Kirk Russell - Dead Game

The subtext of their leaked message was that we have nothing new to fear. This was just a failure of protocol. The same as 9/11, right? We could stop it all from happening if we were just careful enough. Seal our borders and stick to the protocols. It didn’t make sense that a guy as serious about law enforcement as Ehrmann was being set up for a transfer to North Dakota or the Middle East, or wherever the Bureau saw fit to banish him.

“You okay?” Cairo asked.

“Just thinking about things.”

“What happens to her now?”

“They’ll work her pretty hard unless they find Karsov first. She’s lied to too many people.” “Where do you think we fit in?”

It wasn’t fair to say, but Cairo’s tone was almost one of curiosity, as if expressing interest, but with the understanding the interest wouldn’t be pursued. At the last SOU dinner together at the safehouse Cairo’s enthusiasm for dry farming tomatoes had lit up his face. He had one foot in the future, had accepted what Marquez couldn’t yet.

“I think it was August who sent her to make contact with us. But it’s possible the FBI knew she was living with August, in fact, it’s likely, and it’s likely they told her what she could and couldn’t say to me. When she started to wobble on them, when it looked like the deal with her son might fall through and they were wondering what came next with her, they may have worried she’d pass on information that could compromise their operation. They didn’t pick her up and bring her in because they were hoping she’d lead them to Karsov or someone that would get them closer. When she contacted me they were afraid she was going to tell me too much. At least, that’s my guess.”

And they’d question her now about the weapons they hadn’t found in Weisson’s. They’d question her for hours about those.

He put the boots in the truck and saw Shauf was off the phone. The FBI had requested that he come in this afternoon, and he’d agreed. But the question was where they were going now. Was Cairo flying to San Diego, then driving out to the desert to look at greenhouses, and was Shauf going early to spend more time with her nieces and nephews? They were at a cusp, and as Shauf walked back over, Marquez decided to put it to a vote.

“There’s a news report they may have caught one of the three that got away,” Shauf said.

“Which one and where?”

“Munoz. In LA.”

Carlos Munoz, wanted for conspiracy trafficking of cocaine, money laundering, murder. According to Ehrmann, Munoz operated out of LA. So it was believable.

When they made the ride out to the command center Ehrmann had ticked off details on Karsov as well. The passports he carried, aliases, fluency in language, a big plus for the modern-day criminal, black hair, blue eyes, Ukrainian national, six foot two, one hundred eighty pounds, kept himself fit. Karsov was wanted for arms trafficking, conspiracy murder, drug trafficking, grand theft, money laundering, RICO violations, a long, long list, Ehrmann said.

The third face they’d gone public with was Misha Filipovna. RICO charges, conspiracy to traffic in drugs, conspiracy murder (six), dating to 1995, five foot eleven, one hundred ninety pounds, built like a middle-heavyweight, brown hair, green eyes, a good-looking, confident face that was showing on CNN, FOX, and the rest.

Ehrmann put it flatly. By the rules of the game, Burdovsky had abandoned her son by leaving the country, and the boy had been legally adopted by a relative of Karsov’s. Had she been in the country or had the Ukrainian courts found a way to contact her in the United States, which they weren’t obligated to do, then she could have contested the proceedings. Now it was very difficult to unravel. The boy didn’t know her and wanted to stay where he was, and the email contact she had with him was evidently more sporadic than she’d told the FBI. They didn’t doubt she wanted her son back, but she hadn’t been truthful with them either.

“Let’s hope they get all three,” Marquez said, then took the conversation to Crey. “Do I become Crey’s new partner?”

He looked from Shauf to Cairo and wanted them to understand this was a decision they were going to make together. He knew Shauf had been on the phone to her brother-in-law. He knew Cairo had one foot out the door, but he also had the heart of an elephant and never quit anything. The assumption was they were down, it was over, the FBI investigation into whether the blown bust was preventable would include interviewing anyone with any contact with Weisson’s, which meant they’d visit Ludovna and question him about selling illegal sturgeon. Cairo nodded, then Shauf spoke.

“I’m in. Let’s partner up and play it out another round.”

Marquez called Crey as he and Shauf pulled away with the Zodiac.

“I’m in, but we’re going to have to talk about how to handle a couple of things.”

“We’ll get a drink and talk it out.”

“I can’t do it today, but let me ask a couple of things.”

“Do it.”

“The questions might make you a little touchy.”

“Go ahead, my man.”

“There are rumors about how you bought Beaudry’s business. People say you stashed some drug money, retrieved it after you got out, then used it to buy the business. Are the Feds going to come after you someday for that?”

“Nope. Because those rumors are bullshit. I borrowed money from a friend to buy the business.”

“Cool. That’s what I wanted to hear.”

“Well, you’re hearing it, and you can tell anyone who says anything else to come talk to me.”

“What about Beaudry?”

“What about him?”

“Is he completely out of the picture?”

“He’s way gone, and no one is ever coming after him either, regardless of what you hear. All Beaudry ever did wrong was Fish and Game shit. You go out with the right party with him, and he didn’t care what you caught. It got a little out of hand for a while, then he got scared Fish and Game was going to catch his ass. That DBEEP boat started watching him one afternoon. That about cured him.”

“You were there?”

Crey coughed and cleared his throat. His impulse not to implicate himself in anything kicked in.

“I’m not saying I was there per se, you know, but let’s just say I checked out the business before I made an offer.”

“Okay, good enough.”

“What else?”

“The pinheads.”

“Like I told you, it would be just you and me. A detective called looking for them again yesterday and they’re thinking about taking off until he stops calling.”

“I don’t want them coming back thinking you and me owe them something later because they helped you out.”

“Not going to happen, man. I’ll deal with them. It’s cool.”

“All right, partner, we’ll figure out everything else over a drink.”

The next morning Marquez was back in Beaudry’s driveway. Beaudry’s Chevy was parked in the shade with ice on the windshield. He climbed the stairs, knocked hard, and waited.

“Now what?” Beaudry asked.

“You never told us you ran party boats for poachers.”

“That’s a lie.”

“I’ve got people who’ll testify.”

“Then get them to and I’ll see you in court if I don’t see you in hell first.”

Beaudry started to shut the door.

“I think you’d better invite me in. You close that door and you’re opening a case file.”

Beaudry had a study, an office that smelled of dust caught and slowly burning in the coils of a portable heater. His website was up on two computer screens. A bloodstained FBI shield showed on the site, and Marquez recognized it from a news photo. Beaudry must have cut and pasted from a newspaper.