“Is cavorting your word or hers?”
“Her exact words were cruder, and I guess Petroni just happened to be patrolling the area, or maybe he put his undercover experience to work and followed her. She didn’t say it exactly, but it doesn’t sound like she was fully clothed. When Petroni found out he got very angry, went to Vandemere, and threatened to haul him in on a bogus violation.”
“What would that be?”
“You tell me, a four-inch fish, maybe, I don’t know your business.
According to her, Petroni routinely uses his badge to throw his weight around.”
“Are you here to road test a theory?” Here to see if I can knock holes in it before you take on Petroni. “Petroni didn’t kill Vandemere.”
“Naw, of course not. Wardens don’t kill geology students, and they don’t take bribes or make up violations. Jealous boyfriends kill, not wardens.”
“You’re running too fast with this.”
“You never know how they’re going to go. The last case I worked I got burned on because I moved too slowly. This was a B and E of a cabin outside of Pollock Pines early this summer. The perps turned out to be gangbangers up visiting for the day from Sacramento, which is what they do nowadays. They go for a day in the country and visit remote cabins. Unfortunately, the owner was home when they broke in. They didn’t realize it because he’d loaned his car to his son for the day. I’m talking about four shitbags in a lowered Honda. The DA let them plea-bargain to manslaughter because I didn’t have enough. I didn’t lean on them hard enough early enough. They claimed it was an accidental death, they were only there to rob him. Truth is, they beat him to death with the tire iron they’d pried the front door open with. If I find who killed Vandemere, there won’t be a manslaughter plea. ” “Good.”
“There’s a phone call I want to make with you. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
“You’re not walking me to lunch again, are you?”
“No.”
They walked up the street past the courthouse, then crossed to the old soda works that had become a coffeehouse with art hanging from the walls. In the rear of the building were rooms carved out of rock and a door that led to a mine shaft. They chatted about the building as they waited for the coffees. Kendall said that he was into California history and that the gold rush was still the single most significant economic event in the history of the country. Marquez wondered how the Great Depression weighed in, but left it alone. Then they carried their coffees across the street and found a place to sit.
“I’ve got another bear hunter for you to talk to,” Kendall said.
“What’s his name?”
“Brandt. Know him?”
“No.”
“He wears a piece of dried bear heart on a leather thong around his neck, says it gives him power in bed with his girlfriend.
He’s pointed me toward other hunters, houndsmen, as you people call them. He’s also suspected of being an accomplice on another case up here involving a theft, so he wants to stay on my good side. Right now, he’s waiting on my call. I told him you’re an associate and I’m going to put you on the line. What he’s told me is that he and other unnamed people know of someone who makes monthly payments to a warden up here. They meet out some dirt road in the Crystal Basin, warden gets paid and afterwards stays out of certain areas for a period of time. I don’t have a warden’s name yet, but how many wardens are there, how many possibilities? The warden is stepping the rate up lately, and Brandt’s been hearing the whining.”
“Is the word out that you’re looking for dirt?”
“I’m sure it is and I’m sure they’re lining up to fuck with Petroni’s life, but the punch line for you is he told me this unnamed warden warned these hunters to be watching for an undercover team.”
“When did he tell you that?”
“A couple of days ago.”
Marquez sipped the coffee, thinking about Kendall’s motives, then said, “Okay, make the call,” and watched him punch in the numbers, listened as Kendall told Brandt he was going to put another investigator, a colleague on the line. Marquez took the phone, and Brandt said, “I already told Detective Kendall I’m getting this from a friend who works in the business.”
“You hunt legitimate?”
“Yes, sir, I don’t have any problem with the rules.”
“Let’s talk about your friend who’s giving you the information.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What business is he in?”
“Mostly he’s a lookout, but he helps some with skinning and cleaning too.”
“He’s working for poachers.”
“I guess so, but I’m not involved in any of that, sir.”
“I understand.” Marquez drew a quiet breath, looked at Kendall before speaking again, then said, “We called Fish and Game and they don’t have any undercover team.”
“All I know is supposedly the warden said there was one in the area and to watch out ‘cause they’re not under his control.”
“What’s this warden look like?”
“He’s the regular warden.”
“Petroni?”
“I guess, but I’m just saying I heard it was him. Don’t go telling Petroni I said it.” Then Brandt added, “Detective Kendall has got to stick to our deal.”
Marquez handed the phone back to Kendall and listened to Kendall lie to Brandt about what he was doing to help clear him on the other case. He winked at Marquez, then hung up.
“You’re a class act,” Marquez said.
“Well, I owe it all to my clientele. They bring out the best in me.” He patted Marquez’s knee and then stood, saying, “I don’t think Petroni killed anyone, but he may be dirty. Keep that to yourself, and I’ll be in touch.”
15
At dawn the next day Nyland drove to the rear lot of a bakery in Placerville and went in through a screen door. When he came back out a tall skinny baker trailed him and helped hump burlap bags across the lot to Nyland’s truck. Bags that were likely full of day-old bread. Nyland cinched a tarp down before getting something from his glove compartment for the baker.
Alvarez, who had the best angle, called it out. “Looks like a bag of dope.”
Whatever it was, the baker pocketed it, lingered, raced a cigarette, shifting like a crane from one foot to the other as Nyland talked. Their breath clouded the air in front of them. A few minutes later Nyland got into his truck and backed out.
The bread wasn’t going to a homeless shelter. This time of year black bear instinctually eased away from protein and turned to a high-carbohydrate diet to accelerate the accumulation of fat for hibernation. Right around now, bread made good bait.
Nyland left the bakery and drove to a health club on the east side of town. He disappeared into a locker room at the rear of the building, then they watched him work out, pumping iron, running on a treadmill for half an hour. Marquez and Shauf were parked well down the street, talking as they waited for Nyland to move again. The rising sun brightened the inside of the truck cab, illuminating Shauf’s face, and looking at her Marquez doubted she’d slept much last night. She talked about her sister.
“She told me she’d give anything to feel normal for a whole day. They’re talking to her about experimental therapies.”
“What do the kids know?”
“Just that mommy is sick.”
“How old are they again?”
“Three and six.”
“How are you doing?”
“Terrible.”
They watched Nyland reappear on the sidewalk in a T-shirt and jeans, his face still red-tinged, hair wet. He loitered in the sun, talked on his cell phone, and a couple minutes later Sophie drove around the corner in her Ford pickup. She pulled up in front of the club but remained in the truck, and they figured Nyland planned to finish the conversation before getting in with her. That would leave the bread and Nyland’s truck here, a precautionary move on Nyland’s part. He would come back when he was ready to feed the bait piles.