Shell Games (24 page)

Marquez’s phone rang
as he drove away from the marina. He’d been on the phone to Keeler, trying to reach an agreement about how to handle the Mauro situation and expected it to be Keeler calling back before he saw the screen read “Private Number.” When he answered he heard multiple voices and his immediate reaction was that someone had inadvertently hit his phone num-ber, perhaps an informant. The voices were male and the sound muffled as though from a cell phone in a coat pocket. He heard yelling now, someone saying, “Back up, back up!” Then another order in Spanish and several seconds of quiet followed by muffled voices, and one voice much clearer that he was sure belonged to whoever carried the phone, saying, “Okay, okay.”

He thought he heard someone pleading, but it was distant like something you might imagine you hear in the wind, then three dis-tinct pops that Marquez knew was the sound of gunfire, and the phone clicked off abruptly. The next call came in minutes and he
stared at the screen unable to recognize the number and still wondering what he’d just heard.

“Lieutenant Marquez?”

It was another detective investigating Meghan Burris’s murder and wanting to meet him in Pillar Point. For several days Marquez had tried to get back on board the
Open Sea,
Heinemann’s boat. He knew it had been searched already—the detective told him they’d like to go through the boat cabin again today with Marquez present, the implication being that Fish and Game now could have a look.

Marquez got there in just over an hour and there was very little to look at. The detective, a freckled middle-aged woman, showed him loose papers with nothing coherent on them, an address book that Marquez thumbed, and a log she’d found in the boat cabin.

“I’m looking for anything with the name Mauro on it,” Marquez said. “He’s an Oakland fish broker and it’s unlikely he knew Burris, but Heinemann may have dealt with him.”

Mauro had insisted that wasn’t the case, that he didn’t know anyone named Heinemann and Bailey was always alone. The poach-ing angle he’d already talked over with this detective several times in phone interviews, but she went back through it pedantically now as Marquez searched the cabin. He left the
Open Sea
an hour later having learned nothing and walked past Bailey’s empty berth. He met briefly with Cairo, then headed north, talking to Keeler at dusk as Keeler was leaving headquarters. Douglas had called complaining that the telelocator readings were static. Either the equipment was malfunctioning or most of the team was in one location all day.

“They aren’t carrying them,” Keeler said. “You tell them they’re making us all look bad after we gave our word.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Or I will.”

Keeler hung up and Marquez called Hansen. He wanted Hansen’s perspective on the FBI as an overseer, to hear what the FBI had him doing and what Hansen thought about the homeland
security patrols he’d made for months. Hansen was onboard the
Marlin,
coming up from the south bay.

“Reminds me of my riverboat days in Nam,” Hansen said. “It’s just the times we’re living in. The Feds have new information about every two weeks. They don’t have any choice but to check it out and until they’re comfortable again, they’re going to run all of us. Tell you where our boat is at right now, we’re passing the old naval yard south of Hunter’s Point, and I’m looking at the abandoned crane that loaded the Hiroshima bomb. That says something about all of it, doesn’t it? Hey, I saw one of those Fountains streaking across the bay this afternoon. Looked like someone familiar standing tall at the wheel.”

“Where were you?”

“Berkeley pier.”

“You’ve got some good eyes on you still, Nick.”

“They’re the only thing that’s held up. I’ll talk to you later.”

Marquez got Katherine on her cell phone on her way home from Maria’s doctor. She asked him to come over to talk about what the doctor had said. He headed to Katherine’s house, making a call to Petersen as he drove.

Petersen had gone out to the campground at Salt Point chas-ing down a poaching tip and interviewed a woman staying in a camper there. Her husband was a retired Park Service ranger who’d become suspicious of a couple of divers staying in the campground. Last night he’d seen headlights after midnight and got out of bed when he heard voices. He’d copied down the license plate of a white panel van after he’d seen the divers loading coolers into it. When he’d turned his flashlight on them and demanded to know what they were doing, someone had struck him from behind. From the damage to his skull and the pattern of the bruising the hospital speculation was that he’d been hit with a hammer. He was still in the hospital and Petersen had gone there after talking with the woman.

