Night Game jm-2

by Kirk Russell

  “Did you see that bear drop?”

  “Aw, come on, you had to put another one in him.”

  “Big damn bruin, isn’t he?”

  “He’s big all right.”

  “He’s the biggest goddamned bruin I’ve ever seen in this state.”

  “I’ve seen bigger in the backyard at my cabin.”

  “The hell you have.”

  They both laughed, and Nyland walked over. His parka was bloody and nothing the other men wanted to be too near.

  “Guess I need to wash up,” Nyland said, and Marquez gave the signal. A powerful halogen light shone on Nyland’s face, and voices rose, calling out, “Fish and Game! Fish and Game! No one move!” The uniform wardens closed in, Marquez and Alvarez coming over the road lip with their masks on. Cairo stepped out from behind Bobby’s pickup, gun drawn, and the uniform wardens already had Nyland and Bobby lying down, faces turned toward the darkness, getting Mirandized. Nyland got cuffed and loaded into one of the warden trucks.

  Then from the other end of Weber Mill, a mile or more away, a horn honked a warning and Shauf chuckled, said, “A little late,” assuming it was one of the guys standing guard trying to warn Nyland. Then, just as he got his rights read to him, Sweeney, who’d said nothing and been docile, jerked free of the warden holding him and vaulted over the road lip, tumbling as he landed on the steep grassy slope. Flashlight beams tracked him and he looked comic, except that as he arrested the slide he ignored the called warnings to stop and soon disappeared downhill into darkness.

  “He must have a phone on him,” Marquez said. “Heading for the highway. Let’s get everyone except his friend out of here.”

  They watched the wardens back out with Nyland and Bobby Broussard, and when they were gone Marquez walked across and questioned Sweeney’s companion.

  “What’s your friend’s name?” Marquez asked.

  “I’m not going to give any information, officer. I’m sorry.”

  “At least give me a first name so we can talk to him. He’s making a dangerous mistake.”

  “Are you threatening him with violence?”

  “No, sir, we’re going to try to talk him off the slope with a bullhorn unless you think you can do that. If he’s still there at daylight, we’ll get a helicopter and dogs. That’ll bring the media, so you’re not doing him any favors by holding his name and you might be putting him in danger. Is he armed?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do me one better than that.”

  “There’s no way he’d shoot at you.”

  Marquez looked away from him now. He looked past the man down the dirt road and saw Shauf walking toward them. She carried the cooler that Bobby had brought up. Her hands were bloody, and she showed Sweeney’s friend two bloody gallbladders in plastic bags laid out on ice. Marquez fished one of the bags out and held it up close to the man’s face.

  “Your friend has run from a felony arrest.”

  “What are you talking about?” Now he put it together. “That’s the goddamned guide who cut those out. As a matter of fact, we didn’t shoot anything. The guide shot the damned bear. He’s the one with the tag.”

  “There’s no tag.”

  From behind him, Alvarez added, “We videotaped you.”

  “Maybe I took a shot but I didn’t hit anything, and my friend didn’t have time to shoot.”

  “We have videotape and audio of him bragging about your kill.”

  “You people are too heavy-handed.” He stared at Marquez, showing a little steel now. “You could ruin your career. You’re making a mistake you don’t understand.”

  “You’re not helping your friend.” Marquez turned his back on the man and said quietly to Shauf, “I’ll go get him. He’s not armed.”

  He checked his watch. There were still four hours before dawn, but Sweeney might not have gone any farther than the bait pile or where they’d skinned the second bear. If Sweeney was there, Marquez figured he could talk him up. He touched Shauf on the shoulder.

  “Get the documentation done, then pull out.” He turned to Sweeney’s friend again, asked, “What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m a lawyer and I promise you if anything illegal was done here, it’s the guide who’s the problem.”

  “Your friend ran from an arrest. You’re a lawyer, you know what that means and you probably understand he’s not going to escape. It makes a lot of sense to give me his name before I go looking for him.”

