by Kirk Russell
“I’m okay.”
“Are you?”
“I’d like to find Durham.”
“We’re doing what we can. You know Nyland will be out today.”
“Yeah.”
They looked at each other, not saying anything, the moment awkward. Kendall didn’t want them here, and they weren’t leaving without a search. Marquez asked about the piece of femur, though he could tell Kendall already had some sort of explanation.
“It’s very old, and it may explain vandalism and grave robbing in the old cemetery in Placerville. They’ve had a problem with it for a couple of years.”
“Not someone Nyland murdered.”
“Would I be asking you to invite me in?”
Kendall and Hawse followed him back to the tiny bedroom. Hawse picked up a pair of Sophie’s panties and started moving them along, walking them across the room as though Sophie were in them.
“Like to see that,” he said, and Kendall jumped him.
“Cut it out or wait outside,” Kendall said.
“Hey, I was just making a joke.”
“Make it outside.”
“Christ, what’s the matter with you today?”
Hawse left, muttering to himself, and Kendall asked without touching it, “What’s this skull?”
“Bobcat.”
The bobcat skull was very white, probably bleached, and sat on a little polished wood stand with an iron spike running up through where the brain had been. The spike tilted the skull so that the eye sockets stared straight forward. Near it was a necklace of claws strung on a silver chain and a photo in a gold gilt frame of a smiling Sophie naked and sitting on a horse. From the background, it might have been taken here in the meadow. There was also a black-andwhite photo of a man in a much smaller frame. He looked enough like Sophie that Marquez wondered if that was her biological father.
There were hunting rifles and two handguns that Marquez bagged and tagged. In a drawer he found a razor-sharp hunting knife beneath Sophie’s folded clothes and a small jewelry box that held maybe fifteen human teeth, three with gold crowns.
“Now, that starts my spine crawling,” Kendall said.
And still Marquez had found nothing salient to their case.
They were asking for Nyland’s phone records as well as those of Sierra Guides, trying to ride the momentum of the bust, but phone records could be harder to get. Some judges were reluctant. He found a diaphragm with a happy face drawn on it and then looked at the teeth again and re-examined the knife. He touched the edge of the blade and cut through the latex glove.
“What are you doing with the teeth, Marquez?”
“I’ll bag them if you want, but it’s going to be hard to argue they have anything to do with bear poaching.”
“We’ll have our warrant this afternoon, but he may get out first. Bag ‘em now, if you don’t mind.” Marquez turned at the order, studied Kendall, realizing the detective had hid his true feelings about finding Fish and Game here. He’d hid his anger and frustration so he could get inside.
Marquez bagged the teeth though, and they moved back out into the little living space. When they took the cushions off the seats built around a table bolted to the floor they found more storage.
In those compartments were boxes of ammunition, including .30-caliber shells. These got loaded into Shauf’s van and they would go to DOJ. Kendall wrote down the box numbers and photographed them.
In the second trailer were stacks of bear hides and a workbench area where Nyland stored his power tools, a Skilsaw, a cordless Makita drill, a white five-gallon plastic bucket with a carpenter’s nail bags in it, a router and power planer, and then among the hand tools on the bench, Marquez pointed out a couple of surgical saws. There wasn’t enough here for someone in the hunting guide business.
“He’s storing equipment somewhere else,” Marquez said. “Out at the Broussards’, maybe.”
Now he walked Kendall out the trail to the little meadow with the fire pit. They lifted the iron lid off, and Kendall knelt and began sifting through the ashes as Marquez showed Hawse what else they’d found out here. Kerosene. Firewood stacked near a tree. Marquez could see the detectives planned to be here a while, and he let Kendall know he was leaving.
“Marquez,” Kendall called to him. “You’re not going to want to hear this, but we’re looking at the possibility Petroni took the shots at you.”
“He’d aim at you first.”
“What if your bear farmer is Petroni? What did you tell me you’ve paid for bile products so far? Thousands, right? And you’re telling me there’s a lot of money in this. That’s real motive for a guy starved for cash and in a position to set up shop. Maybe that’s what Stella knew about.”
“You still don’t have any idea of where’s he’s gone, do you?”
“Doesn’t matter where,” Kendall said. “Mexico, wherever, we’ll bring him home. Do you know someplace in the mountains he’d go to hide?”
“No.”
“Did you think anymore about what I threw at you the other night?”
Kendall kept talking and Marquez stood in the dry grass twenty feet from him but only half listening, his head buzzing, their bear farmer’s voice and the shots still loud in his head.
“Petroni would have good reason to use a voice changer.
Think about it,” Kendall called, as Marquez turned and walked away.
After driving away from the meadow, Marquez took another call, this one unexpected but initially hopeful. It was Ungar.
“Hey, did you make that bust with the politician?”
“No, those were uniform wardens.”
“I figured it was you for sure, and there were a couple of other busts in Stockton.”
“How do you know about Stockton?”
“My cousin called and told me he lost a shipment of bear paw that was supposed to go to LA.”