“He’s going to be okay,” she said. “He was able to talk just fine, though they didn’t allow me more than a few minutes with him. He’d written the license number on his palm with a pen, but he also fell on that hand and they cleaned it up at the hospital while he was still woozy. He didn’t realize they’d rubbed the ink off. Both he and his wife say they can identify the men who’ve been camping at Salt Point.”

“But they’re gone now.”

“Yeah, they’d dragged him into some bushes and his wife didn’t realize what had happened until she woke and started worrying around three in the morning. She called the sheriff, and deputies found him. They’ve already got a composite worked up and tomor-row I’ll take that around to the harbors and bars and see if I can find anyone that recognizes these guys.”

“Be careful.”

“Are you going to coach me in my last month?”

“I guess not. Let me know what you find out.”

He ate dinner with Katherine and Maria and though the con-versation was friendly the evening felt charged with tension. After dinner, Katherine walked him to his truck, and got in on the pas-senger side to talk. Maria had met alone with the doctor, who’d in turn talked with Katherine afterwards, telling her that Maria was definitely anorexic. She’d set targets with Maria and would see her again in two weeks. She’d also advised that Katherine avoid any more confrontations, because Maria had told the doctor that her mom was making it harder to get things in control.

Maria had eaten an adequately portioned meal tonight, then withdrawn to her room and homework and the music she downloaded off her computer, and the friends she kept in constant e-mail contact with. Katherine was quiet in a way he’d seen only a few times before. Something else had been said to her that he suspected had both hurt and surprised her.

“I suppose I’m a failure as a parent,” she said. “Her father left
when she was two and a half and maybe she never really got over that. So often things go all the way back.”

“I wouldn’t make excuses for Maria and you’ve been doing the right thing calling her on how she’s eating. Her doctor has got it wrong.”

“The doctor says it’s healthier to work from goal to goal.”

“You’ve been doing the right thing.”

“You don’t make a very good cheerleader, John, so knock it off.” She paused a moment. “Maria told the doctor that you and I are divorcing. Have you said anything like that to her?”

“Never.”

“I feel pretty disillusioned and I know I’ve said some things to her, but I’ve never said that.”

“Maybe she needs us to reach resolution one way or the other.”

“I know, and I’ve been going to a therapist, and when she asks me what do I really want I can’t tell her. I don’t really know. I’m sorry if that’s hurtful.”

“It’s what it is,” he said, though it stung him. “Better that you say what you feel.”

“I guess I’m still really angry, but I can’t talk about that tonight. I’m too worried about Maria.”

Marquez walked back in to say goodnight to Maria, and told her what he’d told her when he and Katherine had separated. No matter what, he was there for her. He told her he wanted to help her get through this. He talked with Katherine a while after, and left the house wondering why they couldn’t get their marriage together, why he was driving away. “What are the issues?” his sister had asked, when he’d tried to talk to her about the problems. There was the issue of Katherine believing he put his work ahead of the marriage. People that love each other get around work issues, his sister had responded. “You’re not the first person to be on the road a lot of the time. It’s ordinary. Your problem is somewhere else. You must make her feel second best. Maybe you diminish
her.” He drove home and thought about it on and off through the night. It was as though Katherine wanted the distance right now. She wanted him to change jobs, transfer out of the SOU and being constantly on the road, but she wasn’t going to tell him directly. He put on music, an old Doors tape, turned the lights off, sat on the couch with the slider open, and then slept there, unable to move to the bedroom.

The next morning Alvarez was hosing the sidewalk in front of Billy Mauro’s Fresh Seafood when a white refrigerated van with two men in it drove up. Marquez watched through binoculars. The truck slowed as it hit the bump before entering the building. He got a good look at the men inside, inwardly turning the surgery-altered face of one into a much younger Eduardo Molina. Hard eyes raked over Alvarez who’d turned away with his hose.

The van backed up to the loading dock and Alvarez moved back inside, took up his new job of cleaning fish. He activated the hidden video camera and taped the men getting out of the truck, watched them go into Mauro’s office and shut the door. Marquez adjusted his earphones to hear Molina and Mauro talking. Molina wanted the van emptied now, but pressed Mauro to send one of his own vans to pick up a load of abalone coming into Pier 45 in San Francisco.

