Kirk Russell - Shell Games

“How many trips? Write down where you dove.” Marquez handed him a notepad, watched him write, saw he was writing actual coordinates. He picked up the word Albion, saw Salt Point and couldn’t read the other two yet. He had Heinemann say aloud where they’d dove. Shauf had left the room; now she came back in and they formalized the written confession. Four trips out with Bailey and transfers like Sausalito. This gave them probable cause on Bailey and Shauf went to work on the warrant. They’d bypass the DA’s office in San Mateo County and go directly to Judge May-nard. Maynard was sympathetic to what they were trying to do and had once told Marquez that he was cleared to fax a warrant request anytime.

Marquez continued with Heinemann. They went back to August thirty-first, what had happened that day, and Heinemann’s tone changed as he recounted how it had gone.

A man had come down to Bailey’s boat just before dusk. There was no one else around and he’d seen him come down the ramp. He got on the boat and he obviously knew Bailey, put a hand on Bailey’s back. Meghan had gone for more potato chips and they were drinking beer with him when she came back. The dude’s name was Carlo.

Marquez copied a description, asked questions they could turn into an artist’s rendering, told Heinemann he’d have to agree to sit with an artist, but knew already it was the Hispanic in the Oakland video. They’d get a photo made from the video, get a package of photos together for Heinemann to pick this Carlo out. In his mind’s eye he saw the man getting on board, saying hello to Bailey, his fingers coming to rest lightly low on Bailey’s back, fingertips brush-ing Bailey’s spine, palm flat on the muscle as he told Heinemann since he was new to this he was going to get to meet the boss.

“So Bailey already knew this man?”

“Yeah.”

“Did he ever say where he’d met him?”

“Not really.”

“San Diego?”

“Man, how come you’ve got to tie everything together like this?”

“This Carlo led you to the car where the other man was?”

“Yeah, I was alone in there with him in the backseat and he told me not to look at him.”

“So you did anyway.” Heinemann smiled, obviously proud of how smart he was. Marquez knew he’d taken a good look at the man in the car. “Think about his face.”

“His neck,” Heinemann said.

“What about it?”

“A scar like this thin red line across his neck, like he’d been cut.”

“Okay, you got it.”

“You can barely see it.”

“You saw it.”

“That’s the guy?”

Marquez nodded.

“I haven’t seen him since,” Heinemann said.

“Not after Sausalito?”

“I’ve seen nothing but these Mexicans. We’ve been diving at night with light sticks and these guys don’t even speak English.”

“What was the name of the boat?”

“Coronado.”

“And you got on in Eureka?”

“It was really Crescent City.”

He explained how he’d been moved to another boat when the Emily Jane docked in Crescent City. He’d been told there was a full-blown manhunt underway and his only safe route was to get on this other boat. He’d had the feeling they were going to pull guns if he refused, so he’d gone along.

They questioned Heinemann another hour and then returned to how he would contact them when they released him, how the logistics would work tomorrow. They decided he’d call Bailey first and worked out the deal Marquez would present to the DA tomorrow.

“As long as I don’t have to get on a boat with them, I’m cool with it,” Heinemann said. “I’ll do what you want as long as I get to go home, man.”

“You’ve got to dance the dance and we’ll dummy some charges and put that out to the press, theft of the boat, abalone poaching, but we won’t leave you alone with them.”

“How do I know you won’t make the charges real if things get fucked up?”

“You’ve got our word.”

“I want something in writing.”

“Nothing goes in writing until we see how you move out there. We’ll set up your release for tomorrow afternoon and we’ll have your girlfriend’s pickup wired and ready.”

After Heinemann was taken to a cell, Marquez walked out with Shauf. The warrant request had been faxed off, but they wouldn’t hear from Judge Maynard until early morning. The night had changed several things. They had a positive ID on Kline. They had Heinemann moving to where he’d testify against Bailey and they had a tie to the Guyanno divers. He felt like they were close to catching a real break.

Marquez drove home feeling better about their chances than he had in a month. He slept soundly for once and woke with a clear head.

At dawn the sky was scalloped with high clouds that burned and twisted in the winds aloft. He threw out an opened beer that he’d never taken a sip of last night and flipped through the mail, checked for messages from Katherine or Maria, then made coffee and sat outside with the newspapers before getting in his truck.

When he drove down the mountain he was thinking of Heine-mann’s story of imported Mexican divers. They’d heard whispers of something similar last year. Mercenary divers. Travelers. The scarcity was driving prices up. Market poachers were becoming more sophisticated and exploitative. One study he’d read predicted that one-third of all animal life would vanish from earth in the next fifty years as habitat succumbed to the encroaching demands of a swelling humanity.

Alvarez called as Marquez passed the new houses on the south-east flank of the mountain, saying Bailey’s black Suburban was in his driveway and a porch light burning.

“Then we can knock on the door.”

“How far out are you?”

“An hour, but the traffic isn’t bad.”

“It’s always the opposite of the economy. It’s going to get lighter and lighter.”

“I’ll carry that happy thought. See you down there.”

Alvarez was the finder on this search, the designated locator of all evidence. Anyone else who found anything would point to it and wait for Alvarez. He’d also do the initial videotape, prior to the search. That way, only one warden would be required in court later. Alvarez had picked up the Turbo Twin and had it in his truck. If Bailey didn’t answer the door and Marquez felt they needed to they’d take out the lock with the Turbo, which would be Marquez’s job because of his size. He thought over what they knew about Bailey on the ride down, what they’d gotten back from NCIC on the drug charges Bailey did a year of state time for in ‘94.

When he got there Marquez parked at the mouth of the drive-way, blocking the Suburban’s exit. They took positions on either side of the front door and Marquez knocked hard. Ten seconds later he knocked again. When he’d been DEA they’d never let it go this far because with drugs, evidence could be flushing down a toilet in the seconds that were going by, and that was on his mind now, thinking that if they could catch Bailey with drugs, anything, that was a way to hold him in jail. But he’d also decided on the way down that Bailey was capable of more than he’d ever thought and he could be going for a gun. He waited half as long and then knocked again and picked up the Turbo, counted to a slow five and grinned at nothing as he swung it into the lock. He heard part of the lock bounce off the wall on the other side of the room and the door slapped against the wall.

“State game officers, we’re coming in.” He saw Bailey coming down the hallway, hair wet from the shower, a towel wrapped around him. “We’ve got a warrant to search your house, Jimmy.”

“You wrecked my door, motherfucker. I was in the shower, I would have opened it.”