  “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Are you his personal lawyer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then when I find him I’ll tell him he needs a new one.”

  31

  The bait area reeked with the smells of rotting fish and chicken. Marquez shone the light on the skinned carcass, then knelt near bear tracks, making his presence known by moving the light around. It was important that Sweeney saw him coming. Not that he expected a problem but still didn’t want to frighten him. He turned and spoke toward the dark trees and brush below.

  “If you’re here and you’re listening, you want to give yourself up. Come on up and we’ll forget you ran. You can ride in with me.”

  After waiting a couple of minutes Marquez moved down the slope and tried it again. He found the second bear, saw Nyland had done a rushed job skinning it.

  “If you hear me, give me a yell and we’ll talk.”

  His flashlight beam skimmed broken grass, followed it across the slope, and he radioed Shauf before starting across the slope.

  “I think I see the direction he ran. How are you doing up there?”

  “The lawyer is still threatening us, but he’s about to take the ride to the county jail.” Marquez had the feeling the lawyer could hear her talking. “I’m about to drop down to the bait pile. Any luck yet?”

  “No.”

  She said the county had set up a perimeter to catch Sweeney and Marquez saw the police flashers below. Sweeney must see them too, but Marquez also knew they wouldn’t be able to hold the county along the shoulder of Highway 50 indefinitely, at least not this kind of presence. He read the long strides Sweeney had made without light, running as though afraid for his life. He followed the tracks across to a stand of oaks, listening for movement, knowing Sweeney saw flashlight. Under the trees it was easy to track him. Sweeney had gone steeply downhill, heels gashing the soil, then cutting sideways. He must have rested here in the trees. Several of the county cruisers parked on the highway shoulder below pulled away, sirens sounding as they accelerated. Marquez’s phone rang. It was Roberts below with the county officers.

  “There’s been a car accident,” she said. “That’s why you’re seeing cruisers pulling away.”

  “How many left?”

  “Three.”

  “I’m on his tracks. See if you can get the county to reposition farther up the road. That’s the way he’s moving.”

  “Okay.”

  Marquez followed faint marks and climbed, thinking now that Sweeney had a problem with one leg, was limping, dragging the bad leg uphill, trying to stay under the cover of trees and work across and up, moving parallel to the highway. He heard noise ahead, brush snapping, knew it was Sweeney. Then his flashlight beam caught movement, Sweeney’s coat. He let Shauf know, and she began to bring everyone around, rotating the perimeter like a baseball infield moving for a particular hitter.

  Marquez closed on him, the light steady on Sweeney’s back, then his face, no real hurry, giving him time to come to terms with the inevitable and give himself up. A call came from Roberts.

  “They’re telling me there’s a dark green Blazer that just made its third pass on the highway,” Roberts said. “That could be his ride. I’d bet he’s been on the phone.”

  “All right, I’m going to try to talk him down again. He’s not far above me and he’s hurt.”

  Marquez lifted his badge as he walked up the slope to where Sweeney waited next to an oak. He held the badge so Sweeney could read it.

>   “I’m going to ask you to put your hands on that tree and not do anything sudden. You’re under arrest.”

  “My ankle is hurt.”

  “We’ll get you down to the highway.”

  Marquez quietly gave him his rights and arrested him, though Sweeney all but begged him not to. Because of the steep slope and Sweeney’s sprained ankle, Marquez didn’t handcuff him and led him down slowly as Cairo and two deputies hiked up to meet them. Marquez turned to Sweeney.

  “That’s a Fish and Game officer coming up to meet us, but I want to ask you before we get out, how you hooked up with this guide outfit.”

  Sweeney’s response was clipped. He’d gone from pleading to angry. “My assistant hired them. Talk to her.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Janet Engle. She told me the hunt was completely legitimate.”

  He added sarcastically, “Why don’t you arrest her? She’s a nice woman. Maybe you’ll get your picture in the newspaper before I get your budget canceled.”

  “Why’d you run away?”