“Those were his?”
“So you know about them?”
“Yeah, we got notified. We hear about everything.”
“I talked to him about your offer.”
“What he’d say?”
“He wants to go for it but wants me to set it up.”
“He must really trust you.”
“I started feeling lousy after you were here last, thinking about what you’re doing humping through the woods and driving around and not getting paid much.”
“Don’t let it get you down.”
“You kind of pissed me off early this summer and I haven’t shown you the right respect since. I mean, what I’m saying about my cousin, that’s true, I don’t want him going down. His life is messed up enough. He owes for the bear product that didn’t deliver in Stockton, the stuff the police got. He’s afraid it’ll get him killed.”
“Who’ll kill him?”
“The man he’s delivering for.”
“Delivering where in LA?”
“I’ll get it all for you. He’ll come in and give you names, but we’ve got to work it all out first. I want to make a deal where he gives you what he knows and he gets immunity.”
Marquez looked at the road ahead and drove and was quiet a moment.
“He’s tied in with the guys in Placerville,” Ungar said. “He knows who you’re looking for. He knows the guy behind it all, the guy doing the bears in cages.”
“Okay, get one piece of that from him, one piece that I can check out and we’ll make it happen.”
“I’ve got it.”
“You’ve got it now? Let’s hear it.”
There was a long pause, Ungar drawing it out and anticipation flooding into Marquez. He knew Ungar had been up here several times. They’d always known Ungar knew more; the question was how much.
“It’s not the type of guy you’d expect.”
“You’ve already got a name.”
“This guy is like me, he’s got a successful business. He works out of Sacramento.”
“Lives there?”
“That’s right.”<
br />
Durham. Has to be Durham. “I need a name.”
“Hey, I know, but not until we meet and you’ve got the deal done on your side. Then I want to meet you alone.”
“Let me see what I can do, I’ll call you back.”
“When?”
“Soon.” Marquez knew he could say yes right now, but something restrained him. “I’ve got to talk to my chief and the DA. I need more of what your cousin has been involved in. You told me before that all he did was deliver, but now you’re saying he owes money. I need to know how involved he is before I can negotiate something. They’re not going to approve anything without knowing first who they’re dealing with.”
“I’m giving you a way to get to the man you’re after.”
“Call your cousin, call me back.” Marquez hung up.
35
Marquez took a call from Keeler, who was at his campsite at Ice House Lake. Keeler was so certain of who he’d seen that Marquez drove there next. He called Bell on the way, got it going in case there was a deal to be made with Ungar.
“Why’s he coming forward now?” Bell asked. “Is it this Stockton bust?”
“I talked to Delano, the vice cop handling it, they don’t have any leads, and they don’t have anyone of Korean descent in custody or as a suspect.”
“We’re supposed to get this cousin immunity though we don’t even know what he’s done yet?”
“That’s what he’s asking for.”
“And he’s already leading you to Durham.”
“Yeah, he’s feeding us Durham.”
“And you think he knows Durham?”
“All I know is he called the morning after someone shot at me.”
He stayed on the line with Bell until driving up to Ice House and finding Keeler’s camper. Bell said he’d find out what kind of deal could be offered, and they agreed to ask for more help in trying to locate Durham. They’d also try to re-establish surveillance on Ungar.
Marquez walked up to the camper, his mind still on Durham and Ungar. He’d given Keeler photos of all possible suspects, as well as photos of the Broussards and others Marquez believed might be suppliers. Then Keeler called this morning and said Ungar had visited him.
“Pull up a chair,” Keeler said, and Marquez unfolded one of the lawn chairs leaning against the camper. Keeler was sitting alongside a portable grill cooking sausages and red peppers that spattered juices into the flame.
Marquez held out another photo of Ungar. “You sure it was him?”
“It was him. He sat just about where you are. I first noticed him when he was down by the water. I didn’t know where he’d come from, thought he’d hiked in. He came over and said he admired my grill, asked where I’d bought it, and said he was thinking of getting one. Asked me if I was alone up here and if he could bum a glass of water off me and started talking about the camper, how he might get one of these. I got him a Coke instead of water, and when he asked what I did before retiring, it clicked.”
“Did you tell him you’re retired?”
“Yes.”
Marquez tapped the photo. “He was a reporting party, then an informant for us. He called me this morning saying he can give us the name of the man we’re looking for.” He stared at Keeler as he tried to put it together. “How’d you register for the campground, chief?”
“Online. You can do that now. I thought about that myself.”
“He is a computer guy. He’s skilled that way. Do you think he knew you recognized him?”
“I don’t think so. I told him I like to come up here in the fall and that my wife died recently and tried to lead him a different direction. I wasn’t sure what he wanted at first. Truth is, he made me nervous, particularly after I recognized him.”
“Yeah, I don’t like it at all. Maybe we’d better move you to a different lake and not register. Or back you away.”
“You tell me.”
“It doesn’t feel right. Let’s get you out of here. Did you get a look at his vehicle?”
