Kirk Russell - Shell Games

“They’ve gone inside,” Alvarez said of the two men. “They walked up the sidewalk and we taped them. They aren’t family.”

Without waiting to be asked, Alvarez handed Marquez the camcorder and Marquez turned his back on the street and played the video. It had been shot at the outer range of resolution, but he could still make out facial features. One man looked something like Bailey’s description of the man who’d been down on the dock at Pillar Point. Black-haired, a face made of hard-angled planes as though constructed from flat pieces of sheet metal.

“What about the car?”

“Rental and we’re getting a name, right now.”

“How long have they been inside?”

“Ten minutes.”

Marquez was aware that they were making a series of assump-tions here. They had nothing on the men other than they were vis-iting the Li family. But they might also be doing an ab count at the garage freezer or threatening Li.

“We’ve got the warrant,” Alvarez said. “If he let these two in the door he might be happy to see us afterwards. Maybe today is the day to talk to him after all.”

Marquez took in Alvarez for a moment. Brad wore ragged jeans, sandals, a loose faded Hawaiian shirt with a surf shop logo and was growing a small goatee again. It occurred to him that Brad was dressed a little like Bailey.

“We want Li to talk to us,” Marquez said, “but nothing we’re going to say will make him believe we can protect him. We can’t watch his back and we can’t convince him that we can watch his back-I know him well enough to say that.”

Alvarez’s phone rang. He answered and motioned that they needed to go. As he hung up, he said, “They’re out.”

Marquez was on the phone to Shauf as the men drove away. He picked up the gray car as it turned a corner three blocks ahead of him. Alvarez trailed and Shauf and Roberts stayed with the house. The car drifted through downtown Oakland, not pushing it, not in a particular hurry. They drove down Broadway, moving slowly in the right lane, the only car to brake and stop as a light turned yellow. At Jack London Square the men parked in an underground garage and walked across the plaza to one of the bars along the water. When Marquez entered the bar he saw a third man talking to them before moving toward the door alone. Marquez phoned Alvarez from the rest room, describing the third man.

Marquez took a table in a corner of the room. He ordered a beer and a fish sandwich and could only see the back of their heads, but found something familiar in the Hispanic. He couldn’t put his finger on it, though, and he asked the waiter for a newspaper, anything he could read, and the waiter came back with the San Francisco Chronicle sports section. The A’s had lost again, Giants had won 10-3, and the men at the bar ordered another round. He heard one order vodka and lime and read how the Giants got their runs as he watched. He was certain they were eyeing the estuary, watching the boats through the big windows, while keeping an eye on him, and on everyone else in the room. His phone vibrated and Marquez spoke quietly, leaning over, back turned.

“Number three is in the Barnes and Noble browsing books. Are you sure he connects?” Alvarez asked.

“No, he may have just been talking. It may have been a chance encounter.”

“Do I stick with him?”

“At least until these two move.”

The men downed their drinks, put money on the bar and stood, giving Marquez a clean look at their profiles. They went out the door, and when he was outside, Marquez hit speed dial for the Marlin, got Hansen, and laid out what he thought would happen next. The pair moved toward a boat that was slowing to dock. He read the CF numbers off to Hansen and heard him call them to one of the Marlin crew. A few minutes later the men boarded the boat and Marquez watched it pull away, while Alvarez crossed back to the bookstore to check on the browser.

“It’s going to depend which way they turn,” Hansen said, “but if it’s a fast boat we might have a problem, if they kick it up when they clear the estuary. Who are they?”

“We think they link to the buyer we’re looking for.”

The next call was Alvarez saying the browser had left the bookstore and he didn’t know which direction he’d gone. Marquez scanned the crowd up toward the Boatel and out on the plaza.

“Check the garage,” he said.

“Already on my way there, Lieutenant.”

Marquez took a call from dispatch. They’d run the numbers on the boat and it had come back as a rental from a marina up in Stockton, which made sense. It had an offshore design, yet looked decked out as a river boat. He relayed the information to Hansen.

“Bad news,” Hansen said. “He must have hit the bay and got around the islands before we came up from the south and that means he’s clicking along. I can run the docks and sweep toward Richmond but he’s not in sight on the bay. We’re scheduled to check the San Rafael Bridge anyway, so it’s no problem. But if I were you I’d beat him back to the marina in Stockton, or get a uniform over there.”

Marquez hung up with Hansen. Alvarez reported that he’d located their browser again, but that the car was gone from the garage. Someone had picked it up and they’d missed it. The browser had bought himself an ice cream cone and Marquez knew they’d been burned. Good chance the browser was a decoy and they missed the whole dance step. He made a decision now and gave Alvarez the address of the Stockton marina.

“Call you when I get there,” Alvarez said. “What are you going to do?”

“Talk to Li.”

“You’re going to knock on the door?”

“I think we have to.”

Half an hour later he was asking for Tran Li and showing his badge at the front door to an older woman. Li turned the corner of the hallway and came into view and Marquez had the feeling he’d anticipated the visit. He wore slippers and shuffled on the old oak floor. His left arm was in a sling and he looked as though he’d aged years in the night. His eyes looked through Marquez, then showed recognition and he said something to the woman in Viet-namese. As she moved away from the door Li motioned him in. He led Marquez to the door off his kitchen that led to the garage and his hand scraped over a light switch. He opened the old freezer and gestured at the abalone, but still hadn’t said anything.

“I’m very sorry,” Marquez said. “I can’t think of anything harder.”

“This is what I take.” He slowly pointed at the contents.

“You had two visitors earlier who weren’t part of your family and I need to ask you about them.”

“This abalone for a friend’s wedding.”

After Li had lost the abalone case three years ago Marquez had made the point of calling him up and going to lunch with him. He’d wanted to try to cut through the cultural gap and communi-cate what the state was trying to do, because he’d seen the shame on Li’s face as the judge had told him he was guilty of robbing the people of California. He’d realized that Li hadn’t really understood what the judge meant. He knew also with the boy’s death they weren’t going to push the charges against him, but neither would they let him go. He was their link. Marquez had been on the phone to both Keeler and the Mendocino DA’s office this morning, trying to get permission to negotiate with Li. He’d work hard on Li to get him to reveal his buyer. Li had to come across.

Marquez reached into the freezer, moved abalone around and did a rough count. He cut a finger on a shell and pressed the cut against ice, watched the blood dilute in water and felt uncomfortable. The timing was wrong, the moment wrong, though fifteen years ago he knew he would have barged in here, badged and busted him. His perspective had changed, although the urgency had only increased. A faction of the public had grown weary of trying to save species, of competing with animals for space and the right to make a living. Fishermen were baffled by overlapping regulations and laws that inadequately struggled to juggle competing interests. He thought of the divers they’d busted whose tag line was the same; leaving the courthouse steps they’d toss a last jibe, make the com-ment there was more than enough abalone and the Gamers drove trucks, didn’t dive, didn’t know. Even beyond the mask of grief it was in Li’s eyes that he still didn’t see a crime in taking the abalone.