by Kirk Russell
Then Nyland stood and moved out onto the slab. He took a stance and aimed. They heard the sharp hard pops and saw the muzzle flashes.
“Aiming toward the old sales office,” Marquez said, and a faint sound of glass breaking carried on the wind. They heard Nyland’s whoop. “I took a look at the building last time I was here. There were a couple of windows on that face that weren’t broken yet.”
“Job’s done now.”
Nyland went back to Sophie, and the bottle got passed again.
“Get drunk and shoot up something,” Alvarez said. “Nothing has changed in a hundred years.” He cleared his throat, voice much quieter now. “I swear those were voices we heard. That wasn’t any music they were playing in the trailer.”
Sophie stood, and Marquez saw that she had the gun. She pulled her clothes off with her free hand and held the gun on Nyland as he stripped and then lay on his back on the blanket.
“You seeing this, Lieutenant?”
“It’s a game.”
Sophie had a two-handed grip aimed at Nyland’s head, and Marquez heard Alvarez mutter, “Yeah, my girlfriend and I play this one all the time.”
The gray-white concrete slab was like a stage, and on the slope they became voyeurs as she straddled him, taking him with one hand and guiding him inside her, holding the gun to his head as she moved slowly with him in her, her free hand pushing down on his chest, her back arched, hair spread on her shoulders, breasts pale.
“Looks like they’re still friends,” Marquez said.
“She had Petroni fooled.”
Petroni had himself fooled.
“Where’s Petroni living now?” Alvarez asked. “He’s not waiting at home for her, is he?”
“I don’t know, but we’re done here.”
They hiked back up to the ridge and drove back to the safehouse.
Alvarez went inside, and Marquez sat in the truck listening to music, a local station, old rock and roll songs, a lot of them thirty years or more old, songs written for times that had vanished. Lately, he’d been listening to some group he liked called Magnetic Fields, but he wondered if he would ever connect with modern music in the same way he had when he was young. He wondered if his beliefs about what he could get done running an undercover team were overblown and foolish. He lowered his window and reclined the seat, tried to make sense of the events of the past few days. He left the music on low, listening to the Doors’ “LA Woman,” and thought about Kendall’s story of why he’d left LAPD and how vehemently Petroni contradicted it, how personal that was for Petroni. The way Petroni was on me for a while.
He thought of Brandt, the informant Kendall had let him talk to. Was there any chance Petroni was on the take? Of all things, that was hardest to imagine. With his eyes closed he thought of Sophie making love with Nyland and Sophie at the Creekview with Petroni. She was more than a woman alone, she was lost.
He fell asleep in the truck and slept the remaining hours of the night, waking with his cheeks numb from cold and his neck stiff.
The night’s dreams still lingered in him, and he looked at the house, lights out, team asleep. He could go in and make coffee, boil an egg, toast bread, and read the newspapers. Instead, he started the truck, backed out, and drove up an empty Main Street past the Liar’s Bench, Placerville Hardware, the antique shops, and on toward the east side. He parked and went into the Waffle House; he wanted the light and other people. Maybe Petroni would show up. He read the newspapers and made notes to himself.
Later, after he’d paid and was back outside, he called Petroni’s cell phone.
“This is Sophie,” a woman’s voice said. “Billy’s asleep.”
“This is the friend who helped at the bar that night, the Creekview. I need to talk to him.” When had she driven there? “He’s really tired. Can you call back later?”
“Sure, and if I don’t reach him, will you tell him I called?”
Marquez drove up the highway to the Pollock Pines address where Petroni had been house-sitting with Sophie. The old orange Honda was out on the street with a layer of frost on it. Sophie’s Ford pickup was there, her windshield clear of frost, heat still rising from the engine. He thought about parking and knocking on the door but didn’t. Later he would wish he had.
