by Kirk Russell
“I have the galls you bought. Do you want them?”
“If you dip them in chocolate.”
He heard laughter, a strange “Hack, hack, hack,” through the machine. Marquez had thrown the answer back as a flip comment, but dipped in chocolate was a way smugglers sometimes disguised galls, trying to make them look like figs that had been coated.
“I can drop them at your business or meet you.”
“I won’t be around the business for the next few days, so maybe we’ll have to meet.”
“I’ll call you very soon.”
Marquez drove away from Wright’s Lake. He phoned Kendall when he got out to the highway and told him what he’d found.
“I’m on my way to you,” Marquez said. “I’ll take you there.”
Kendall was in the garage with Hawse and two other detectives when Marquez walked up. They’d pulled the contents of Petroni’s truck and spread them on plastic on the concrete walk leading up to the house. Marquez saw the satisfaction on Hawse’s heavy face and knew they’d found something.
“I’m talking to you only because Petroni came to you and maybe you’ll help us find him,” Kendall said. “There are threatening messages from Petroni on her answering machine. He was angry about her cutting off the credit cards. Her lawyer just told us she saved them for a judge to hear. They aren’t apologies. They’re not the voice of a man trying to get back together with his wife.”
“He put the blame on himself yesterday.”
“Sure, and she paid the ultimate price. Let me show you what we found in the truck.”
They had photos, shots taken of Sophie Broussard and a young man who it took Marquez only a moment to recognize. Behind them was a lake, and from the gold light reflecting off the water he knew it was taken near sunset. Sophie wore a black thong swimsuit.
Her tan skin glistened with beads of water and suntan oil. Vandemere’s left hand cupped her ass as their hips pressed together.
“What lake, Marquez?”
“I’d guess Loon.”
“That’s what one of the officers here said.” He shook the evidence bag with the photos. “Buried in his truck.”
Vandemere was tanned, lean, looked fit. Sophie’s long legs were as tall as his. Her hair was longer than it was now and wet and dark on her shoulders.
“Taken with a digital camera and printed off on ordinary paper.
We’re going into the house where he was staying with Sophie as soon as we get a warrant signed, and that’s going to be soon. Can you give me a job-related reason he’d be driving around with these photos?”
“Not offhand.”
Marquez led Kendall and a couple of county cruisers to Wright’s Lake. He showed them the cabin, the duffel bag visible through the window.
“I’ll need a warrant to go inside,” Kendall said, “and I’m going to write down that you stopped by to visit because he told you he was staying out here. You with me on that?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “How’d you know it was that cabin?”
“I saw open windows.”
“He wanted you to find it.”
When Marquez left, Kendall was giving instructions to a county cop to park his unit out of view and wait.
“Officially, Petroni’s wanted for questioning,” Marquez told Alvarez as he reached the highway and started for Placerville.
“Unofficially, he’s wanted for murder, and Kendall still thinks I know where he is. There’s a chance he’ll try to have someone follow me, so take a look behind me as I come into town.”
“Got you covered.”
Half an hour later in a surprised but clear voice, and after Marquez had made several turns on Placerville streets, Alvarez confirmed a car more or less staying with him, not aggressively, but there.
“I’m not sure it’s a cop.”
“What kind of car?”
“White TransAm.”
“I need gas, I’ll stop for it now. Let’s see what he does.”
Marquez pulled into a Shell station. He caught just a glimpse of the car as he got out.
27
“What do you think?” Alvarez asked.
“Sit tight, and I’m going to kill a few minutes here before getting on the highway.”
Marquez paid for the gas, bought a newspaper, a bag of roasted almonds, and coffee, then walked slowly back to his truck and tried Petroni’s cell phone after getting into the cab. No answer. Tried it again and left a message this time. He drank a little of the coffee and pulled onto the highway westbound toward Sacramento, nerves humming, Alvarez following five minutes later.
Where the road flattened before Sacramento the car showed up again, hanging well behind Marquez but staying with him, and he still thought it might be Kendall putting a tail on him. He slowed as he entered Sacramento city limits, and Alvarez closed the gap, got the plates, ran registration, and the name Marion Stuart came back.
Alvarez read off 141 Valero. “Recognize that, Lieutenant?”
“Durham’s home address.”
“You got it.”
“Is that him at the wheel?”
“It’s hard to tell. The driver is slouched down and I can’t read him well enough from here. Looks like him but I can’t say for sure. Do you want me to get closer?”
“Yeah, try to get a look.”
Alvarez never got the chance. The TransAm dropped down the Tenth Street exit into Sacramento, and they decided not to chase him. Marquez continued past Sacramento, crossed the causeway, drove through Davis, and Alvarez broke off.
“I’ll go back through Sacramento and check Durham’s house for the TransAm,” Alvarez said. “I’ll call you from there.”
“Run the name Marion Stuart every way you can. I’m headed to Keeler’s.”
“I’ll call if I learn something.”