“No, he hiked out to the road again. Very polite, thanking me, and then I got the photos you gave and called you.”
Marquez watched the chief’s hand tremble as he moved food from the grill to paper plates. He watched Keeler stick a cigar back in his mouth and knew the chief had liked being part of the operation and didn’t really want to leave. They ate, still talking about Ungar, and he could feel a kind of loneliness coming off Keeler as he agreed that he should leave.
“Chief, do you want to take a ride with me this morning first?”
“Where are we going?”
“I’ve got a place to check out.”
After they got in Marquez’s truck Keeler asked about the shooting, saying, “When you worked under me I never came to any conclusions, but let me ask you something, how much have you ever talked to anyone about your first wife’s murder or your DEA team getting wiped out? I’m talking about what they call survivor’s guilt.”
“I got help after Clara died. It hasn’t made it any easier, but it has helped me understand. Maybe deep down you don’t think it’s fair that you’re alive and Julie isn’t.”
It surprised him that Keeler knew or remembered her name.
“Are you telling me I have a death wish?”
“That’s a loser’s hand and you’re anything but a loser.”
“This connects with me getting shot at?”
“You had more than a few close calls.”
Marquez took the exit for Howell Road and felt the change under his tires a few miles later. The conversation had returned to Ungar, but he was still surprised at Keeler’s comments about him.
The road dropped into a creek canyon thick with oak, bay, and willow, then climbed through trees and followed a long meadow.
Where it wrapped the meadow was a barn with a big Nazi flag tacked on one side and four or five motorcycles up in front of the house. Smoke curled from the chimney of the house. A bald man sitting on the porch studied them as they drove by.
Marquez explained why they were looking for the remains of the Johengen tree farm, and they were out far enough now to pass only an occasional house and mailbox. At the last one he stopped, backed up, and read the number before continuing on, and then, following the advice of the woman in records, he watched the hills for rows of second-growth fir and pine. When he spotted lines of trees too uniform to occur naturally, he turned up a dirt road and drove a third of a mile up to a dilapidated, moss-covered wooden gate.
There was no address, and the gate had been chained and padlocked with a new bright chrome lock. If Petroni saw this, then he would have picked up on the new lock immediately. What it brought to mind was the lock on Nyland’s hunting shack. Keep Out and No Trespassing signs were posted, and a barbed wire fence ran up into the trees. He looked up, following the line of barbed wire as it climbed the steep slope.
“Doesn’t look like they want visitors,” Keeler said.
“I’ll go knock.”
Marquez climbed over the gate and walked down to the bend in the driveway. He could see an old farmhouse with a red asphalt roof that in several places was missing shingles. There was a barn off to one side of a clearing and what looked like an old apple orchard beyond it. Willow trees and thick brush grew alongside a creek on one side of the orchard, and he guessed that was the property line. A cottonwood drooped over the farmhouse, and then behind the property, rising with the slope, were rows of trees, many well over twenty feet tall. He didn’t see any cars, stepped onto the rotted porch, and knocked on the back door.
The door glass rattled, but no one came to answer. He looked at the sheets tacked over the windows and the mud wasps’ nests overhead in the eaves and rapped the door again, though just for show. No one was here. He walked across to the barn, shoes sticking in the mud from the earlier rain, and he found the barn doors chained shut. He walked down one side of the barn and then back out into the cleared bare space between house and barn and scanned the orchard and hills before
going back up the driveway to his truck.
“Your phone rang,” Keeler said.
He’d missed a call from Roberts. She kept her voice neutral when he called back, but there was no need to hide her excitement.
“Bingo,” Roberts said. “Durham had a game park in Michigan years ago, registered as the Marion Stuart Corporation. He got shut down for illegally buying lion cubs and had a list of other offenses. I talked to a game warden there who said Durham’s ranch had some of the worst conditions he’d ever seen. Crowded cages. No water. He raised monkeys he sold to zoos and labs, and they tried to bring a case against him for that. He sold out and moved after that.”
“What happened to the case against him?”
“He paid fines and agreed to close down. When he moved to California he picked up a second name and ID.”
“He’s living with two names?”
“That’s what it’s looking like. This Michigan deal was in 1992. I talked to another guy in U.S. Fish and Wildlife who connected with the name Marion Stuart. He thinks Stuart left the country for several years. They’d heard he was shipping animals out of Taiwan. Someone in their department was down there and saw him at an animal market.” She paused. “Think he’ll show up for Nyland’s arraignment?”
“No, and let me tell you what happened with Ungar this morning.”
He gave her that and added, “I’ll meet you and Shauf at Sierra Guides in half an hour.”
He drove back to Placerville with Keeler. Though they had a warrant, Marquez had made the decision to delay going into Durham’s hunting guide business. Shauf and Roberts had staked out the office this morning, hoping he’d show up there to retrieve records. But they’d also made contact with the landlady, and she was here to meet them and unlock the doors. The landlady was standing with Roberts when Marquez and Keeler drove up, a white-haired woman wearing a royal blue running suit with a Nike emblem.