21
At sunrise Marquez was up behind the old diner, studying the vehicle tracks the county had left, deep gouges where wide heavy vehicles had started the steep ascent. Kendall had bragged that they had made it look like a break-in when they’d torn the door from the hunting shack, claimed Nyland would read it as one of his buddies ripping him off. But whatever else Nyland was, he was also a hunter and his eye would read the multiple tracks, what looked more like a troop movement than a couple of guys in a four-wheel drive. Staring at it made him angry. He walked back to his truck, flipped open his phone, and got a groggy Kendall on the other end.
“Nyland will turn around when he sees this,” Marquez said.
“Are you an expert on him now that you’ve known him a week?”
“What happened to reinterviewing Sophie and telling her Nyland’s in the clear? You were going to give him a chance to come back up here.”
ld;I already explained this and we did reinterview her. She wanted to talk about Petroni. She told me she’s never been in love with him. He was a sugar daddy except the sugar went away when the ex-wife cut off the credit cards and froze the bank accounts— excuse me, the bank account. She was very candid with us, and I mean way too candid for church.”
“Don’t blow smoke at me this morning. You didn’t do what you told me you would and it’s cost us.”
“Sophie’s been with Nyland a long time and what I told you the other day about her being damaged goods is true. A woman hurt that way when she is young will never really be with anyone.
They build an emotional inside they can never get over the top of. Self-esteem takes a permanent hit and the emotional circuitry never runs correctly afterwards. The old-timers on the force say she would run away as a kid and hide up there in the Crystal Basin because if she went into town the cops would drop her back at the house. It’s why she hates law enforcement. That’s why no one around here believed she really had anything going with Petroni.”
“What does any of that have to do with you taking an army up to the hunting shack?”
“I’m getting to it. She also told us she and Petroni routinely went up to that shack during the early days of their relationship. The first blush of love among the empty Freon containers, going at it on the cot. She also said she told Petroni that Nyland used the shack for bear baiting. Which means Petroni has known about it and done nothing. He’s probably seen the bait pile you showed me.”
“I doubt it.”
“I’m trying to tell you that Sophie has ridden around all those mountains with Petroni. I didn’t bring up that hunting shack, she brought it up.”
“Why’d she bring it up?”
“Listen, I gotta go, I’ll talk to you later.”
The disjointed conversation left Marquez agitated all morning, and he couldn’t reach Petroni when he tried to get a hold of him.
Shortly before noon he pulled the team together at the TreeSearch office. An hour later Alvarez went into a second meeting at Sierra Guides, where Durham explained that a guide such as Eric Nyland was billed on a daily basis, a thousand dollars a day plus expenses.
“That’s the best I can do,” Durham said, parsing his words, his voice dry, the words pinched. He wore a plaid shirt today, tucked into designer jeans, snakeskin boots and belt. The rate was extremely high for the area, and Alvarez didn’t know how to react without offending him.
“We’ll guarantee you a shot at a bear,” Durham said. “You’re a good shot, aren’t you?”
“It’s a lot of money for me.”
“You may need someone cheaper.”
“I was hoping to work it out with you.”
“Those are our rates.” Durham smiled. “You’re from Mexico, you s
ay. There’s really not much bear down there, is there?”
“I grew up in the States.”
“You know what I mean, I think.”
Marquez knew what he meant. Durham meant to unsettle and possibly anger Alvarez. Durham suspected him and was going to kill the deal.
“No, what do you mean?” Alvarez asked.
“There’s no cultural tradition of bear hunting or big game for you Mexican guys.”
Alvarez got the picture out of his wallet, handed it over. “Taken in Vancouver. I shot the bear in the photo.”
Durham barely glanced at the photo, handed it back.
“Let’s talk about other costs,” Alvarez said. “What are they?”
“Vehicle. Support. Dressing the meat.”
“I don’t have any problem with that, but I want to know I’m going get a bear. I know you can’t guarantee it, but do you ever do any kind of enhanced hunt?”