Five miles outside Davis, Marquez turned down the long driveway that ran through an almond orchard to ex-chief Keeler’s house. He saw the unused decaying barn first, then the greenhouse where Keeler spent his days with orchids. Sally, the spaniel, charged out to meet him. The kitchen door was open, Keeler sitting at his table, fingernails dark from working the greenhouse soil, wearing an old sweater and pants that hung too loosely on him now. The room smelled of cigar smoke, and Marquez saw the stub lying on the table.
At the retirement party held here in the spring, Keeler and his wife of forty years, Clara, stood holding hands like a teenage couple, before raising their champagne glasses in a toast to the friends gathered in the yard. He’d given such a soft-spoken sentimental speech that the officers used to his gruffness and sharp temper had joked about it for days afterward. He and Clara were going to travel the national parks. He’d do a lot of fishing and they’d see the country together, which they hadn’t done since their honeymoon.
He pointed at a greenhouse he was restoring, and when he said he was going to grow orchids and win competitions the crowd laughed, Keeler, the flower grower. Smoke from pork ribs barbecuing had drifted across the gathering. White almond blossoms swirled and drifted onto the patio as the party continued into the dusk. Two weeks later Clara complained of a pain in her abdomen, lay down on their living room couch, and died of a burst aneurism.
“Bill Petroni’s wife has been murdered,” Marquez said, taking a chair at the table. “They’re looking for Bill to question him.”
He told Keeler about Stella’s murder, then took the call from Alvarez confirming the TransAm was parked up near Durham’s house. He asked Alvarez to get a hold of Roberts, let her know what had happened, tell her he wanted to focus on Durham’s background. Then to Keeler he described his last meeting with Petroni and the Sunday morning at the sheriff’s office where Bell and Charlotte Floyd had been present. Keeler listened and got awkwardly to his feet, a hip bothering him. He went to the refrigerator.
“That’s very, very sad about Stella,” he said, and pulled two Coors cans. “I know it’s early for a beer.” Keeler handed him a can. “And no one can find Bill this morning?”<
br />
“I looked for him. The county is looking hard.”
“He was here with Stella at our retirement party,” Keeler said.
“I remember them dancing, but you’re saying he was already with this other woman.”
“Chief, I really don’t know what’s going on with his life. He doesn’t seem to be going out with the younger woman anymore.”
“Is he part of your operation?”
“The truth is I haven’t had much communication with Petroni.”
Keeler took a drink of beer, looked through the open door at the sunlight on the yard, and asked, “What is it I can do to help you?”
Marquez told him what they had going on, including Sweeney. They came to the question of whether Keeler was willing to drive his camper up to Ice House Lake.
“I haven’t gone anywhere in it,” Keeler said.
“Maybe it’s time. It’s cold in the morning, clear, most of the people gone.”
Keeler’s eyes crinkled with dry humor. “Like going on vacation?”
“I trust you, chief, and I’m in a situation I’m not sure about.”
“All right, let me think it over today.”
Marquez talked with Bell as he drove into Mill Valley. There’d been phone calls from several TV stations and newspapers about Petroni. There’d been several calls from Kendall. The department was preparing a statement along the line of being very saddened by the murder and wishing the best for the family. No comment would be made on Petroni’s status, though his suspension and the fact police sought him for questioning were already in the news.
They talked about Sweeney, who, if he stuck to his itinerary, would leave for Tahoe tonight. Bell wanted to know they were ready, and he listened quietly, asking an occasional question. Two wardens in the Tahoe area would assist. Another they’d worked with before and liked the style of would drive up tonight from Kern County. Marquez told the chief he had visited Ed Keeler and was now in the Bay Area and wouldn’t return to the mountains until later tonight. He didn’t tell Bell about the TransAm, was still mulling that over. They discussed the latest call from the bear farmer, the offer to drop off the galls.
Marquez didn’t hang up with Bell until after he’d parked in Mill Valley. He watched Maria walk toward him, jeans low on her hips, belly exposed. She’d talked with Katherine months ago about piercing her navel, and Katherine had told her absolutely no. Her walk now, though teenage awkward, was that of a young woman.
They were nearing the point where they could still advise her and exert influence, but not so easily control her. Nor should we, he thought. She smiled at him as she got in the truck.
“Hey,” she said. “How long are you here?”
“I’ve got one other stop in the Bay Area and then I’ll head back up. We’ve got a lot of action right now. Tell me about this new call you got while we drive.”
“Okay, well, this guy called last night and had a kind of a twangy voice. He wanted you.”
“Twangy like an accent from somewhere.”
“More like he was pretending to be.”
“What else?”
“About his voice?”
“Anything that comes to mind.”
“That was all he said. Mom blew it all out of proportion.”
“I thought she was going to field all the unknown calls.”
“My friend was calling back. I thought it was him. If I had a cell phone, then none of this would be a problem. We wouldn’t even be having this conversation.”
“We’re going to get you one today.”
“Really?”
“This afternoon.”
“No way!” “But your mom is only willing if you stop talking about piercing your navel or anything else, like your nose.”
“I would never pierce my nose.”
“Well, you can think about whether you want to agree to those conditions while we check out where this guy followed you.”
They drove to the street where she’d first noticed the minivan behind her. Retracing the route she remembered more about the caller with the southern accent.