  Marquez paused, gripped Sweeney’s arm to steady him, waited for an explanation that didn’t come. He looked down at a Blazer that had pulled in near Roberts and still hesitated, waited for Sweeney to explain. Below, the driver was out and talking to Shauf.

  “I didn’t shoot anything,” Sweeney said.

  “We’ll look over the videotape together and you can tell me who’s who.”

  “Do you know who I am?”

  “You can tell me any time you want.”

  “You’re going to be very sorry. You’re going to throw away your career.”

  “That’s what your friend kept saying. It’s getting old.”

  Marquez watched Sweeney loaded into the back of a county cruiser, then phoned Bell and briefed him as he stood looking down the slope.

  “He took it hard. He called us a paramilitary organization that it would shock California taxpayers to know they were supporting. They may claim we didn’t identify ourselves or inform them of their rights. He says he’s going to put us out of business and he’ll personally make sure not a dime gets through on next year’s budget.”

  “He might have to stand in line to do that. No one knows where next year’s money is coming from. Did it get rough?”

  “He hurt himself when he ran.”

  “But you didn’t struggle with him?”

  Marquez drew a slow breath, looked at lights on the highway.

  “No, sir.”

  He left it with Bell that they’d immediately get warrants to search Sierra Guides and Nyland’s trailer park. Marquez could send the warrant application from his laptop this morning. They’d be racing the bondsman and Nyland’s posting bail, but the local judges were baby boomers who were generally cooperative on commercial poaching, and as charges were filed this morning they ought to be able to hold him through arraignment. He told Bell he’d call him again after the booking and then drove toward the sheriff’s office at sunrise.

  Kendall and Hawse were waiting when he got there. “You’re up early, gentlemen,” Marquez said.

  “We heard about the excitement. Your hard-charging Stockton friend, Delano, is also coming up early. He’s got to be in court later and promised to buy us breakfast if we met him here.” Kendall’s eyes lit with wary humor. “Don’t worry, Marquez, I’m still not getting any sleep. Hawse is going for coffee. You want any?”

  “Sure, I’ve got to type a warrant app.”

  Kendall smiled. “Arrests make happy times. We’re hoping some of that rubs off on us.” He leaned conspiratorially, ran a hand over his new short hair. “We’re making a little bet about what the headline will be. Twenty bucks whoever is closest on Sweeney. You want in?”

  “I haven’t got a guess yet.”

  “Here’s mine: ‘Sweeney Running from Office.’” “Too long, too long,” Hawse said, his big frame shaking, tears dribbling down his cheeks as he laughed.

  Marquez was grateful for the coffee. He booted up the laptop and filled out the warrant application, knowing if he didn’t he’d fade away into exhaustion. He thought about Petroni’s story of finding Kendall parked down a dirt road with a runaway he was supposed to be transporting. He couldn’t look at him this morning without wondering about it.

  He’d hoped to question Sweeney and his lawyer, but as expected, neither was willing to talk. They’d post bail later in the morning, a lawyer was already here and making noise. The county would continue to hold Nyland, who’d made threats to a law enforcement officer on the way in. Charges against him wouldn’t file until later in the afternoon. Marquez’s team would go through the impounded rented Land Cruiser this morning, and after the warrant app was processed he’d try to get a judge to sign. Now he walked out with Kendall, took him to his truck, and handed him a Ziploc bag with the fragment of bone.

  “We found it in a fire pit back behind Nyland’s place.”

  “And you’ve been driving around with it?”

  “I knew it was old. Take a look at the mineral in it.”

  Kendall flipped the bag over, looked at the dark bone from the other side. “You’ll have to show me today.”

  When Marquez described the fire pit more carefully, Kendall told him a story about the meadow and what he called a crackpot local theory that the real estate development out there had been doomed from the start because the meadow was haunted. There’d been rumors that during excavation for the foundations they’d dug up bones.

