Kirk Russell - Shell Games

“Well, his lawyer does, and the lawyer was in touch with the department this morning. He’s threatening a lawsuit and claiming he’ll go to the media. He wants Bailey’s boat back and the rest of the money he says we owe him. He’s got some balls on him. His story is Bailey ran to save himself from being shot and didn’t think there would be any issue with that because he’s on our side and working for us.”

“Where did he go when he ran?”

“Oh, he wouldn’t tell me. He had to talk to the director of Fish and Game, and then he was very coy.” Buehler looked at Keeler from under his eyebrows. “As near as I can tell we have to give him back his boat.”

“I pulled a gun off the Condor that DOJ is looking at, right now,” Marquez said. “Maybe that’ll buy us time or a way to hold him when he surfaces.”

“That’s what your chief told me, but you see the problem we’ve got if we hold his boat.”

“Sure.”

“We’re going to cut a deal with this lawyer.”

“You don’t mean pay him?”

“Bailey was in our employ and we’re not charging him with anything. We don’t want the lawyer going to the media. No, of course, we don’t need to roll over but we can’t hold his boat indefinitely and maybe it makes sense to give it back. See where he takes us. We can stall but only so far.”

Marquez thought it over, didn’t say anything.

“Let’s talk about why you’re here,” Buehler said, and Marquez knew the prelude was over. Despite the conditioned air he felt sweat prickle on his spine. He didn’t want the FBI’s heavy hand over him. Before they knew it they’d be getting three sets of papers stamped just so they could set up surveillance in a harbor. “We’ve had very direct inquiries from the FBI that we believe you should know about. They’ve asked for and we’ve provided the names of the members of the SOU.”

“You’re kidding, sir.”

“I’m not. We also got asked for information through the DFG liaison to the California antiterrorism unit here in Sacto even though nothing in this has anything to do with terrorism.” Marquez knew that by nightfall the FBI would have photos and be building a file on the team. He picked at the food, no longer hungry and very sur-prised the Feds had been given that information. No doubt the line was that they needed to know for the safety of Marquez’s team, in case there was another overlap, but his gut said the truth lay some-where else. He watched Buehler drink a full glass of water, diluting the scotch, and was glad it was Buehler, not him. Marquez didn’t miss walking out into hot afternoon sunlight and needing to take a nap to metabolize alcohol. But he was roaming a different country of the mind now, in many ways a worse one, about Katherine. He focused on the table again. This FBI request only reaffirmed his certainty about Kline’s presence. The waiter returned and they ordered coffees after the dishes were cleared, both Buehler and himself ordering double espressos, the chief ordering black coffee. “How old are you, Lieutenant?” Buehler asked.

“Forty-six.”

“I’m ten years older than you and I was too young for it, but what I’m leading to are the similarities between this post 9/11 gear-up and the way the FBI responded to the Cold War communist threat in the fifties. They spent a lot of money and threw a lot of agents at the problem and our enemies just adapted. They’re in the process of making the very same mistakes. Their real problem is their ability to get inside these organizations; it always has been. Now, I don’t know what they’ve got going with this individual they say they’re trying to apprehend, but I do know they hold the power right now. Trying to fight the Feds this year is like wading up a fast, cold river. We’d only get so far. They have their good years and their bad ones, and right now everything is running their way.”

When no one said anything Buehler folded the credit card receipt and stood up. “Let’s go, gentlemen.” They stepped outside and Buehler clapped Marquez on the back, telling him not to worry about the FBI getting their names. “If we can’t trust them, we’ve lost anyway.” Marquez watched him get in a black Mercedes convertible and wave as he drove off. He turned to Keeler.

“You were quiet, Ed.”

“I didn’t want to do anything that would interfere with him hearing himself.”

Marquez smiled. “What’s your take on the Feds?”

“They do have something they’re afraid you’re going to inter-fere with and they plan to keep track of your whereabouts. If they had their way your team would be wearing mountain lion collars.”

“They’re protecting poachers.”

“I won’t argue with that, but don’t start preaching at me. Buehler’s correct, we’re not going to fight them and win.”

Twenty minutes later, Sacramento was a skyline behind Mar-quez and in his rearview mirror the windows of the taller build-ings reflected orange and red in the late sun. He crossed the causeway and rode through Davis in a stream of cars running fifteen miles an hour over the speed limit and still jockeying with each other for better position. He called Katherine. Maria answered, giggling, her teenage voice carrying relief at having her mom home, setting aside her war with her for a few hours. She put Katherine on.

“I’m on my way in,” he said.

“I’ll handle it alone, John.” Her voice got quieter. “Maria and I are going to dinner together.”

“You’re sure? I’m only an hour away. I’ve got something hap-pening tonight, but not until later. Or tell me what restaurant and I’ll come there.”

Kath was silent, keeping her distance, still upset over this morning, then saying she had to get off the phone as though talking to a business acquaintance. A profound sadness welled up from deep in him after he’d hung up, and he drove without taking any calls, letting the phone ring through to voice mail until he was coming through the dry hills above Vallejo and could see the bay in the distance, a milky haze above it, the sky red behind. He thought about the fragility of the connection now with Katherine, how the smallest thing said could trigger all the anger and an immediate turning away. She’d flown home and driven to find him and he’d failed her the next morning.

He listened to his messages, gassed the truck, and got back on the freeway. He talked with Shauf, Petersen, and Alvarez, and when he got into Marin he was still on his cell phone, finalizing how they’d track Li tonight, using all the team, bringing Roberts back down from Bragg, and still it wasn’t enough wardens if the other side was smart. He drove through Marin and checked for Katherine and Maria at the Indian restaurant that was one of Maria’s favorites, but didn’t see them and didn’t know what he would have done if he had. He bought a burrito and coffee and ate as he crossed the bay again and hooked up with the team in Oakland.

Two lights were on in Li’s house, both downstairs. At 10:20 the garage door opened and Marquez rang through to the hands-free setup they’d installed in Li’s truck. Li took three or four rings to answer and his voice was nervous and high-pitched.

“They call already.”

“We’re right with you. Leave this phone open now like we talked about.”

“Yes, I know.”

Marquez brought the SOU up behind and ahead of Li now. They floated him in a bubble and he listened to Li answer the phone with his own heart thumping hard at the poacher’s voice, the clipped instructions to Li, the racial condescension as the man asked Li, did he understand. Li went east on I-80 and exited into Emeryville, crossing under the freeway and running up the frontage road on the bay side and then making a U-turn as the frontage road passed the base of Berkeley. In the darkness away from any street-light and out along the road to the Berkeley Marina he eased to the shoulder and parked. It could go down right here, Marquez knew, a car pulling up behind Li, a casual transfer of coolers. No big deal, a little business, nothing more than that and over in seconds.