“I don’t know,” Mauro said. “I don’t want to do that.”

Molina continued as if he hadn’t heard Mauro. His voice was low and very controlled, his English almost without accent.

“They’ll look for your truck before they dock,” Molina said. “So you park where they see you easily.”

“I don’t even know if I can get in there at that hour.”

“If they don’t see a truck they’ll turn around and that’s no good.”

“What if Fish and Game is there? I never agreed to do any-thing like this.”

“We’re going to take care of them. You don’t need to worry about them.” Marquez heard a chair slide. “At three,” Molina said,
and Marquez slipped off the earphones and dialed the number Douglas had given him.

“We’ve got Molina in Oakland,” he said, as Douglas answered.

“Let him go. Under no circumstances go near him.” Marquez didn’t respond, watched the white panel truck bounce off the curb and start down the street. “Do not follow him.” The panel truck turned the corner. “Are you hearing me?”

“We’re going to have to sit down.”

“Marquez, you’ve got to let him go.”

“He’s gone.”

“That’s what has to happen.” He exhaled. “Okay, let’s meet right now.”

He met Douglas in China Basin
and they drove to a restaurant across from the ballpark. The Giants were on the road and it was easy to get a table where they could talk. Marquez ordered a turkey sandwich and coffee, his mind on Molina and the second man pulling away in the van.

“How’d you come up with Billy Mauro?” Douglas asked.

“We got his name from an abalone diver we busted, a Vietnamese immigrant named Tran Li who was delivering his catch there because that’s what he was told to do. Kline is using Mauro to distribute and that probably means he’s using other distributors, as well. Mauro runs their abalone through his plant and packages it in boxes from a Mexican shellfish broker he’s got legitimate import papers for. There’s an old problem where papers get reused over and over.”

“Is this the Vietnamese diver who lost his kid up near Fort Bragg?” Douglas asked, and Marquez nodded. Douglas pointed a finger, said, “He’s working for you.”

“No, he’s out, and the family has moved to Boulder to live with his wife’s sister. He came back to tell us because he’s haunted by the death of his son.”

“Guilt?”

“And grief.”

“We’re pulling Bill Mauro in today. And those photos you e-mailed me are the real thing.”

“The photos were all of Peter Han.” Douglas nodded faintly in agreement. “Does that mean anything to you?” Marquez asked.

“Let’s stay on Mauro. We’ll bring him in and I’m going to have to ask you to back away from him until we know more.”

“You’ve got a way of killing my appetite.”

“Hear me out first.” Douglas rubbed his forehead and leaned forward, elbows heavy on the table. “The problem is getting worse. Our informant, the one on the
Emily Jane,
the one you were after, had a gun stuck in his mouth last night by Molina. Molina told him to lose himself or die. He said they’d run him thirty miles off the coast and throw him in the water if they saw him again. He called me from Las Vegas this morning. He’s out and he was our pipeline. I need every source you have, John. If Davies is talking secretly to you, I need to know.”

“Then give me why.”

“Kline was hired to do a hit here in the Bay Area. We believe it’s supposed to be this week and we’ve lost track of him. We thought we had him yesterday, but the man we took down turns out to be a double. We’re still holding the double and if you want a look, I’ll take you to see him. It’ll blow you away. Looks just like Kline and he’ll show you his scar. He had plastic surgery in Mexico City two years ago. They shaved his head, peeled his scalp down over his face, modified the bone structure, and came up with a pretty good double. He says his eyes leak all the time and half his face is numb, but the money is good.”

“So Kline knows you’re after him.”

“That’s right, we fucked up. I’m going to give more today though I’m disobeying an order, so it stays between us, okay? I’m telling you because we’re out of time. We have a contact in Mexico who’s sure this hit is going to take place. It’s someone within our judicial system and we’ve been over every case being tried in California and have come up with four candidates, including a DA and a judge here in the Bay Area. There are six murder trials pending this morning where the accused is a gang member and the killing was drug-related. Some of those gangs distribute for cartels. So it may be a payback, a debt owed, or he may be here to kill a witness. We don’t really know—”

“That’s too big a field,” Marquez said. “You know more than that. You wouldn’t put this kind of effort in.”