Marquez winced as he heard that. Alvarez had sounded like he was going to recover and get the conversation on track and now he’d rushed into this. Durham folded his arms over his chest and stared hard this time.
“I’ve heard of enhanced penises,” Durham said without any trace of humor. “But I don’t know what an enhanced hunt would be. Some of our tight-eyed friends come in here and ask that question. I usually throw them out as soon as I hear it and the offer of extra money.”
“I’m not asking for anything illegal.”
“Then what do you want? You’ve already got a bear tag. What are you asking?”
“A longer trip, out farther where there are more bear.” Come on, Brad, Marquez thought, you’re only getting in deeper. He could see only part of Alvarez, his hand gesturing. “I don’t know when I’ll get a bear tag again. I did some hunting last fall in Ontario and got three bear. Wasn’t an issue there, but that’s different.”
“Tell us again how you got into bear hunting.”
“I’ve got a better idea, I’ll meet you this afternoon and show you how Mexicans shoot. Where’s a range?”
Nyland laughed, enjoying Alvarez’s coming back at his boss.
Durham forced a smile, said, “No offense, Mr. Gutierrez, but no thanks.”
Alvarez came out a few minutes later. He looked shaken and angry, and Durham followed him out, called to him, walked down the sidewalk, and offered his hand. Marquez watched the effort Alvarez made at being friendly. He shook hands with Durham and walked toward Main Street, starting the route they’d planned past Rexall Drugs and Pyramid Outfitters before crossing the street and going into Hidden Passage Books. Then Durham got in his car, and Marquez swung onto the highway behind him, talking to Alvarez as he drove.
“I’ve got him in view. He’s on his way down the highway.
Seemed like he got under your skin, but do you think he’s onto us?”
“He was definitely taking a good look at me.”
“Yeah, I could see that from where I was. We could hear him trying to rattle you.”
“He didn’t get to me, but do you think I overdid it?”
“You were fine.”
“Where is he now?”
“I’d guess he’s headed back to Sacramento. I’m turning around.”
Marquez got off at the next overpass and started back toward Placerville. He was still thinking about Durham when he took a call from Petroni.
“I need to talk to you,” Petroni said.
“What’s up?”
“I’ve got to talk to you about this whole thing.”
Twenty minutes later Marquez pulled into a 7-Eleven parking lot on the east side of Placerville.
22
Marquez parked in a corner of the lot and watched kids messing around on skateboards, jumping a cardboard box on the sidewalk, one kid going end over end into the street. A car swerved around him, and the driver hit the horn as the boy’s friends laughed. Marquez returned a call to Katherine as he waited for Petroni. She’d managed to get to the cop who’d ticketed Maria for speeding. The cop hadn’t seen anything suspicious, but he did remember Maria.
“He said he could have written her for a higher speed. She came flying out of town like she was taxiing down a runway.”
“Is Maria sticking by her story?”
“She’s rounded it out a little more.”
“What do you think?”
“That she’s telling the truth. Why don’t I give you the officer’s phone number?”
He copied that down and ten minutes later, when Petroni still hadn’t showed, went into the store, bought a newspaper, a prepackaged turkey sandwich, and a Calistoga juice that he took back to his truck. He peeled the wrapper off the plastic case and pulled the sandwich out. The lettuce was dark and crushed, the bread soggy, the turkey without any flavor, but he was hungry enough to eat half of it before giving up.
Petroni pulled up in the Honda. From its dusty sides and windows it looked as if he’d been off-road with the car. He had a few days’ growth of dark beard and acted like a guy looking over his shoulder this afternoon. The smell of stale sweat came off him after he got in Marquez’s truck and shut the door.
“Do you mind if we drive somewhere?”
Marquez drove the road out toward Mosquito Creek. He figured Mosquito would be empty and slow winding into the hills.
“Bell wants my badge.”
“I almost lost mine five years ago when Charlotte Floyd came after me.”
