Kirk Russell - Shell Games

“Has the FBI taken over the cases?” Marquez asked.

“It’s a joint investigation. What’s it to you?”

“They stepped in on one of our busts.” Marquez had made the decision to try to talk to Ruter. He figured they could help each other. “They had an informant on the boat we’re after and I get the feeling from talking to them that it ties to Guyanno Creek. Have you asked them about Eugene Kline?”

“Yes.”

“And what did you get back?”

“Nothing, so far.”

“Ask again.”

“Thanks for the advice, Marquez, but I get enough already. I’ve got to go.”

He had a conversation with Chief Keeler after hanging up with Ruter, Keeler telling him he was invited to lunch with Chief Baird and the director of Fish and Game, Jay Buehler, and he needed to be in Sacramento at 12:30 and not be late. He took a call from Petersen as soon as he hung up with the chief.

“Girlfriend is on the move,” Petersen said, and her voice was lighter now. “She went to Starbucks and now she’s at a laundromat. She could wash all her shirts in half a load, but we also made a stop at Rite Aid for quarters, soap, and face cream. I think we’re spinning our wheels following her.”

“Let’s go a day with her.”

“If she orders a hamburger for lunch should we take her down?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on, John, that was funny.”

“I’ve got more on Heinemann. He was busted on campus at San Diego State four years ago for peddling dope. He’d been masquerading as a student but wasn’t enrolled. He got away with a suspended sentence and a fine, but that puts him in San Diego while Bailey was still living there, and I’m wondering if those two go back a little further than Meghan Burris thinks. No way is he really enrolled at UC Santa Cruz as she seems to think. Why don’t you check that today?”

“Sure, it’ll give us something to do while she’s getting her astrology charts read.”

Marquez crossed the bay. The paint on his black Nissan pickup had faded to gray in places and the seat cupped around his back in a way that was always a little too tight, but he liked its reliability and unassuming lines. It was old and didn’t stand out. Park it in a beach lot and no one noticed it. He parked on Webster Street in Oakland, three blocks from Li’s shop and threaded through the morning sidewalk crowd. Next door to Li’s place was a large Asian market with a steady traffic of early shoppers this morning, but Li’s shop was empty. Li sold herbs and various other incidentals, things he bought in bulk from liquidators, or odd items like dispos-able cameras past their expiration dates, a mix of stuff he gathered and then moved out again at a slight profit. As Marquez had guessed he would be, Li was in his shop. He could see him at the rear though the door was still locked.

Li wore a black silk shirt and the hospital sling for his collar-bone had been replaced by a red scarf. Marquez watched him through the glass as he shuffled forward. He had to be hurting terribly inside, but they needed to talk today, and it was the con-versation they’d had three years ago after the Santa Rosa trial that Marquez was relying on now. They’d sat at a booth in a chain restaurant and Li had painted, in fragmented sentences, images of the Vietnam War, telling how the Cong officer had executed his parents, how his family came from China originally and how the Vietnamese on either side didn’t like Chinese immigrants. He’d been conscripted and escaped and described watching American fighter jets low and dark overhead, the screaming noise they made as they came in off the water. He knocked over a glass in the restaurant as he told of the bombing of Hue, the decayed pale blue plaster of his father’s high-walled office falling, and American soldiers, one with a face and hair like yours, he’d said. He made it out with the boat people, married in a refugee camp and waited his turn to come to America.

Li stood a moment looking at him, then opened the door. He looked down at the worn wood floor of the shop, gesturing for Mar-quez to come in, waiting for him to pass by, letting Marquez lead the way to the rear office because he was a police official. Marquez knew that Li had given his sons American names to protect them. He remembered Li saying that, describing the birth of his older son, Joe, born an American in an American hospital, and how he was raising his sons American and the things he was buying. “I buy computer games, CD burner, stereo TV,” as though these things were talismans that would protect the boys. They dressed like the American kids they were and spoke English with their friends, wore high-topped tennis shoes. He’d talked about them going to college and his own business expanding, and temporarily left the abalone problem in the courthouse. It had been Marquez’s impres-sion that it was through his sons that Li felt connected to this country and something of that had to be gone now.

They sat at the table, what served as his office behind the counter, the cash register at the very rear of the long rectangular space. The walls were high and old, white paint fading toward yel-low, cigarette smell permeating the air.

“I can’t tell you more,” Li said. “I go to prison, okay. You arrest me, okay. I understand.”

Marquez showed him the photos they’d had made of the two men who’d visited Li. “These are the men that came to see you.” Li shook his head. “That came to your house.”

“I don’t know those men.”

“We videotaped them and had these prints made. Have you sold them abalone?” Li shook his head but Marquez felt an energy building inside. He didn’t want to violate Li’s grief, but he had to know, had to sway Li over onto their side. There was no one else, no other real lead left. “These guys came to threaten you and now we’re going to give it back to them. We’re going to threaten them, but we have to know how to find them.”

He watched Li’s eyes, knew this was the moment he’d go one way or the other. “Phone only good one time only. They change all the time.”

“Show me the number.”

Li got a piece of paper from a drawer.

“Let’s try it anyway,” Marquez said. “If they answer, tell them you have five hundred abalone you hid in a friend’s freezer and you need to sell before we find it. You can tell them we’ve been here several times and we’re threatening you. You need the money. You’ll sell cheaper, okay? These buyers will be suspicious, but they’re here to get abalone and they may try to work out a way to do a deal. So we’re going to give it a go. I’m going to punch in your phone num-ber and we’ll see if they call you back, okay? Can you do that?”

“They say they will kill my other son if I tell you.”

His eyes were dark, shining with sadness, liquid, not under-standing how he could be asked to risk that. He shook his head, made as though he was going to rise and leave the table.

“We won’t let them kill Joe and we’ll help with the move to Colorado.”

Li had told him about the move, that it was all set and Marquez’s idea was that Joe and Mrs. Li leave early, even if it was for an extended visit and he had to help Li make the rest of the arrange-ments himself. He wondered if Keeler would go through the roof, but he didn’t see another way to keep it moving here. It was a route, a way to do it, and Li could plea-bargain out by cooperating. His gut turned asking Li to risk another son, but he was confident that if they got the boy and his mother out of town today they’d be safe. He started calling the number on the piece of paper, watching Li as he did.

Maybe you pay for all cruelty somewhere. It should be that way, but he didn’t know what else to do with Li other than to force him to help.