, but by the time he’d passed the houses they were gone. Still, he continued miles into the darkness and finally pulled over, parked on the shoulder, and was standing outside his truck when Shauf pulled up.
“You okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine.”
“Your truck took a hit.”
Metal brackets on the median guardrail had raked the driver’s side of the truck. He’d have to change vehicles in Sacramento early tomorrow.
“Troy must have made a phone call after he followed me out this afternoon.”
“So he made you.”
“Yeah, good chance he recognized me, though he may not remember where he last saw me.”
Marquez looked out across the darkness, the fields, the long sweep of stars, Mars still bright in the southwestern sky. The Toyota driver was telling him, I know who you are and you don’t scare me. A thick neck and shoulders, a face disguised by the glass. He felt angry at himself for not having gotten the plates. He looked at Shauf.
“It was a close call,” he said.
“Where do you want to go from here?”
“I want to find that truck.” He turned toward her. “Think it over tonight. If Troy made a phone call, where did this guy pick me up?”
“It’s a little weird that Troy followed you all the way out, even for him.”
“That’s what I’m thinking too.”
He didn’t want to say what he was really wondering. Instead, he said good night and watched her drive away.
6
Early the next morning Marquez met his DOJ crime lab friend, Leon, at a coffee stand in Sacramento. Leon’s body language said he didn’t get what the big deal was over a bullet with no gun to match it to. He dumped sugar into a latte, mixed it slowly with a wooden stir stick, took a seat on a concrete planter box, and angled his face toward the sun, listening with his eyes shut as Marquez told him what he knew about the Vandemere killing.
“But this murder you’re talking about was months ago, and you’re saying these bears were poached this past week.”
“Yeah, but the bears weren’t far from where Vandemere was killed, and the bullet I pulled looks like it could be a .30-30.”
“Common enough bullet for bear, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
Leon opened his eyes. “Besides, why bring it to me if you think it might be from the same gun? Why not turn it over to the detective?”
“Because if it doesn’t turn out to be a .30-30, it stays with us.”
“You don’t trust this detective?”
“I don’t know him, and we’ve got our own problem. We’re trying to find someone who’s treating the black bear population like a private herd.”
Leon was a big backpacker and fisherman with a real interest in saving wildlife. He might play devil’s advocate this morning, but he’d take it seriously later. Marquez handed him one of Kendall’s cards and left him nursing his latte, enjoying a few moments of quiet sunlight before entering the fluorescent blandness of the lab and a day of concentration.
Twenty minutes later Marquez threaded through a power breakfast crowd at Rex’s, the new hangout for the political set. The floor was highly polished black and white marble tile. Morning sunlight slanted through dark-stained windows. The chief sat at a round table in a corner, alone and out of uniform, dressed in neatly creased white chinos, a yellow linen shirt, and soft black loafers that probably had cost four hundred dollars. Other than the short trimmed hair, the faint hint of law enforcement there, you’d never guess looking at him that he had anything to do with Fish and Game.
“Have you eaten, Lieutenant?”
“I had coffee with a friend at Justice after I called you.”
“Take a chair and have breakfast. The chef here is something else.”
The SOU ate on the road all the time and way too much fast food, though they’d had a couple of dinners lately at safehouses that were pretty good, owing to Cairo’s new interest in cooking.
Marquez took a chair and watched Bell eat poached eggs on thick toast.
“We got another call from our seller this morning,” Marquez said. “He wants to do a deal tonight.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I said we’re on.”
Marquez waited. He knew Bell was close to saying they weren’t going forward.
“It’s worse than I told you earlier,” Bell said. “Most of the department personnel files have been hacked. These hackers install a backdoor in files that then get transferred around the department. Eventually, it gives them access to everything.”
Marquez knew Bell didn’t know anymore than he did about how a backdoor was set up. Neither of them knew much about computer programming, but Bell sounded like he’d picked up some new jargon.
“This may be the time to pull back and re-evaluate,” Bell said. He leaned forward, spoke quietly. “Let’s put aside our jobs for a moment. How old is your stepdaughter?”
“Sixteen.”
“Captain Fong’s twins are eight. His girls walk to school every day. That CD made very specific reference to yours and Captain Fong’s families. The computer experts say that there’s a high likelihood the names, addresses, everything about the Special Operations Unit is in the hands of this person or persons.”