“Kendall’s got some recidivist shithead to say I’m on the take. I talked to the union rep and she told me they’re investigating me for taking bribes. I’ve never taken a bribe in my life.”
“What are these bribes supposed to be for?”
“Charging extra fees to some hunters and agreeing to stay out of an area while a hunt is going on. Helping poachers, Marquez.
Doesn’t matter how many years I’ve got in or what I’ve done.”
Marquez nodded, though somehow this felt staged. He waited to hear something that would confirm that feeling and listened to Petroni rant about Bell’s using Fish and Game as a stepping-stone into state government, Bell’s wife’s having family money, Bell’s living in a big house and having no idea what it’s like being a warden. At lunch Bell walked down to the Capitol Club and exercised.
At night he went to political fund-raisers, cocktail parties, or home where they had a chef that came in four days a week.
148 “He cares more about getting a reservation at a restaurant than he does about you or me,” Petroni said.
Marquez didn’t have an answer for any of it though they drove for miles. When he finally turned his truck around, he was still unsure why Petroni had called him. Petroni had friends, family in the valley, people he could talk to. But now, Petroni spoke to him directly.
“You don’t owe me anything, the opposite, actually. But I need your help with Kendall.”
“Kendall?”
“He’ll listen to you.”
“I wish he would.”
“About a year ago I found Kendall parked down a dirt road in the Crystal Basin with a thirteen-year-old runaway he was supposed to be transporting. She was in the front seat with him, bent over his lap. Kendall saw me coming, and she denied it when they questioned her, but I know what was going on. I told the sheriff the next day that he ought to fire him.”
“What happened with it?”
“They dropped it.”
“Was that when you and Kendall first had problems?”
“No, it started over something else a couple of years before.”
“You want my opinion?” He wasn’t sure Petroni did but was going to give it to him anyway. “Go in and defend yourself. You made a mistake in judgment with the Vandemere deal, so get it over with and ride out the suspension. It’s not the end of the world. These other accusations you’re going have to get aggressive about, go after the affidavits.”
“It’s too late.”
“Only if you want it to be.”
“I’ve got a friend with a cabi
n up at Wright’s Lake. I’m moving up there until I get things figured out, and I’ve got a cousin with a good roofing business and he’s shorthanded.”
“You’d fall off a roof in half an hour if your knees didn’t give out first. You’re a game warden.”
“He needs someone to help bid work and drive around and make sure the jobs get done right.”
“Bill, you’re a game warden. No one up here knows the area like you do. No one in the department knows bear the way you do.”
“Jesus Christ, Kendall and his partner followed me last Sunday afternoon, then tried to tell me I’d killed the Vandemere kid. I’m getting out of my car around dusk, and they appear out of nowhere, tell me they’ve talked to Sophie and they learned some new things. They took me in and tried to get me to confess. They said Sophie had talked about how I told her I’d killed Vandemere. They drove me back down to the sheriff’s office, and we were in there for hours. He’s not going to stop until he gets me behind bars.”
“Did she say that?”
“No, it was all to try to get me to confess. That’s how far this thing has gone.”
“Kendall told you he made it up.”
“Inferred it from something she’d said, or bullshit like that. I know you’re talking to him. Tell him if he backs off I’ll quit the department. Bell’s going to find a way to get me fired anyway, and I’ve got to make some money that Stella can’t get her hands on.
The state will just garnish my salary. Stella’s got the credit cards and the bank accounts frozen. I have a $1.88 in my checking account. $1.88, Marquez, and I’m forty-seven. I’m not that far from living out at a campsite.”
“Where are you at with Stella?”
“She only talks through her attorney.”
As they drove back into Placerville, Marquez stopped at an ATM. He pulled three hundred dollars and handed it to Petroni when he got back in the truck, trying to make the gesture small, no more than handing over a newspaper. Petroni held the money but didn’t pocket it. Tiny beads of sweat showed on his forehead, and his left hand alternately balled into a fist and released. His face was as pale as it had been during the Sunday interview.