Kirk Russell - Shell Games

“We checked the caves and didn’t find anything there, but up the coast we found a wetsuit, booties, a mask, and gloves. They were in the same area we checked yesterday with the FBI.” Alvarez reached around and leaned into the pickup bed and slid out a large plastic evidence bag. “Nothing says it’s theirs but you’ve got to figure. It’s a wetsuit and gear and maybe you’ll recognize it. Kind of an unusual color.”

Marquez opened the bag and pulled the suit out. It was pale gray, same color as the suit the Irishman had been wearing. There was at least a chance of pulling DNA off the suit, but whether the Irishman was in any database, or whether that would do them any good was another question.

“Nice work. I’ll drop this with the FBI this afternoon.”

“Where are we going to take it from here?”

“We’ll work the list on these boats, harbor to harbor. I’m going to divide the state up between us, but a lot can be done by phone first.”

He carried the dive gear over to his truck and brought copies of the list back. He distributed the list knowing he was the only one who held any real hope that it might matter.

The ocean was gray-green at the horizon, the sky white and smooth overhead when Marquez left the coast. He followed a camper in a long line of traffic, taking two hours to get back up the canyon, past Boonville, and on out to Highway 101. He had a hard time with the slow traffic and sweat started on his forehead. He lowered his window, thinking they’d blown the ransom handoff, botched their best chance. They were running out of time, if they weren’t already out. She couldn’t die. That couldn’t happen. He came around a slow line of cars and edged in front of the leading car. The young woman driving flipped him off as he accelerated away.

At 3:30 he crossed the Golden Gate and fifteen minutes later handed the evidence bag to Douglas, getting no answer of how quickly the Bureau could do anything with it. He listened to an agent recount to Douglas some vague new tip of a terrorist threat, some FBI-speak passing between them on how it was being handled. Always overwhelmed here, he thought. Making decisions based on priority and resource, and with Petersen they had nowhere to look, no current leads.

Marquez followed Douglas into his office and took a chair to read the files he was finally willing to share. Records of boats they’d searched. Their undercover operatives. A blown bust.

“It’s unlikely we’ve missed a boat,” Douglas said, as he handed over a marked list.

“It’s one we’ve already seen. It’ll be right under our noses.”

“Is it? We have forty agents out there looking for Kline. Tomor-row, we’ll have more. If you want to help us, focus on the divers and the things your team knows. Maybe someone will make a mistake there that leads us in, but you’re not set up to board boats. Leave that to us and I’ll let you know on this wetsuit as soon as I know.”

Marquez drove home under the pale orange light ahead of sunset. Inside, he turned on the news, checking to see if anything was running about Petersen, if they were still putting out the infor-mation, but an airliner had gone down on approach to Heathrow with over two hundred aboard, including the U.S. Secretary of the Interior. Already labeled a terrorist event, all news was focused on the crash. He looked at the row of houses the jet had plowed through, listened to what was known so far, and then heated soup Katherine had brought last night and called Billy Mauro at home.

Mauro’s voice was unnaturally bright. “I met with the FBI again today,” Mauro said. “They want me to only talk to them, then they’ll talk to you.”

“Yeah? Have you heard from Bailey?”

“Not from anyone. I have a number for the FBI for you to call.”

“Thanks, Billy, I already have it.”

After hanging up, Marquez drank the soup and took a couple of aspirin. He lay on the couch with a blanket, the TV on low, throwing blue light in the otherwise dark room. Holding the lists of boats he called Shauf and Roberts who were up in the Fort Bragg cold house. They’d worked the phones all day and he crossed off the boats they said were no goes. He phoned Alvarez, who’d driven north and was in a Crescent City diner. Alvarez would take the northernmost part of the coast, starting up in Coos Bay, Oregon, early tomorrow morning, and work his way down.

Katherine wouldn’t be coming up tonight, but he called them now, talked a while with Katherine about the note from Maria, the conversation last night. Then he heated more chicken soup and made some toast before moving equipment from the Nissan to the Explorer, figuring to switch vehicles tomorrow. Later, when he fell asleep it was on the couch, and near midnight his cell phone rang and he reached for it, afraid of the news it would bring. He looked at the screen expecting Douglas or Chief Keeler, then clicked off the TV and said hello.

“It was 7:55 A.M. when Pearl Harbor was attacked. That’s when they came in. Not many people remember that,” Davies said. “That’s what time I made the first call to you from Guyanno.”

“Where are you now?”

“Not far from you.”

“Yeah, why is that?”

“I’ve done some things lately that are going to send me to hell, Lieutenant. But I had to prove myself to him to get inside. He puts you right to the test.”

“Is she alive?”

“She was when I saw her, but it’s not a good situation. She lost that baby and I tried to help her, but he had me deal with something else. That’s his way of putting it to you. He knows how to do that like no man I’ve ever known. He doesn’t leave you a way back, Lieutenant.”

Marquez moved off the couch and across the cold floor to the kitchen. He found his shoes.

“What have you done for him?”

“He wants me to kill your wife and the girl and bring you in. I went by your wife’s coffee place today. I saw your daughter there.”

“Stay away from her.”

“He’s got a power about him, doesn’t he?”

“We tried to pay the ransom. What do we have to do to get our warden back?”

“She was in a warehouse but I hear she’s on a boat now. What I hear is you’ll know the boat by the moon.”

“Where is this boat supposed to be?”

“They’re getting ready for something. I can tell. When he sent me out he said if I can’t bring you to him, he wants me to bring back your thumbs and he’s got people who’ll run your fingerprint.”

“Bring me where?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re lying.”

The line went dead and Marquez called Katherine, then Douglas.

“Marquez,” Douglas said, his voice flat, and Marquez could hear sirens and vehicle traffic. Douglas was on a street somewhere.

“I just got a call from Davies.”

“Yeah?”

Marquez heard more sirens. “What’s happened?” he asked.

“We missed him, Marquez. The hit was a Florida judge out here vacationing from Dade County. He was shot leaving a restau-rant in San Francisco tonight. We didn’t know. We didn’t have any way of knowing. We thought it was a local they were after. We’d narrowed it to a couple of possible drug cases here, but this was it. This was the cartel hit. They’re trying one of the Cardoza family in Miami next month. I don’t know how we could have known. Christ, if we’d only known the judge was here we could have put it together. Kline will leave now. Jesus Christ, he came here and made the hit. I’m sorry, Marquez, what about Davies?”

After Marquez related the phone call, Douglas said, “I’ll get agents to your wife’s house and yours. Give me ten minutes. But I think he’s just a crackpot, Marquez. I think he just likes making the calls. I wouldn’t worry about it, but we’re on our way.”