Kirk Russell - Shell Games

He ran out Chestnut and started toward the bridge again. He passed cars, bumped well over the 45 mph limit and went wide of the toll booths, then stayed in the right lane crossing the bridge. On the other side, he exited into Sausalito, down through hills dry with the fall and drove along the water. Halfway through town he picked up the Vic behind him. He phoned Petersen.

“I think I’ve got someone following,” and described the car to her, two occupants, one male, one female. He named a shopping center in Corte Madera and a trick they’d used before, and as he came through Sausalito and got on 101 again he drove north to Corte Madera.

He parked in the wide lot, talked to Petersen, gave her his loca-tion and told her he was going in for a coffee to go from Il Fornaio. Then from inside the restaurant he saw them turn into the lot. Two older women in front of him were slow ordering as they kept talking about a book called The Smoke they’d each just bought copies of. They’d heard the author read somewhere and kept talking about him while the guy waiting to take their order was standing around. Marquez was close to walking out, unable to wait much longer. He needed to make sure Petersen had seen the car turn in, but couldn’t call from inside. Finally the women ordered. He got a large black coffee and called Petersen as he walked out.

“I’ve got you and them,” she said.

“They just picked up on me.”

“Yeah, I’m rolling toward them.”

He got to his truck about the time Petersen blocked them from backing out of their parking slot. He pulled up behind her as the driver of the Vic was already honking for her to move. Petersen got out as Marquez got out and the passenger door opened on the Crown Vic. Both occupants were young, clean-cut, and fit, the woman’s black bangs like a crow’s wing, her sharp dark eyes locked on his face. The male had sideburns that ended well up his ears and hair cut like a golf course green. His clothes had the look and he opened his door, leaned around and jabbed a finger in Marquez’s direction.

“Hey, buddy, we’re trying to back up.”

“You just got here. Why don’t we talk first?”

“Move your vehicle, please. We’re late.”

He shut the passenger door and after a few seconds the woman in the driver’s seat honked again, but she wouldn’t make eye contact when Marquez walked up along her side. She wouldn’t look up. She already knew they’d blown it and Marquez flipped his badge and then pulled out his phone. He watched the agents as the number rang through.

“Douglas here.”

“Marquez.”

“What can I do for you today, John?”

“I’ve got two of your finest trapped alongside a curb in Marin.”

“Put one of them on. Put Harkin on.”

Marquez looked at the agent getting out of the car, his face reddening with anger. “Harkin will call you back on his phone because we’re taking off, but maybe you want to explain?”

“Why don’t you come here for that?”

Marquez hung up and looked at Agent Harkin. “Call home. Your dad is pissed off.”

“What if I can’t get ahold of them?” Heinemann asked. “What if they won’t deal with me anymore? What if I call the number and no one answers?”

“You go find Bailey and tell him you’re back. If you can get Bailey to talk to you, we have something.”

“Basically, you want me to try to burn Jimmy.”

“Basically, what we want is to get to the people buying the abalone. Let me make an analogy to the heroin trade.”

“Come on, man, give me a break, ab ain’t heroin.”

“Bailey is like a poppy grower to us. We’re after the real traf-fickers, the people who move the product. But, yeah, you’d be in a courtroom testifying against Bailey.”

“I wouldn’t be any good in a courtroom.”

“We talked about this yesterday. If you’re getting cold feet, say so. If you want to think about it more, that’s fine. I can get some-one to walk you back to your cell.”

But he didn’t seem to need to and late in the afternoon they watched him drive away from Richmond in Meghan Burris’s Datsun pickup. A GPS transponder had been magnetically attached to the engine block and tied off to the alternator so it wouldn’t drop loose on a rough road. Another was buried in the cab. Security people at PacBell would monitor the pin registry of Heinemann’s cell phone, allowing them to identify the phone number of anyone he talked to. The cab was wired for sound so they could listen to phone conversations.

Heinemann made the first phone call now. It was sooner than they’d asked him to, his nervousness obvious in a break in his voice, and Marquez worried about that. He’d watched Heinemann closely as they’d handed him the keys to his truck, had watched him cross the parking lot, all confidence gone from his face. The worn engine of the Datsun pickup had coughed blue smoke and Heine-mann had the phone in his hand before he’d reached the highway.

Now, he was on the Bay Bridge, moving slowly in traffic. He’d turned on his radio to some station called Alice that Marquez rec-ognized because Maria listened to it. He’d changed channels, then turned the radio off again and Marquez talked to him now.

“You doing okay?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I know how it feels to be waiting for the call back.”

“Yeah.” Heinemann was quiet and then asked, “Should I call Jimmy now?”

“If you’re ready, but you want to be yourself.”

“I’m not nervous, at all.”

“Remember, if it doesn’t feel right we can back out.”

Heinemann made the call to Bailey. They had a mike clipped to Heinemann’s collar so they could hear the conversation, could hear Heinemann’s breathing. Bailey faked concern that he’d been in jail, saying, “Dude, those assholes were at my house. I know what it’s like. You didn’t say anything to them, did you?”

“Fuck, no.”

“You gotta hang.”

“No problem. Hey, have you seen Meghan around the dock? I’m heading home, I’m done with this shit. You got me in way out of my league, man.”

“Haven’t seen her, but I’ve been like laying low except for the Fish and Game pricks kicking my door in.”

The team drove ahead and behind Heinemann’s pickup. A lap-top was set up on Marquez’s passenger seat, its antenna picking up a satellite signal. They didn’t have the real-time capabilities of the CIA or FBI, but as long as Heinemann worked with them they’d be able to keep track of the Datsun. Marquez listened to the next phone call as Heinemann drove past Candlestick on 101.

“You made bail,” a male voice said.

“Yeah, I had to put up my boat.”

“What did they charge you with?”

“Stealing a boat, commercial trafficking in animal parts, a whole bunch of shit. I get arraigned in a couple of days. I didn’t give them anything. It was fucking hard to get out and my attorney says I might have to plea-bargain.”

Marquez shook his head. That wasn’t the line they’d fed him and he shouldn’t have said anything about a plea bargain, and yet, it was ordinary enough.

The man on the other end grunted. “What’s this lawyer’s name?”

Heinemann tripped up now, getting confused, giving one name, then pulling it back and saying the lawyer was named Grimwald.

“Grimworld?”

“No, like John Griswold.” Heinemann spelled it out and it was the wrong name, didn’t match the card they’d given him.

“Your girlfriend is with us and we’re going to meet you on your way home. You give me your lawyer’s card when I see you.”

“What do you mean Meghan is with you? She has nothing to do with any of this.”

“It’s just how it worked out tonight and she’s like us, she wants to see you.”