Kirk Russell - Shell Games

“Be careful.”

“Are you going to coach me in my last month?”

“I guess not. Let me know what you find out.”

He ate dinner with Katherine and Maria and though the con-versation was friendly the evening felt charged with tension. After dinner, Katherine walked him to his truck, and got in on the pas-senger side to talk. Maria had met alone with the doctor, who’d in turn talked with Katherine afterwards, telling her that Maria was definitely anorexic. She’d set targets with Maria and would see her again in two weeks. She’d also advised that Katherine avoid any more confrontations, because Maria had told the doctor that her mom was making it harder to get things in control.

Maria had eaten an adequately portioned meal tonight, then withdrawn to her room and homework and the music she downloaded off her computer, and the friends she kept in constant e-mail contact with. Katherine was quiet in a way he’d seen only a few times before. Something else had been said to her that he suspected had both hurt and surprised her.

“I suppose I’m a failure as a parent,” she said. “Her father left when she was two and a half and maybe she never really got over that. So often things go all the way back.”

“I wouldn’t make excuses for Maria and you’ve been doing the right thing calling her on how she’s eating. Her doctor has got it wrong.”

“The doctor says it’s healthier to work from goal to goal.”

“You’ve been doing the right thing.”

“You don’t make a very good cheerleader, John, so knock it off.” She paused a moment. “Maria told the doctor that you and I are divorcing. Have you said anything like that to her?”

“Never.”

“I feel pretty disillusioned and I know I’ve said some things to her, but I’ve never said that.”

“Maybe she needs us to reach resolution one way or the other.”

“I know, and I’ve been going to a therapist, and when she asks me what do I really want I can’t tell her. I don’t really know. I’m sorry if that’s hurtful.”

“It’s what it is,” he said, though it stung him. “Better that you say what you feel.”

“I guess I’m still really angry, but I can’t talk about that tonight. I’m too worried about Maria.”

Marquez walked back in to say goodnight to Maria, and told her what he’d told her when he and Katherine had separated. No matter what, he was there for her. He told her he wanted to help her get through this. He talked with Katherine a while after, and left the house wondering why they couldn’t get their marriage together, why he was driving away. “What are the issues?” his sister had asked, when he’d tried to talk to her about the problems. There was the issue of Katherine believing he put his work ahead of the marriage. People that love each other get around work issues, his sister had responded. “You’re not the first person to be on the road a lot of the time. It’s ordinary. Your problem is somewhere else. You must make her feel second best. Maybe you diminish her.” He drove home and thought about it on and off through the night. It was as though Katherine wanted the distance right now. She wanted him to change jobs, transfer out of the SOU and being constantly on the road, but she wasn’t going to tell him directly. He put on music, an old Doors tape, turned the lights off, sat on the couch with the slider open, and then slept there, unable to move to the bedroom.

The next morning Alvarez was hosing the sidewalk in front of Billy Mauro’s Fresh Seafood when a white refrigerated van with two men in it drove up. Marquez watched through binoculars. The truck slowed as it hit the bump before entering the building. He got a good look at the men inside, inwardly turning the surgery-altered face of one into a much younger Eduardo Molina. Hard eyes raked over Alvarez who’d turned away with his hose.

The van backed up to the loading dock and Alvarez moved back inside, took up his new job of cleaning fish. He activated the hidden video camera and taped the men getting out of the truck, watched them go into Mauro’s office and shut the door. Marquez adjusted his earphones to hear Molina and Mauro talking. Molina wanted the van emptied now, but pressed Mauro to send one of his own vans to pick up a load of abalone coming into Pier 45 in San Francisco.

“I don’t know,” Mauro said. “I don’t want to do that.”

Molina continued as if he hadn’t heard Mauro. His voice was low and very controlled, his English almost without accent.

“They’ll look for your truck before they dock,” Molina said. “So you park where they see you easily.”

“I don’t even know if I can get in there at that hour.”

“If they don’t see a truck they’ll turn around and that’s no good.”

“What if Fish and Game is there? I never agreed to do any-thing like this.”

“We’re going to take care of them. You don’t need to worry about them.” Marquez heard a chair slide. “At three,” Molina said, and Marquez slipped off the earphones and dialed the number Douglas had given him.

“We’ve got Molina in Oakland,” he said, as Douglas answered.

“Let him go. Under no circumstances go near him.” Marquez didn’t respond, watched the white panel truck bounce off the curb and start down the street. “Do not follow him.” The panel truck turned the corner. “Are you hearing me?”

“We’re going to have to sit down.”

“Marquez, you’ve got to let him go.”

“He’s gone.”

“That’s what has to happen.” He exhaled. “Okay, let’s meet right now.”

He met Douglas in China Basin and they drove to a restaurant across from the ballpark. The Giants were on the road and it was easy to get a table where they could talk. Marquez ordered a turkey sandwich and coffee, his mind on Molina and the second man pulling away in the van.

“How’d you come up with Billy Mauro?” Douglas asked.

“We got his name from an abalone diver we busted, a Vietnamese immigrant named Tran Li who was delivering his catch there because that’s what he was told to do. Kline is using Mauro to distribute and that probably means he’s using other distributors, as well. Mauro runs their abalone through his plant and packages it in boxes from a Mexican shellfish broker he’s got legitimate import papers for. There’s an old problem where papers get reused over and over.”

“Is this the Vietnamese diver who lost his kid up near Fort Bragg?” Douglas asked, and Marquez nodded. Douglas pointed a finger, said, “He’s working for you.”

“No, he’s out, and the family has moved to Boulder to live with his wife’s sister. He came back to tell us because he’s haunted by the death of his son.”

“Guilt?”

“And grief.”

“We’re pulling Bill Mauro in today. And those photos you e-mailed me are the real thing.”

“The photos were all of Peter Han.” Douglas nodded faintly in agreement. “Does that mean anything to you?” Marquez asked.

“Let’s stay on Mauro. We’ll bring him in and I’m going to have to ask you to back away from him until we know more.”

“You’ve got a way of killing my appetite.”

“Hear me out first.” Douglas rubbed his forehead and leaned forward, elbows heavy on the table. “The problem is getting worse. Our informant, the one on the Emily Jane, the one you were after, had a gun stuck in his mouth last night by Molina. Molina told him to lose himself or die. He said they’d run him thirty miles off the coast and throw him in the water if they saw him again. He called me from Las Vegas this morning. He’s out and he was our pipeline. I need every source you have, John. If Davies is talking secretly to you, I need to know.”