“That’s why this informant on the
Emily Jane
was so impor-tant. That’s how we were keeping track of him. He’ll do this hit unless we find him first.” Douglas paused. He lifted a hand from the table. “No question he’s taking abalone and moving dope. The abalone is a new gig, the dope operation he’s had for years. We’ve been trying to work our way into that operation. Don’t ask me why he got into abalone this round. We don’t get it.”

“It’s better money than dope. That’s why.”

“We’re seeing a lot more of Molina all of a sudden. You’re see-ing him more. He knows we know Molina and may be dangling him as bait to lure us. That’s part of why I want you to stay away from Molina. Kline probably has countersurveillance on him.”

Marquez flashed on a wedding party where the photographer and his assistant gathered the family for a group photo and killed them all. There was no morality in Kline, no real connection to humanity, only the continual question of what people could do for him.

“Your name has come up,” Douglas said. “We got that from our informant and there’s a chance Kline knows the names of all or part of your team. He may be tracking you, and you of all people know what he’s capable of.”

Marquez watched Douglas put ketchup on his hamburger, take a bite of it, dripping ketchup back on the plate.

“What do you know about Jimmy Bailey’s whereabouts?” Marquez asked.

“Why?”

“We’ve lost him and he’s doing business with Kline.”

“We don’t think he’s a real player,” Douglas said. “He’s a low-level drug peddler.” Douglas handed over a card now with a num-ber handwritten on the back. “If you get the feeling you’ve got someone watching you, call this number.”

Marquez suppressed a smile, but it struck him as comic and theatrical that if Kline came for him he’d get a chance to phone and call for help. He took the card and then before they finished talking got some insight from Douglas into the FBI’s take on why Kline was poaching abalone. They believed he was laundering money by paying it out for abalone and then selling the abalone largely in Asian markets. Marquez said good-bye to Douglas on the sidewalk and mulled what he’d learned as he drove away.

He met with the team and gave them everything he’d gotten from Douglas, then talked it over with Keeler and sent three war-dens back to Pillar Point and Cairo and Petersen to Fort Bragg. They’d stay on Bailey and wait for Heinemann and check out some recent tips. Marquez called Katherine and she invited him over. When he got to her house the front door was open and he could hear Katherine and Maria in a sharp exchange. It was the same thing again, the same pattern.

“I’m having dinner in my room tonight,” Maria was saying. “I have too much homework.”

“What are you having?”

“Tomato soup.”

“What else?”

“Toast.”

“That’s not enough.”

“I had lunch; I’m not hungry for anything else.”

“What did you have for lunch?”

“A sandwich, and it’s none of your business. I’m not having this soup anymore.” Through the open deck door, Marquez watched Maria slosh a pot of soup into the sink and fling her toast into the garbage. She saw him and said, “I’m not eating anything tonight and no one can make me. I’m sick of this.”

“Go to your room,” Katherine said, “I’ll talk to you there.”

Marquez heard her door slam and Katherine stood with her hands on her hips glowering at him. She picked up the soup can, slammed it into the garbage, held up a little plate of peanuts, no more than ten scattered across it.

“Look at this,” she said, “and I’m supposed to let the doctor handle it.”

“Can you force her to eat?”

“I’ll spoon-feed her like a baby if I have to. Her period has stopped and her bones are going to be as brittle as sticks in a few months. This is going to stop now and that stubborn little will of hers isn’t going to prevent me from making her eat. I will not let her destroy herself because she wants to look like one of these emaciated godforsaken models. You could cut paper with the hip bones of some of those women.”

“Didn’t her doctor set a goal of a pound every four days?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“She told me she’s going to make that.”

“Guess what? Anorexics lie. They deceive. It’s part of the game. I’ve got two friends who started down that path twenty years ago and they’re still skin and bones. They exercise constantly and they actually think they look good, but they look like they just walked out of Auschwitz and they don’t fool anybody. That isn’t going to happen to my daughter.”