“I heard he didn’t get any photos of anyone on my te
am.”
“He has enough.”
“I think we stay with him a little longer. I told him today he sent the CD to the wrong person and he can have it back.”
“I’m talking about reasonable caution.” It occurred to Marquez that somewhere along the line Bell must have attended a seminar where they taught that good managers get those under them to agree to major decisions before they’re made. “Other tips haven’t been followed through on, other cases pushed aside,” Bell said. “And we never had enough going into this one. You told me last week you were going back to our original source. Where are we at with that?”
“I’ll see him in the next couple of days.”
Their source on the bear farmer was a thirty-seven-year-old San Francisco resident named Kim Ungar. Ungar claimed a cousin had given him the phone number he’d passed on to the Department of Fish and Game. Ungar was Asian American and had told Marquez that his cousin was full Korean and only distantly related to him. The market his cousin was selling bear parts to was Korean. After that the story got hazy.
Bell dabbed at a sticky spot of yolk, then examined the napkin.
Marquez rubbed the back of his neck and looked away. Nothing was said for a moment, and Bell laid his hand on the table. His nails were neatly cut, the skin smooth. Marquez glanced at his own big hand and wrist, the rough palm, scars along the back.
When he looked up Bell said, “We can take down the pair who’ve been selling to you.”
“That’s our last resort.”
“I’m not sure you’re hearing me, but excuse me a minute. I’ve got to use the rest room.”
When Bell returned he said he was out of time. As they walked out, Bell added that he wasn’t sure he could even get the buy money together, and that they’d have to talk later.
“And I’m not just saying that to stop you from going through with this tonight. I should also tell you that I sat in on a budget meeting yesterday that was very bad. Your whole team may be in jeopardy next year, John. The governor is asking for huge concessions.”
Blame it on whatever you wanted, the collapse of the economy, a state running on vapors, or even as one exasperated state senator had told Marquez during closed-door hearings, “Compassion exhaustion. People are sick of saving the goddamned animals, and California is broke. The money we have has got to go other places.”
Marquez changed vehicles, dropping off the damaged truck, and then drove to Placerville. He met Shauf at the office in town they’d rented for the operation, a second-floor space in a brick building with a couple of windows that looked down on the old water tower and hardware store. Cairo, Roberts, and Alvarez were back up in Humboldt County following up on a bear case that was going to court next month. They’d get back to Placerville this afternoon, barely in time to get ready for tonight’s buy, if it happened, if they could gather the money to do the deal.
He sat across from Shauf. A stack of business cards with his alias, the name John Croft, rested on the desk corner, and he had a driver’s license to go with the cards. Any officer running the license would get transferred from the Department of Motor Vehicles to the SOU officer at Fish and Game, keeping his cover intact.
“What do you think?” he asked her. “Is our operation blown, Troy tied in with him and they all know who we are?”
“I say we keep pushing.”
The rented office had a business name they’d concocted, TreeSearch, stenciled in white script on a smoky glass door. The heart of their cover was that they had a federal grant to study the effects of global warming on native red and white fir.
“We may have to put up personal money if we do this buy today,” he said.
“How long before we’d get reimbursed?”
“Could be a whole month.”
Each SOU member had an account, but all five were currently depleted, and he had the strong feeling he wouldn’t hear from Bell in time.
“I’m okay with that,” she said. “I’ve got five or six thousand in a savings account. How much do we need?”
“Ten grand.”
“I’m good for half.”
“I’ve got the rest.”
“Let’s make the call.”
She crossed the room, locked the door, and threw a dark grin at him as he punched in the numbers. He lifted one finger, then two, then three, letting Shauf know how many rings. After the fifth ring there was a pause, then the mechanical rasp.
“Identify yourself.”
“John Croft. I need directions for tonight.”
“Copy this down.”
When he finished the line went dead, and Marquez laid the phone gently on the desk.
“On foot out a fire service road off 49 south of here,” he said.
“I’m supposed to walk up a dirt road alongside a creek tonight at 8:00 with a flashlight.”
“So, we’re on?”
“Yeah. What do you say we go scout this fire road?”
7
Kendall called as they drove toward the buy location, but the reception was poor and Marquez had to get Shauf to run her window up.
