Kirk Russell - Redback

On the flight home from Indonesia Marquez turned off the overhead light and around him most in the half-full business section were sleeping. Many had their window shades down. The engines thrummed, but the cabin was still. The long trip was a failure, yet he had made something of it by going to the Pramuka Market and taking in the scale again, the systematic marketing of life, the stacked cages.

It was an opportunity Desault had given him. It was a small window barely open, an idea forming. He felt in his coat for the maroon passport, took it out and held it in his hand for several minutes, gripping it like a ticket not to be dropped, and in some new way it was. Desault used the old-school slang name, redback, for the passport, and like him, Desault was long into a law enforcement career and trying to adapt to a changing world where criminals had gone global. This passport symbolized a new opportunity, one Marquez knew wouldn’t come for him again.

He had to make everything of the moment. Some inward fire relit in him as he walked the Pramuka Market. He did not see the way yet, but he knew this was his last best chance to make a difference.

‘We scoured Vegas looking for Stoval,’ Desault said. ‘We put effort into it. We ran that alias, Patrick Maitland, through everything and everybody.’

And they did the same in Alaska and believed they had a bush pilot with a sideline helicopter scenic tour business, who had yet another sideline that was bear hunting from the copter. In Phoenix there was a credit card used in the name of Patrick Maitland, and again in Houston, and from informants there, whispers of Stoval meeting with Zetas in Texas.

‘He may have come back through California and he may have returned to California again recently. We had a call this morning that he’s here, right now.’

‘That’s where you’re going with this?’

‘Yes. I’m wondering if there’s a hunting reason he’d return to California. He wouldn’t be after more bighorn, would he?’

‘No.’

‘You can’t think of anything?’

‘Not offhand.’

‘Are you on your way in?’

‘Yeah, I’ll see you soon, and I’ve got to tell you something, Ted. I passed a message through Rayman yesterday. I want Stoval to know that if anything happens to anyone in my family, I’ll turn in my badge and then I’ll be coming for him.’

‘You told that to Raymond Mendoza?’

‘I asked him to pass it on.’

Desault muttered something he couldn’t hear and hung up.

Stoval knew of Rayman. He knew what Raymond Mendoza looked like and could name nearly everyone he had ever met. He’d never met this man, Rayman, who worked clubs in LA for the Salazar brothers and was now part of the reorg and new network. Mendoza was responsible for overseeing the management and harvest of a handful of grow fields in California. He was in charge of the field where the game warden was shot. He was smart, but not bright, and had it been his decision, after the game warden Stoval would have made Mendoza disappear. But though he was heavily invested the low level management decisions were not his call. Mendoza wasn’t his to worry about, at least not until now.

Raymond Mendoza was the man John Marquez chose to deliver a message and for that reason Stoval chose to meet with him. He needed to know why Marquez chose him, but now having sat with Mendoza for twenty minutes he was convinced there was nothing special about this man. They were along the coast highway coming through Malibu in Rayman’s black Hummer, a vehicle that was large for the road and drew unnecessary attention. He listened to Mendoza’s patter, the false earnestness about wanting to do more and move up in the organization, and then cut him off.

‘I don’t make those decisions and want you to stop talking about yourself. Tell me where you first met John Marquez.’

‘In Baja.’

‘Where and when in Baja?’

The man shouldn’t be running anything, Stoval thought. He was a self-absorbed idiot.

‘I met him in Loreto. I was the contact with the DEA for the Salazars. He was the one in charge when Miguel killed the DEA agent.’

‘Marquez trusts you.’

‘No, man, no, he is afraid of me. He hates me, but he thought I would be able to know how to reach you. He thought I could get the message to you.’

‘But you hadn’t ever met me.’

‘No, I know, I told him.’

‘Listen to me and then repeat back what I say to you.’

‘OK.’

‘You passed the message on to the people you work for and that’s all you know. You didn’t meet with me today.’

‘Oh, OK, that’s what I tell Marquez?’

‘You’ve never seen me.’

‘Right.’

‘Repeat what I just said.’ Stoval listened and then said, ‘Pull over, here. I’m going to borrow your vehicle.’

‘What do you mean, man?’

‘I’m borrowing your vehicle.’

Mendoza was slow. It took him another several seconds to pull over. Then he stalled leaving.

‘When will I get my Hummer back?’

‘I don’t know yet.’

Stoval smiled at him and adjusted the seat as Mendoza blinked in the sunlight on the road shoulder. Like a stray dog he’d have to be careful crossing the highway. Stoval pulled back on to the highway. In his rear view mirror he saw Mendoza run across the road and smiled as a pickup nearly hit him. Mendoza was worried about losing his Hummer, but soon enough he’d wish he’d never owned it.

Sheryl ordered two glasses of red wine, Marquez a Corona. The waitress looked puzzled and asked Sheryl, ‘Two glasses?’

Sheryl held up two fingers and as the waitress left, said, ‘They’ve gone to my bank, the credit card companies, my neighbors, and not only are they prying into my life in any way they can, they expect me to remember every day I was ever in Mexico. They want me to remember in detail things that happened eighteen years ago. I can’t remember to get milk at the grocery store unless I write it on a Post-it and stick it on my dashboard. How am I going to remember what happened in Baja in 1989?’

She looked away from him before adding, ‘I’m about to get put on paid leave. My DEA career is over and I don’t have anything else to go to. What am I going to do?’

By the time the wine arrived Sheryl’s hands were shaking and her face had paled. The last week had visibly aged her. He watched her take a sip of wine and could hear Desault saying, ‘John, there’s a possibility she links to Stoval.’

‘It’s what I told you the other night, they went back to Pete. He showed them the checks written as part of the divorce settlement, and then agreed to sign an affidavit swearing there was no other money. But there was other money. He paid me the rest of the divorce settlement on the side. The settlement was as fucked-up as our marriage.’

‘So that money was the money you used for your house down payment here.’

‘Yes.’

‘You never declared the money?’

She didn’t want to say it aloud. She nodded. Marquez got it now. Murkowski alleged that Sheryl’s down payment on the house came from bribe money.

‘When does Murkowski think you got this bribe money?’

‘She goes all the way back to the Salazar Cartel or Stoval paying me via deposits made into the La Paz bank that Jim Osiers got tagged with. Then I hid the money offshore in that ALCRON account she told you about.’

‘You hid it for years until you bought the house?’

‘That’s right.’

‘OK, back to Phelps, where did a guy with an ATF agent’s salary get four hundred thousand dollars he could split with you?’

‘From a real estate deal he did with his brother and two sisters after their parents died. I don’t know any of the details of the deal, so don’t ask me.’