Kirk Russell - Dead Game

Marquez didn’t have to answer that.

“Well then, try on this idea, Burdovsky isn’t who you thought she was. Mr. August is very cooperative. Anything we want we can have. Even the sheets off the bed or his phone records, whatever we want. Hell, he’d give us the cat if we had a carrier. He’s also coming in tonight to sit in an interview box.”

“Where?”

“The Richmond Station.” Selke waited a beat then continued. “The young lady he’s with works at his store here in the city and told us August was in the store from 10:00 this morning forward. I don’t think she’s lying, particularly since she can’t wait to get out of here. Either way it’s easy to check. She says they left the store together and went to a bar at around 5:30.”

Selke walked over to the edge of the porch and looked down the street, perhaps trying to locate them.

“I also called the number you gave me for the apartment Burdovsky is moving out of and got the ex-roommate who just got back from Chile two weeks ago. She’s not a big fan of Burdovsky. She told me she got back from Chile and found the cat in her bedroom with a litter box and food. Apparently, whenever Burdovsky was gone for a day or two she put the cat there. The room smelled like a litter box and the rent hadn’t been paid in two months. She claims Burdovsky lied about paying it, was supposed to have sent the check and didn’t do it because she didn’t have her half. There was an eviction letter on the kitchen table, and Burdovsky had some story about her employer owing for the rent. She’s thinking of taking Burdovsky to small claims court, so she’s right there with you, she wants her found.”

“We’ll see you at the Richmond Station,” Marquez said.

“Sure, you’re welcome to listen in.”

At the Richmond Police Station they watched Selke and the SFPD homicide inspector go into an interview box where August was already waiting. Coffee sat untouched in front of August, and he’d changed clothes. He wore a dark green cashmere sweater, gray slacks, polished loafers.

“My ex-wife loves your store,” Selke said. “She always ran up a big bill. I ought to lock you up just for that.” The SF inspector laughed. August smiled. Selke smiled back at him.

“We appreciate you coming in.”

“Frankly, detective, I think you know I only came down here because I lied to you earlier. You asked if I was sleeping with her, and I couldn’t tell you with Dara there.”

“So you were sleeping with Ms. Burdovsky?”

“Yes, but I told her yesterday I wasn’t interested in continuing the relationship. She got hysterical and told me she was falling in love with me, so maybe you ought to dredge the river. Maybe she got lovesick and threw herself in.”

Selke walked August through the past few days, where he’d been, whom he’d talked to, who else knew anything about his relationship with Anna. The interview ended at 12:17. Shauf left to drive back to Sacramento, and Marquez stayed to talk with Selke and the SFPD inspector.

“It’s going to turn out that she was staying there,” Selke said. “We’ve got a downstairs neighbor that recognizes her and has seen her come and go with August. We showed the neighbor photos, and she said they had their hands all over each other. You’ve got to face the very strong possibility Burdovsky burned you.” Selke looked at the SFPD inspector, then back at Marquez. “We have to ask you something.”

“Go ahead.”

“How is it she’s staying with your suspect and you don’t know about it?”

It was a fair question and not easy for Marquez to answer. Watching August interviewed he’d realized Anna most likely had burned them.

“My team is down to three wardens, and we’ve had our hands full in the delta.”

Selke nodded. Sure, that explained it. The SFPD inspector nodded in understanding, but the answer didn’t cut it for either of them. It stank of incompetence. Selke studied his face, looking for a further answer there, then backed off.

“What is it about sturgeon?” Selke asked, smiling again. “Isn’t that what Scott Peterson said he was doing that night, going sturgeon fishing Christmas Eve?”

Selke and the SF inspector had a laugh over that. Marquez left them there, the two of them still joking about Peterson and sturgeon fishing as he walked down the corridor and out the door.

At dawn Marquez stepped over crime tape at the fishing access with a tightness in his chest he hadn’t felt since his DEA career ended more than a decade ago. The tape sagged with condensate from the fog. The sandy path out to the water was dark, the morning cold. He walked the parking lot and then out to the river, as though seeing it again would provide a reason for Anna to stage an elaborate scam to disappear.

After he left the fishing access he stopped at a diner in Isleton and ate a breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast soggy with a commercial butter spread that dripped through his fingers onto his pants. Later in the morning when he walked into Chief Bell’s office, Bell’s eyes went immediately to the stains the butter had left. Bell didn’t like undercover work, didn’t really like the idea of wardens out of uniform, and equated neatness in appearance with clear thinking.

“Take a seat, Lieutenant.”

It was Saturday, the rest of the floor empty, the building quiet, Bell making the point he’d come in just for this. He made a second point, that he’d talked with Selke and understood Burdovsky had burned them.

“Where do you think your operation goes now?”

“We’ve got one suspect I want to try to flip. If he’ll work with us we can make several arrests in the next few weeks and then it doesn’t all go to waste.”

The faintest smile started on Bell’s face. “Lieutenant, all August has to do this morning is pick up the phone. Won’t he call everyone he’s bought illegal sturgeon or roe from?”

“We don’t connect all of the suspects with August. There are other people.”

“You don’t know if August is working with or buying from these other suspects, and in fact, what you don’t know has been highlighted in the last eighteen hours. Let’s face the music, Burdovsky identified you for August. She blew the operation. It’s over. You’re done. I’m meeting with Chief Baird in an hour to discuss the SOU because I think we’ve also reached that door.”

“What door is that, Chief?”

“Last night was an embarrassment.” He paused so the importance of that wasn’t lost on Marquez. “The question I’ll raise with Chief Baird today is whether the SOU is viable in its current configuration. I don’t believe this would have happened if your team had been at full strength. You would have known she was staying with August. Keep your phone with you today. I’ll call.”

Marquez left Sacramento and drove back into the delta on Freeport Road. He talked to Shauf and Cairo, told them where to meet before taking a call from his stepdaughter, Maria, who was with her mom in Boston. Though his wife, Katherine, and his stepdaughter had been gone on a college tour only a single day, it felt like weeks.

“What colleges have you seen?”

“Boston College and Tufts. We’re on our way to Harvard Square. We’re going to BU this afternoon. Mom wants to see it.”

“You don’t?”

She breathed hard into the phone as she walked. He tried to picture them in Boston, white sky and cold when he’d checked Boston weather on the Internet.

“Dad, this trip is more about her.”

“Have you told her what you told me?”

“Not yet. Where are you this morning?”

“In the delta on a sturgeon poaching case, but don’t change the subject.”

A month ago, Maria had lightened a streak of her hair from dark brown to a pale gold sheaf falling down her left temple, similar to her mother’s streak of white hair. She’d done that despite arguing nearly continually with Katherine for the past six months. What she’d talked to him about on Thanksgiving was her plan to take a year off before college.