“Something to show you,” Kendall said, and then the call got dropped.
“He’s asking us to meet him,” Marquez told her, and waited for Kendall to call back. “He’s got something he wants to show us.”
“Everything except respect,” Shauf said.
“He called you?”
“Last night, and was all over Petroni.”
Marquez had told each of the team they were likely to hear from Kendall, explaining that the detective was investigating the Vandemere murder.
“What did he ask?”
“Whether I knew Petroni, how well, and what did I think of his character. You know, what dirt have I heard about him, like he’s writing a gossip column, not investigating a murder. He said there are conflicts with Petroni’s statements regarding Vandemere.”
Kendall called back while she was still talking, and Marquez copied directions. It took half an hour to retrace their route from Placerville. They got on the highway westbound and exited a few miles later.
“Down that gravel road,” Marquez said, as they passed the tall windbreak of Lombardy trees Kendall had said watch for.
The road was dotted with yellow leaves. Shauf’s van rattled through ruts, and two county cruisers came into view, parked alongside an old pickup. Behind the vehicles was a yard seeded with engine parts and a house clad in unpainted cedar. Marquez saw a converted Volkswagen bug with a plywood dog platform built over the trunk space in front.
“Who’s the fat guy?” Shauf asked.
“Kendall’s partner, Hawse. I don’t remember his first name.”
“Let’s hope he’s different than Kendall.”
Kendall walked out of the house and blew snot onto the ground out of one nostril. He saw them, and turned his head, held a wad of napkin against his nose when he faced them again.
“There, he’s showing some respect,” Marquez said.
“What’s going on with his hair and skin?”
“Let it be.”
“Last night when I told Kendall I may have seen Jed Vandemere once in July but had never spoken to him, he started asking what Vandemere was like, and I think, oh, okay, he didn’t hear me. So I explained again that I might have seen him-nothing more than that. About ten sentences later he’s back at it, kind of slick like suggesting I’d talked to him and probably remembered him because he was a handsome guy. He said maybe I’d remember a conversation if I kept thinking about it.”
“Trying to jog your memory.”
“No, much greasier than that.”
Kendall walked up to them, and Marquez watched him size up Shauf, her solid in-your-face build, shoulders that said she pumped a little iron, her short blonde hair. He nodded at her as if they had already met and said everything they’d ever need to say, then directed his conversation toward Marquez, turning his back on Shauf as he gestured toward the dog runs.
“Let’s take a look,�
�� he said.
“At what?” Shauf asked. Kendall was already walking toward galvanized chain-link fence enclosing concrete dog runs. The dogs, black-and-tan hounds, lay on the concrete, and Marquez knew immediately they weren’t sleeping. He heard Shauf murmur, “Oh, no,” as Kendall started explaining.
“The owner here called 911 at 11:14 this morning, told the dispatcher his dogs had been poisoned and two rifles stolen out of his house while he was asleep last night. He found the dogs earlier but was too shocked to make the call.” Kendall’s eyebrows arched slightly as he said that. “Or maybe he has a problem calling the government. He’s one of your crackpot survivalist types. You’ll see the literature from his favorite think tanks on the table inside, if you’re okay with going in. I understand if you don’t want to risk blowing your cover, and I can also move him to a back room.”
“What do you need from us?” Marquez asked.
“You know a lot more about bear hunters than I do. I want to know what you see here and whether you recognize him, if you’re willing to meet him.”
“What’s his name?” Marquez asked.
“Eli Smith.” He swept his hand at the yard. “This is his castle.
It’s all his, even the junkyard. He says he works as a roofer and does other odd jobs. He ought to do some of them at home.”
“Does he have any idea who killed his dogs?”
“If you ask me, yes, but he’s too ‘heartbroken’ to tell me what he knows.”
“Have you got a dog, Kendall?” Shauf asked.
Kendall stared back at her, said, “My ex-wife had ugly little terriers she fussed over all the time.” He blew his nose. “She didn’t give our son as much time as she gave those dogs.” He looked up at Marquez again. “Smith says the dogs were alive at 3:30. He went out then to stop them from barking at what he thought was a mountain lion. Somewhere between the time he went back to bed and 7:30 the dogs ate the hamburger balls and croaked.”