  “Years ago there was a confrontation between Native Americans and gold miners who’d staked a claim to the area. I think they were Miwoks. Didn’t I already tell you this story? The gold miners panicked, started shooting, and killed six or seven. Buried them out there without telling anyone, and it didn’t come out for years. After the miners died in freak accidents in that area, the local bright lights decided the area was haunted. More like the economy up here is what’s haunted. Recession took that real estate project down.” He held the bag up. “We’ll check it out. I agree it’s old and as you know bone doesn’t last long if it isn’t protected, so I don’t think we’re looking at Native American bones.”

  “Different question for you-where’s Petroni’s log?”

  “I’ve got it.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Delano is here, can it wait? Don’t you want to see these guns?”

  Delano got the guns from his trunk. The silver inlay, the scrollwork, Kendall read aloud from Smith’s description of the stolen rifles.

  “These are probably Smith’s,” Kendall said. “We’ll have to get him in here today.”

  “Problem is I can’t turn them over today,” Delano answered.

  Delano chewed on gum and stared back at Kendall. His black hair was slicked back and he wore a leather jacket and jeans. He looked like Hollywood next to Marquez, Kendall, and Hawse. The detectives started trying to work out a plan, and Marquez got the logbook from Kendall, then left them. He went through the logbook and found the name Mark Ellison with a question mark after it. There was also a license plate number. He copied that down, talked to Roberts, and they ran Ellison’s name and came up with nothing.

  Later in the morning Marquez rode out in Delano’s car to the Broussard place. He took Delano to the lot his team used for surveillance and pointed out the tar-paper-wrapped A-frame in the back of the lot where Bobby and another one of the cousins lived.

  It impressed Marquez that Delano still wanted to see where to find Bobby later, though he was very easy to locate this morning in the county jail.

  Delano dropped him back in Placerville and half an hour later Marquez checked into the Gold Nugget Motel, into a stuffy room smelling like dusty carpet and oiled plastic. He’d backed the team away from the safehouse and spread everybody out. He opened a window, let the cold fall air in, laid his cell phone on the bed where it would wake him up. He wanted to take a shower but didn’t, called Katherine instead and was talking to her, the phone still in his hand when he fell as
leep.

  32

  “I’m ready to meet you,” the mechanical voice rasped. Marquez cleared his throat and sat up. “I’m going to take you to one of my farms. You’ll meet me, leave your car, and wear a hood until we get there.”

  “I get claustrophobic.” He stalled. “You’re going to take me to a farm?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long will I have the hood on?”

  “A couple of hours.”

  “I’m not good with the hood, but, yeah, okay, I’ll do it.”

  Silence now, a mechanical whine, a television or radio playing in the background on their seller’s end, the noise coming from it distorted by the voice changer. Marquez felt adrenaline start in him. He checked his watch, saw it was nearly 3:00 in the afternoon.

  “Leave Placerville and go east on Highway 50 at 5:30 today. I’ll direct you to where we’ll meet.”

  “I drive out of Placerville at 5:30?”

  Their seller hung up, and Marquez had two thoughts. One that he’d do it, and two, there wasn’t much time, just over two hours before he was supposed to drive up the highway past Placerville.

  Before that he’d have to drive to Folsom to the Region IV office and pick up the show car. He left the motel room and called Alvarez, Cairo, Roberts, and Shauf as he made the thirty-minute run down to Folsom. The car was where they’d left it on the gravel lot and he parked, switched into it, and took a call from Chief Bell as he drove away.

  “We’re going to drop charges against Sweeney and his lawyer,” Bell said without any preamble. “The district attorney has heard their side and requested that we do that.”

  “That was fast.”

  “The state police interviewed our tipster and believe there’s a chance she misled us and Sweeney. Sweeney thought he had a bear tag and another of his staff backs that up. Our tipster told Sweeney and this other staff member that she’d acquired one for him. She’d been working on setting this hunt up for him for a while. Had him sign the bear permit application, the whole thing, and set it up with Durham, who’s been in and out of their office on lobbying business for years. The kicker is she’d had an affair with Sweeney and was angry he broke it off. This staffer backs Sweeney’s story that our tipster plotted it as revenge.”