Each SOU member had an account, but all five were currently depleted, and he had the strong feeling he wouldn’t hear from Bell in time.
“I’m okay with that,” she said. “I’ve got five or six thousand in a savings account. How much do we need?”
“Ten grand.”
“I’m good for half.”
“I’ve got the rest.”
“Let’s make the call.”
She crossed the room, locked the door, and threw a dark grin at him as he punched in the numbers. He lifted one finger, then two, then three, letting Shauf know how many rings. After the fifth ring there was a pause, then the mechanical rasp.
“Identify yourself.”
“John Croft. I need directions for tonight.”
“Copy this down.”
When he finished the line went dead, and Marquez laid the phone gently on the desk.
“On foot out a fire service road off 49 south of here,” he said.
“I’m supposed to walk up a dirt road alongside a creek tonight at 8:00 with a flashlight.”
“So, we’re on?”
“Yeah. What do you say we go scout this fire road?”
7
Kendall called as they drove toward the buy location, but the reception was poor and Marquez had to get Shauf to run her window up.
“Something to show you,” Kendall said, and then the call got dropped.
“He’s asking us to meet him,” Marquez told her, and waited for Kendall to call back. “He’s got something he wants to show us.”
“Everything except respect,” Shauf said.
“He called you?”
“Last night, and was all over Petroni.”
Marquez had told each of the team they were likely to hear from Kendall, explaining that the detective was investigating the Vandemere murder.
“What did he ask?”
“Whether I knew Petroni, how well, and what did I think of his character. You know, what dirt have I heard about him, like he’s writing a gossip column, not investigating a murder. He said there are conflicts with Petroni’s statements regarding Vandemere.”
Kendall called back while she was still talking, and Marquez copied directions. It took half an hour to retrace their route from Placerville. They got on the highway westbound and exited a few miles later.
“Down that gravel road,” Marquez said, as they passed the tall windbreak of Lombardy trees Kendall had said watch for.
The road was dotted with yellow leaves. Shauf’s van rattled through ruts, and two county cruisers came into view, parked alongside an old pickup. Behind the vehicles was a yard seeded with engine parts and a house clad in unpainted cedar. Marquez saw a converted Volkswagen bug with a plywood dog platform built over the trunk space in front.
“Who’s the fat guy?” Shauf asked.
“Kendall’s partner, Hawse. I don’t remember his first name.”
“Let’s hope he’s different than Kendall.”
Kendall walked out of the house and blew snot onto the ground out of one nostril. He saw them, and turned his head, held a wad of napkin against his nose when he faced them again.
“There, he’s showing some respect,” Marquez said.
“What’s going on with his hair and skin?”
“Let it be.”
“Last night when I told Kendall I may have seen Jed Vandemere once in July but had never spoken to him, he started asking what Vandemere was like, and I think, oh, okay, he didn’t hear me. So I explained again that I might have seen him-nothing more than that. About ten sentences later he’s back at it, kind of slick like suggesting I’d talked to him and probably remembered him because he was a handsome guy. He said maybe I’d remember a conversation if I kept thinking about it.”
“Trying to jog your memory.”
“No, much greasier than that.”
Kendall walked up to them, and Marquez watched him size up Shauf, her solid in-your-face build, shoulders that said she pumped a little iron, her short blonde hair. He nodded at her as if they had already met and said everything they’d ever need to say, then directed his conversation toward Marquez, turning his back on Shauf as he gestured toward the dog runs.
“Let’s take a look,” he said.
“At what?” Shauf asked. Kendall was already walking toward galvanized chain-link fence enclosing concrete dog runs. The dogs, black-and-tan hounds, lay on the concrete, and Marquez knew immediately they weren’t sleeping. He heard Shauf murmur, “Oh, no,” as Kendall started explaining.
“The owner here called 911 at 11:14 this morning, told the dispatcher his dogs had been poisoned and two rifles stolen out of his house while he was asleep last night. He found the dogs earlier but was too shocked to make the call.” Kendall’s eyebrows arched slightly as he said that. “Or maybe he has a problem calling the government. He’s one of your crackpot survivalist types. You’ll see the literature from his favorite think tanks on the table inside, if you’re okay with going in. I understand if you don’t want to risk blowing your cover, and I can also move him to a back room.”
“What do you need from us?” Marquez asked.
“You know a lot more about bear hunters than I do. I want to know what you see here and whether you recognize him, if you’re willing to meet him.”
“What’s his name?” Marquez asked.
“Eli Smith.” He swept his hand at the yard. “This is his castle.
It’s all his, even the junkyard. He says he works as a roofer and does other odd jobs. He ought to do some of them at home.”
“Does he have any idea who killed his dogs?”
“If you ask me, yes, but he’s too ‘heartbroken’ to tell me what he knows.”
“Have you got a dog, Kendall?” Shauf asked.
Kendall stared back at her, said, “My ex-wife had ugly little terriers she fussed over all the time.” He blew his nose. “She didn’t give our son as much time as she gave those dogs.” He looked up at Marquez again. “Smith says the dogs were alive at 3:30. He went out then to stop them from barking at what he thought was a mountain lion. Somewhere between the time he went back to bed and 7:30 the dogs ate the hamburger balls and croaked.”
“Yeah, we’d like to take a look inside,” Marquez said, “but we’ll want to get a look at him before he sees us.”
Marquez stepped aside with Shauf and talked it over. Smith had survivalist literature, so she’d go in first and make sure he wasn’t one of the two Marquez had dealt with on the buys. A deputy led her in, and Marquez was left standing with Kendall.
“What kinds of guns were stolen?” he asked.
“A .30-06 and a .30-30. I’m wondering if there’s a bear angle I don’t know about? The dogs, for instance.”
“Could be. Bear hunters sell pups from the good strike hounds.
Those pups can bring five thousand each, and the market supports only so many breeders, so there’s competition and squabbles about bloodlines. Everybody is selling the best strike hound ever born. Ask him about his enemies in the hound world.”
Shauf came out and said Smith wasn’t either of the pair they’d been buying from, so now they worked out a crude cover story with Kendall. A vehicle leaving here had sideswiped their truck last night and broken the mirror, but they hadn’t reported it until this morning. They’d say they were dropping off a friend after coming back from a party, and they’d confide to Smith they hadn’t called the police earlier because they were drunk.
When they walked into the kitchen what caught Marquez’s eye was an old Westinghouse freezer alongside the refrigerator. A black power cord supplying it ran under a door and out to the garage. He nodded at Eli Smith.
“This kitchen looks just like mine. I mostly quail hunt nowadays, but I used to bear hunt with my dad when I was a kid.” He paused. “I’m sorry about your dogs. We’re trying to help out the deputies, but I don’t know what we saw, just taillights really.” He leaned closer to Smith, out of Kendall’s earshot. “We were pretty lit up or we would have called last night.”
Marquez took in the rest of the kitchen, the old sink, metal stripping lining counters built from what might have been the first piece of Formica ever sold. They stepped into a tiny living room. Smelling dogs, he saw the folded blankets on the floor. Smith pointed at the paneled gun case where the two rifles had been.