“You’ve got to give her a chance.”

The conversation went down from there and he didn’t end up
having dinner with Katherine. He drove home. That night he fell asleep in a chair on the deck with a blanket wrapped around him. He dreamt of Africa and his first wife, Julie, a morning out in the bush. He smelled the early morning coffee and the acacia trees and grass. They held tin mugs and crouched, smiling at each other, watching the black silhouettes of elephants move across a plain in the dawn. Julie sat close to him again in the night and he felt what he’d felt that morning, that the world was open and theirs to make and the life ahead was going to be grand. Her hand had slid under his shirt and around his back and he’d held her tight against him after they’d made love.

The sensation was so real in memory that as he awoke he felt as though he’d violated his marriage with Katherine. His face was wet with dew and his neck kinked from sleeping in the chair. He rose clumsily and a deer bounded away in the darkness downslope. He laid the blanket on the chair, walked in the house, and fell asleep again in the bedroom, a hand on Katherine’s pillow, his mind still floating in the dream.

Later, it was a call from Douglas that pulled him back from his personal problems. It was early, a red sunrise, and Douglas said a male body had washed up at the base of cliffs near Daly City. A hang glider pilot who’d been scratching low along the cliffs yesterday had spotted a corpse but inexplicably had waited until midnight to call 911. The rough description was close enough to be Davies, and Douglas was offering Marquez a ride down.

“Unless you want to follow us,” Douglas said.

“I’m going to continue south, so I’ll meet you down there.”

A Coast Guard helicopter was in the morning sky alongside the cliffs. When he met up with Douglas, another FBI agent, and local detectives, it became clear they wanted him there to help ID the body.

“We’ve got a way to get you down there,” the detective said, “But I’ve got to warn you it may not be pretty. They don’t always
float and a lot of times the decomposition gasses will leave them standing on their heads and bumping along the bottom. Was this a friend of yours?”

“Someone we’re looking for missed a meeting and his boat was abandoned.”

“I got a feeling you’re just the man I want to talk to.”

The detective grinned, showing yellow teeth, and they walked out the half mile. Marquez belayed down on a rope that had been set up. Douglas came down the same way and the other agent stayed on top. The detective got lowered in a basket by the helicopter and then they were on the small beach, moving across the black rocks.

The hang glider pilot had launched and scratched his way north, trying to find enough lift to make a good day of it. He thought at first that it was a dead seal, and now, seeing the body wedged in the rocks, wrists tied and arms bound behind the back, ankles bound, and the head facedown and still hidden, Marquez could understand why. The pilot had bagged up his kite and gone home. Later, his conscience got the better of him.

The body was swollen with gas. They backed up for a wave that lapped halfway up the corpse and the detective talked. “The rescue people hate this. They want to come in, pick up the body and go, but they leave stuff behind when we let it happen that way. This one is naked, but we might find something down here in the rocks.” He pointed at two exit wounds in the back without commenting on them. “I’ll bet they had him take his clothes off before they bound him. Let’s get him turned over.”

They had to drag him back and then flipped him. His nose and eyes were gone and a small crab dropped out of his beard. A lot of his scalp and one side of his face had rubbed off. It wasn’t Davies.

“Is this your man?” the detective asked.

“No, but I recognize him.”

Marquez looked at Douglas and then at the body again, remembering the phone call two days ago, the muffled voices, the
gunshots. Heinemann looked like he’d been in the water longer than that, but maybe, just maybe. He turned to Douglas.

“I need to talk to you about a phone call I got a couple of days ago and there’s some information in my truck you’ll want.” He looked over at the detective. “We got him killed. We had him wired up and then lost him.”

Heinemann’s skin was the color of putty. He’d been stripped, bound, thrown overboard like a sack of garbage. That probably meant he told them everything first.

“He was working for you?” the detective asked.

“More like we were using him and he was using us. We’ve been chasing an abalone poacher.”

“This is about poaching?”

“Yes.”

Douglas cut in. “Let’s go up top,” he said, and to Marquez, “this was for you. He sent you a message.”