Kirk Russell: Night Game

He told her the off-ramp, then swung right at the stop sign and drove toward the lights of a subdivision. Beyond the stucco houses was a strip mall, beyond that, dark farmland. He saw headlights way out there, told Shauf he was going after them, but by the time he’d passed the houses they were gone. Still, he continued miles into the darkness and finally pulled over, parked on the shoulder, and was standing outside his truck when Shauf pulled up.

“You okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine.”

“Your truck took a hit.”

Metal brackets on the median guardrail had raked the driver’s side of the truck. He’d have to change vehicles in Sacramento early tomorrow.

“Troy must have made a phone call after he followed me out this afternoon.”

“So he made you.”

“Yeah, good chance he recognized me, though he may not remember where he last saw me.”

Marquez looked out across the darkness, the fields, the long sweep of stars, Mars still bright in the southwestern sky. The Toyota driver was telling him, I know who you are and you don’t scare me. A thick neck and shoulders, a face disguised by the glass. He felt angry at himself for not having gotten the plates. He looked at Shauf.

“It was a close call,” he said.

“Where do you want to go from here?”

“I want to find that truck.” He turned toward her. “Think it over tonight. If Troy made a phone call, where did this guy pick me up?”

“It’s a little weird that Troy followed you all the way out, even for him.”

“That’s what I’m thinking too.”

He didn’t want to say what he was really wondering. Instead, he said good night and watched her drive away.

Early the next morning Marquez met his DOJ crime lab friend, Leon, at a coffee stand in Sacramento. Leon’s body language said he didn’t get what the big deal was over a bullet with no gun to match it to. He dumped sugar into a latte, mixed it slowly with a wooden stir stick, took a seat on a concrete planter box, and angled his face toward the sun, listening with his eyes shut as Marquez told him what he knew about the Vandemere killing.

“But this murder you’re talking about was months ago, and you’re saying these bears were poached this past week.”

“Yeah, but the bears weren’t far from where Vandemere was killed, and the bullet I pulled looks like it could be a .30-30.”

“Common enough bullet for bear, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

Leon opened his eyes. “Besides, why bring it to me if you think it might be from the same gun? Why not turn it over to the detective?”

“Because if it doesn’t turn out to be a .30-30, it stays with us.”

“You don’t trust this detective?”

“I don’t know him, and we’ve got our own problem. We’re trying to find someone who’s treating the black bear population like a private herd.”

Leon was a big backpacker and fisherman with a real interest in saving wildlife. He might play devil’s advocate this morning, but he’d take it seriously later. Marquez handed him one of Kendall’s cards and left him nursing his latte, enjoying a few moments of quiet sunlight before entering the fluorescent blandness of the lab and a day of concentration.

Twenty minutes later Marquez threaded through a power breakfast crowd at Rex’s, the new hangout for the political set. The floor was highly polished black and white marble tile. Morning sunlight slanted through dark-stained windows. The chief sat at a round table in a corner, alone and out of uniform, dressed in neatly creased white chinos, a yellow linen shirt, and soft black loafers that probably had cost four hundred dollars. Other than the short trimmed hair, the faint hint of law enforcement there, you’d never guess looking at him that he had anything to do with Fish and Game.

“Have you eaten, Lieutenant?”

“I had coffee with a friend at Justice after I called you.”

“Take a chair and have breakfast. The chef here is something else.”

The SOU ate on the road all the time and way too much fast food, though they’d had a couple of dinners lately at safehouses that were pretty good, owing to Cairo’s new interest in cooking.

Marquez took a chair and watched Bell eat poached eggs on thick toast.

“We got another call from our seller this morning,” Marquez said. “He wants to do a deal tonight.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said we’re on.”

Marquez waited. He knew Bell was close to saying they weren’t going forward.

“It’s worse than I told you earlier,” Bell said. “Most of the department personnel files have been hacked. These hackers install a backdoor in files that then get transferred around the department. Eventually, it gives them access to everything.”

Marquez knew Bell didn’t know anymore than he did about how a backdoor was set up. Neither of them knew much about computer programming, but Bell sounded like he’d picked up some new jargon.

“This may be the time to pull back and re-evaluate,” Bell said. He leaned forward, spoke quietly. “Let’s put aside our jobs for a moment. How old is your stepdaughter?”

“Sixteen.”

“Captain Fong’s twins are eight. His girls walk to school every day. That CD made very specific reference to yours and Captain Fong’s families. The computer experts say that there’s a high likelihood the names, addresses, everything about the Special Operations Unit is in the hands of this person or persons.”

“I heard he didn’t get any photos of anyone on my team.”

“He has enough.”

“I think we stay with him a little longer. I told him today he sent the CD to the wrong person and he can have it back.”

“I’m talking about reasonable caution.” It occurred to Marquez that somewhere along the line Bell must have attended a seminar where they taught that good managers get those under them to agree to major decisions before they’re made. “Other tips haven’t been followed through on, other cases pushed aside,” Bell said. “And we never had enough going into this one. You told me last week you were going back to our original source. Where are we at with that?”

“I’ll see him in the next couple of days.”

Their source on the bear farmer was a thirty-seven-year-old San Francisco resident named Kim Ungar. Ungar claimed a cousin had given him the phone number he’d passed on to the Department of Fish and Game. Ungar was Asian American and had told Marquez that his cousin was full Korean and only distantly related to him. The market his cousin was selling bear parts to was Korean. After that the story got hazy.

Bell dabbed at a sticky spot of yolk, then examined the napkin.

Marquez rubbed the back of his neck and looked away. Nothing was said for a moment, and Bell laid his hand on the table. His nails were neatly cut, the skin smooth. Marquez glanced at his own big hand and wrist, the rough palm, scars along the back.

When he looked up Bell said, “We can take down the pair who’ve been selling to you.”

“That’s our last resort.”

“I’m not sure you’re hearing me, but excuse me a minute. I’ve got to use the rest room.”

When Bell returned he said he was out of time. As they walked out, Bell added that he wasn’t sure he could even get the buy money together, and that they’d have to talk later.

“And I’m not just saying that to stop you from going through with this tonight. I should also tell you that I sat in on a budget meeting yesterday that was very bad. Your whole team may be in jeopardy next year, John. The governor is asking for huge concessions.”

Blame it on whatever you wanted, the collapse of the economy, a state running on vapors, or even as one exasperated state senator had told Marquez during closed-door hearings, “Compassion exhaustion. People are sick of saving the goddamned animals, and California is broke. The money we have has got to go other places.”