The dock lights drifted away and the current tugged them toward the Gate. They landed well south of the docks, coming ashore near the main part of town, Marquez’s big frame rising out of the bay like some sort of Godzilla, algae slicking off him as he climbed the seawall rocks and then up onto the sidewalk alongside Bridgeway. They walked down to a hotel that seemed to be the only place open and as Marquez walked in shirtless the night clerk started dialing 911. He showed his badge and they borrowed a couple of sweatshirts carrying the hotel logo.
Marquez called the Coast Guard first, then the Marlin. He heard Hansen talking over the roar of the Marlin engines and knew he was up on the flydeck and the Marlin was running full out.
“We’ve got them on radar,” Hansen said, “but they’re flying, and I mean flying. What have they got on that boat? It’s doing better than fifty knots. The Guard is going to have to run these guys down, but they’ll get them. Hey, what happened out there? We heard you went swimming, again.”
“We were outgunned and they said jump.”
When he hung up with Hansen, he called Brad Alvarez, who was at the Army Corps of Engineers dock, talking with the Sausalito police. They were still looking for Bailey.
“We need a ride. We’re at a hotel,” Marquez said.
“What’s the name of the hotel?”
Marquez had to look at his sweatshirt before he could tell him. They waited outside, both of them still shaking from the cold and thanking the night manager several times when he walked back out and handed them coffee, insisting the sweatshirts were on him. Marquez held the coffee, stood there waiting, embarrassment and disappointment coloring his thoughts. They had the bust they’d needed right there and they looked like Keystone Kops. Jump on a boat and then jump in the water. Bailey was going to say he ran because he got scared, he thought. He’ll still want to get paid. Bailey will say he panicked, thought there was going to be a firefight. Roberts, who’d been quiet, finally said something about what had happened.
“It was my fault and I’ll resign tomorrow.”
“No, you’re not, and we’re going to find that boat.”
“I just didn’t want him to get away. I’m really sorry, Lieutenant. I could have got us killed, but I thought we could stop the boat.”
“You keep underrating these people, Melinda.”
“I know and I blew it. I’ll ask for a transfer.”
“Don’t do that, you belong here.” Alvarez’s white Cherokee came toward them. Marquez touched her arm and said, “We’ll sort it out.”
“I messed up, Lieutenant. I don’t want to pretend it was any-thing else.”
She’d be pulled from the team tomorrow if Keeler got word of how it went down and Marquez decided he’d send her to Fort Bragg this afternoon because Keeler would be here in Marin this morning visiting an old friend having surgery at Marin General. The chief would want to meet, and knowing Keeler he might want to question Roberts.
With Alvarez they found the only place open to get hot coffee and food. Alvarez turned with a wry look, “Of course, you guys probably prefer surf ‘n’ turf.”
Marquez stripped the wet pants and put on dry clothes and shoes when he got to his truck. He left on the hotel sweatshirt. He’d just finished changing clothes when Chief Keeler called. It was 6:00, which probably meant someone had called Keeler about what had happened, though he didn’t know who that could have been.
“Have you got any more equipment left to lose?” Keeler asked.
“Not a lot.”
“What is left, your vehicles? Something is wrong here. I’ll be down there by 8:00. I want you to meet me at Marin General in the surgery waiting room. I’d like it if you wrote your report first and brought a printed copy.” Keeler didn’t wait for him to say he couldn’t get it done in time. “You may hear from Chief Baird before I get there.”
“About this?”
As SOU patrol lieutenant, Marquez had direct access to Fish and Game’s top law enforcement officer, the chief of patrol, Gor-don Baird. Each new state governor typically appointed a director of Fish and Game and a handful of deputy-chiefs, but the chief of patrol earned the rank and carried the real responsibility for law enforcement. The director’s was a political office. Marquez didn’t talk with Baird often, though every day he copied Baird his e-mailed reports. He heard Keeler’s long sigh, as though he was too old for these types of problems.
“The FBI called off the Coast Guard pursuit of the boat you’re after.”
“When did that happen?”
“Over an hour ago.”
“Why?”
“That’s all I know, right now.”
“Backed the Guard off the Emily Jane?”
“Did you get water inside your head? Yes, they asked the Coast Guard to cease pursuit.”
“What are you talking about, Chief?”
“I’ll have a better explanation when I see you.”
Marquez debated calling Baird and got as far as dialing Baird’s home number after Keeler hung up. He stared at the numbers on his screen as his thumb touched the call icon. Baird already knew Keeler was on his way down here and would want him to hear it from his deputy-chief. He pressed the call button anyway, then killed it before the phone rang at Baird’s house, his hand trembling as he tossed the phone down. Why in the hell would they do that? What possible reason? He watched Petersen’s headlights swing into the marina parking lot. She got out and walked over.
“You okay?” she asked.
“No.”
Petersen smiled. “I’ve been working with the locals here, trying to run down our friend Jimmy.”
“Anything?”
“Not yet.” She pulled at the torn cuff of red fleece coat that had long ago faded to pink. “I think he got a ride out of here, John, maybe even by boat. A couple of fishermen went out about an hour after things went bad.”
“We’ll go looking for him at home later today. I’ve got to meet with Keeler first.”
“Do you want us to keep searching for him?”
It had been three hours since Bailey had run, but dawn wasn’t far off, the sky already white toward the east. Maybe daylight would compromise his hiding spot, which was really what Petersen was asking about. It was 6:10.
“Okay, give it another round. I’m going down to his boat and see what I find on board.”
Marquez watched her drive off and then walked down to the dock to board the Condor. He recovered the GPS transponder first. He dropped that in his pocket. They’d impound the Pacific Condor, move it to Yerba Buena, and try to put heat on Bailey when they caught up to him. They couldn’t charge him but they could question him and they didn’t need a search warrant to go through his boat.
Marquez started at the stern, worked his way through the equipment there, opened a cooler that was tied off to the deck and found a couple of Coors talls, an empty Doritos bag floating in the water, and a seven-inch abalone lying on the white plastic bottom underneath it. When he lifted the abalone out and turned the algae-stained shell he could still smell the mineral brine of the sea. He let it slide back and opened the hold, thinking it was more likely that Bailey’d had a car parked somewhere near or a ride waiting for him. Petersen, Alvarez, and the Sausalito police had gone building-to-building around the dock. They’d checked bushes and walked the area. He used a flashlight to look in the hold and saw another basket down there, one they hadn’t had time to transfer, and he winched it up now, counted forty abalone.
He lowered the basket back into the water in the hold and checked the rest of the deck before going into the cabin. Once inside, he pulled on latex gloves and began a search for evidence, anything he could hold Bailey with. There was a full baggie of marijuana and a couple of roaches. There was a large McDonald’s bag packed with fast-food trash in a corner of the cabin and the smell filled the space when he opened it and rooted through it. He found a piece of abalone shell with a hole drilled in it on a leather shoelace and turned it in his hand. An odd design had been etched on the smooth green shiny part of the shell, a pyramid shape with what looked like the letter Hon one face, a beach thing, maybe, worn around the neck. Was the Hfor Heinemann? How long had Bailey known Heinemann? He dropped it in an evidence bag and went methodically through the storage compartments, the emergency equipment, life preservers, a flare gun, a fire extinguisher, a ship-to-shore radio, bottled water. There were a couple of coats and he searched the pockets, found a handful of Mexican pesos in one, which he counted before putting back in the coat. He came to a locked cabinet and said quietly, “Too bad you locked it, Jimmy.” He searched the pilot’s section for keys, then decided to walk up to his truck and get something to open it with.