Kirk Russell - Shell Games

Before first light the next morning he headed down Highway 1 with Petersen. They bought coffee at the Chevron station in Fort Bragg and she was lighthearted and easy as though talking last night had lifted a weight from her. When they took the Guyanno Canyon cutoff the sky was streaked pink with dawn, the road empty and pale in the early light. A new lock secured the chain across the entrance. They stepped over it and over crime tape that had either been taken down or had fallen in the night. He walked up the creek trail with her and his chest tightened as they walked out the trampled grass across the clearing to the oak tree. He had to say something about what he was feeling, to Petersen, at least.

“This is going to sound hard to believe, but I’ve seen killings like this before, a lot like this, so much it’s kicking up memories.”

“Where?”

“In Mexico in the ‘80s when I was undercover with the DEA.”

“What do we do with that?”

“Nothing, right now.”

“But you’re telling me for a reason.”

“The man behind those killings was named Eugene Kline, a contract killer working for the cartels. As far as I know, he’s still operating and he used to run dope from Humboldt County up here.”

“He’s a dope smuggler, too?”

“He had an organization of his own. I’ve got some stuff at home I’ll show you.”

They drove back to Fort Bragg and into town, stopping at the convenience store first, asking for the clerk Davies had named as Stocker’s doper friend. He got a blank face from the woman behind the counter until they pressed her, then made it clear they’d keep coming back. At the surf shop, the owner and his friend standing near him had heard that Ray Stocker and Peter Han had been chained to a tree and gut slit. Marquez identified himself as Fish and Game and asked what they knew about Stocker diving. They didn’t know anything. They thought he dove occasionally. Or maybe he didn’t dive at all anymore. They weren’t sure. If he did dive, he might poach a little ab, but he didn’t surf anymore and looking at each other, passing some signal about law enforcement, they remembered he’d given up diving and weren’t sure about him selling dope. Did they know what he did for a living? No, because they didn’t hang with him. In fact, they hardly knew him, but if there was any possible way they could help they’d like to because they were pro-environment.

After the surf shop they split up and worked the town. Marquez walked into the bar, Hadrian’s, where Davies had fought with Stocker. The bartender was a heavy-bellied bald man missing two fingers on his left hand who wanted to see ID before he’d say any-thing. Marquez flashed his badge, pocketed it.

“Sure, I knew Ray Stocker. I didn’t know his friend, but Stocker practically lived here. He drank and smoked every dime he made.”

“Were you working the night he fought with Mark Davies?”

“I called the police when Davies went nuts.” He added, “It’s mostly losers that come in here.”

“Is Davies a loser?”

“What’s he doing with his life?”

What are you doing with yours, Marquez wondered. He looked around the dingy room, a couple of salmon lacquered on planks on the walls.

“There are hundreds of abalone shells up at the Guyanno Creek campsite,” Marquez said, watching the bartender’s eyes. “We’re trying to figure out what boat Stocker was working off of.”

“I’d like to get those shells. My girlfriend makes jewelry.”

“See what you can do for me and I’ll see if I can get her some shells. Call the number on the back of the card.”

Marquez hooked up with Petersen again and they checked Noyo Harbor, walked the dock, and met with the harbormaster, who told them the Coney Island had pulled out early that morning. He’d heard that Stocker and Huega had both been staying down at Albion River Campground.

They dropped down the road to the campground and looked at the campers of the more permanent residents, an American flag flying from one, the river bridge holding the highway with its gal-vanized steel and concrete supports towering overhead. Scanning the field Marquez saw few temporary campers. He checked with the office and the young woman told him Danny Huega had stayed there until yesterday. She didn’t know where he’d gone and didn’t know who Ray Stocker was. As Marquez left the office he saw Ruter’s sedan dropping down from the highway.

“Called you twice this morning,” Ruter said.

“I haven’t had a chance to call you back yet.”

“Busy morning checking fishing licenses?”

“Something like that.”

Both detectives got out. Streatfield engaged Petersen, saying “I understand you’ve got a poaching problem along the coast.” Marquez heard Petersen take him up on it, and Ruter motioned him to walk over and talk privately.

“I’ve got that report I was going to fax you.”

Marquez took the copy of the police report and leaned back against the detectives’ hood. There were statements from Davies and Stocker and several from witnesses. He read a statement from a woman.

“My husband and I were at the bar seated three stools down from the man who started the fight. One minute he was sitting there and then he kind of jumped up and went straight over to a table where there were I think four men. He flipped the table over and hit one of them in the throat. I was watching because of the way he got up from the bar. It was very weird. I thought it was some kind of martial art or something the way he jabbed at his throat. Then he hit him in the eye with the leg of a chair. It was very fast and one of the other men tried to stop him and he started attacking that man. It was so out of control it was scary, but I couldn’t tell what was happening after that because my view got blocked. We just wanted to get out of there.”

“That’s your friend,” Ruter said.

Marquez glanced at the detective’s eyes, saw his pleasure in the reaction he’d gotten. Then he read the rest of the report.

“Does that sound like the man you know? Davies was sitting at the bar talking to someone about the Middle East. There’s a statement from that man, too,” Ruter said.

“I just read it.”

“He might have killed Stocker that night if he’d been allowed to.” Ruter paused. “This morning, when he came down to meet us we put him in an interview box and he talked for an hour just as calm as could be. He didn’t have a problem with anything, said he understood we had to do our jobs and agreed it didn’t look good, and by the way he said he was sorry he involved you. Then he wanted a bathroom break, but instead of going down to the bath-room he hauled ass out of there. That blue Econoline is parked down at Noyo. Must have driven there and got on his boat. Not charged with anything, but he’s the hell out of Dodge. What do you think about that? Where’s he headed, Marquez?”

“As far from you as he can get.”

“You haven’t talked to him?”

“No.”

“We need some of your time this morning.”

“Let’s get a cup of coffee and talk.”

“Not here. We’d like you to come in to the sheriff’s office. If you want, your warden can take your truck and you can ride with us and we’ll drop you afterwards.”

“We’ll follow you.”

“Your partner could be sitting around for a while.”

“Why are you doing this, Ruter?”

“Because like your friend, you’re not telling me everything you know and I’m going to be with you until you do.” Ruter smiled. “Does that make it clear enough?”

“There was something you wanted to find before we got there,” Ruter repeated.

Marquez was past being angry. He was over it. He’d brought most of the problem on himself anyway. He glanced at Ruter scratch-ing his nose, then at the door swinging open, Ruter’s partner coming back in carrying three coffees in small Styrofoam cups, dropping one on the floor and swearing as it splattered across the wall. Neither Ruter nor Marquez watched him clean it up.