“He didn’t want to leave his phone number, and he called me ‘little girl.’ What a freak! He said he was your hunting friend.”
“My hunting friend?”
“Right.”
This morning Marquez had talked with Katherine about pulling Maria out of school to go visit her grandmother for a week. Katherine would also move out of the Mount Tam house and stay in San Francisco with her best friend. It was giving into the fear and worry, but Kath said she’d rather do it this way, though it was obvious now that she hadn’t talked to Maria yet. And there was nothing that said a week would make a difference, but if they were going to take precautions, now was the time. He’d called Matt Fong and suggested he do the same, and he’d had the same conversation with his team. The phone call Maria had fielded last night had only reinforced that feeling.
As he drove the route Maria had taken through Mill Valley he remembered two men in a dark blue Chevy Suburban driving slowly down a residential street in Phoenix twelve years ago. They’d bounced two wheels up on the sidewalk and run over an eight-year-old boy on his bicycle, then backed up over his skull, dropped back down onto the street, and slowly drove away. The slow drive away was meant to convey power, not the killing. The killing of the boy was the lesson, the slow drive said they weren’t worried about the justice system. Cartels had no problem going after families of law enforcement officers.
“I was watching the guy following me like you taught me to do, but I got scared,” Maria said. “I know you and Mom don’t believe me. I know it sounds like the perfect story.”
“It doesn’t sound perfect to me.”
“Are you being sarcastic?”
“No.”
She showed him where the cop had pulled her over and how she’d turned and watched the other car go by. She craned her neck looking behind, and he pictured the cop’s description of her crying as he’d told her he was going to give her a ticket. Marquez doubted she’d been very focused on the vehicle following or that it had been anywhere nearby at the point the cop walked up, but he felt she was telling the truth about thinking she was being followed.
“How would you feel about missing a week or so of school and going down to stay with your grandmother?”
“Missing school would suck.”
“Let’s go get a cell phone for you.”
She picked out an inexpensive phone, and they went through the deal of signing up for a phone plan, the salesman talking as though they were buying a house. She got to choose her phone number from a list, and Marquez had no doubt she’d go over her monthly limit, or plan, as the phone company called it. The “plan” was to take all your money. As they left the store, Maria high on her new phone, he took the conversation back to visiting her grandmother and how unsure he was about the suspect they were trying to find. He tried to give her the information in a balanced way.
“What, like I drive down to Grandma’s?”
“Your Mom would ride with you.”
“This is insane.”
He turned and looked at her. “Yeah, you’re right, Maria, this is insane. But I think it’s what we’ve got to do.”
He dropped her at her car in the center of town and wished he could drive up the mountain behind her. That he had to worry about her safety stirred a much deeper anger inside, and he drove away with that. When he reached the freeway he called an old friend at U.S. Fish and Wildlife. Though they’d already talked to Fish and Wildlife about Durham, he asked a favor, asked her to check again to see if there was anything anywhere in their system with Durham’s name on it, and also the name Marion Stuart.
Pulling Maria from school might be an overreaction. He held the phone in his hand, second-guessing himself, debating calling Katherine and changing plans. Instead, he punched in Vandemere Sr.’s number. When he answered, Marquez told him he’d be in Orinda in forty minutes.
28
M
arquez hadn’t been in the town of Orinda in a long time, but it didn’t seem much different. He followed a residential street into hills surrounding a golf course, drove past tennis courts and a country club, then around a small lake where the slopes above the driveways were grown over with ivy. The Vandemeres’, a three-story Spanish-style stucco house, had a black iron gate left open this afternoon to let him in. A tall white-haired man came out, walked over, and offered his hand as Marquez got out of the truck.
“Pete Vandemere,” he said.
Marquez liked the man immediately but couldn’t have said why. Upstairs in Jed’s room he looked at the posters on the walls, a lacrosse trophy, framed photographs, the things in the room that bore some stamp of Jed’s personality, though Pete told him Jed hadn’t lived at home for five years. Pete had wanted him to see the room, perhaps to get a sense of his son. Now he led him down to a room where a TV played. A young girl got up from the couch and clicked the TV off as soon as they came in.
“My daughter,” Pete said, after she’d left. “She’s the one who has had the hardest time of all. We still find her in his room asleep on the floor some mornings. She idolized him.”
Marquez sat in a stuffed chair and read the emails of Jed’s that Pete had printed for him. He felt Pete watching him and read two that were just bantering with a college friend, then one that started with “I’ve met a girl named Sophie that I like a lot. She knows every trail up here and has been showing me places.” He read on, then looked up at Pete’s eyes. “Does Kendall have copies of these?”
“I gave him copies the day I filled out the missing persons report. He asked for more recently. I think he lost the others.”
There were several emails mentioning bear poachers, a reference to high school, the Bear Initiative he’d worked on, one to his dad, suggesting he might be in the area poachers were working and had talked to the local warden about it.
“He went up to support the Bear Initiative in Idaho when he was in high school. Saved all his money and rode a bus up there but came home a little disillusioned, didn’t feel like he’d really accomplished anything but spent all his money. I told the detective this the first time we met.”
