“I have to go to Sacramento to meet with Baird, Keeler, and Buehler, so you’ll need to handle the delivery here,” he told her, “and I’ll call you on the way back. We’re going to get a step closer tonight. We’re going to make it happen.”
“How’s Li taking it?”
“Not well, but he’s tough.” She was silent. “We need him.”
When she still didn’t say anything, he said he’d talk to her later and hung up. He knew she didn’t think this was right or moral. But he didn’t see any other way because they were losing. They were running out of time.
16
When he left the afternoon sunlight on J Street and entered the cool conditioned air, Marquez found Chief Keeler and the director of Fish and Game, Jay Buehler, at the far end of a curving concrete bar. The place was new and hip, but conservative enough to draw the political shakers. They served cosmos and martinis and the bar had tall cabinets of cherry wood and expensive cognacs on high shelves in front of mirrored glass. Keeler, who avoided bars whenever he could, looked uncomfortable this afternoon. In the nine years Marquez had known him he’d never seen Keeler finish a drink, though he’d stand at a Christmas party with a rum toddy or glass of champagne in his left hand. The single time Marquez had asked, he’d replied “I had an alcoholic father,” as if that was all the explanation anyone would ever need.
Jay Buehler was single at fifty-five, balding, graying, and known locally for late nights and young women. He was a lawyer first, a successful one, a charismatic rainmaker in a firm that had played and won in the political casino of California politics. Unlike his predecessor who’d worried constantly about the SOU making a politically embarrassing mistake, and who’d pored over reports with anal intensity, Buehler worried more about being left out of operations and missing out on the fun. He liked having a covert team, liked the excitement of busting bad guys for a good cause and had managed to get the SOU budget temporarily doubled to more than three million a year by regaling legislators with stories of car and boat chases, stings, and midnight apprehensions. The current budget was well below half that and Marquez’s conversa-tions with Buehler often included a schedule of house committee meetings where Buehler had wrangled appearances he wanted Marquez to make and plead the SOU case for more money. It was the legislature’s habit to have the SOU’s patrol lieutenant periodi-cally testify to the efficacy and value of the covert unit.
The meetings had been shorter this year. The state was out of money and Marquez’s team had been cut to five wardens and him-self. Buehler had taken the cut as a personal insult, but it didn’t seem to be on his mind today. He came off his stool and gripped Marquez’s hand with vigor. “Thanks for coming up,” he said, as though there’d been a choice. Marquez caught his own face in the bar mirror as they turned, saw a big man, middle years, harder eyes than he would have wished, a face shaped by wind and sun.
A waiter distributed menus while Marquez recounted the blown Sausalito bust, Buehler interrupting with questions about the leap from the Emily Jane and the swim to shore, Keeler listening closely, some intuition telling him something was missing in the account. Buehler stirred his drink with his finger, signaled the waiter, then looked back at Marquez from under heavy white eyebrows.
“What’s the situation with this Jimmy Bailey?” Buehler asked.
“He burned us and we haven’t caught up to him yet.”
“We don’t know where he is?”
“No.”
“Well, his lawyer does, and the lawyer was in touch with the department this morning. He’s threatening a lawsuit and claiming he’ll go to the media. He wants Bailey’s boat back and the rest of the money he says we owe him. He’s got some balls on him. His story is Bailey ran to save himself from being shot and didn’t think there would be any issue with that because he’s on our side and working for us.”
“Where did he go when he ran?”
“Oh, he wouldn’t tell me. He had to talk to the director of Fish and Game, and then he was very coy.” Buehler looked at Keeler from under his eyebrows. “As near as I can tell we have to give him back his boat.”
“I pulled a gun off the Condor that DOJ is looking at, right now,” Marquez said. “Maybe that’ll buy us time or a way to hold him when he surfaces.”
“That’s what your chief told me, but you see the problem we’ve got if we hold his boat.”
“Sure.”
“We’re going to cut a deal with this lawyer.”
“You don’t mean pay him?”
“Bailey was in our employ and we’re not charging him with anything. We don’t want the lawyer going to the media. No, of course, we don’t need to roll over but we can’t hold his boat indefinitely and maybe it makes sense to give it back. See where he takes us. We can stall but only so far.”
Marquez thought it over, didn’t say anything.
“Let’s talk about why you’re here,” Buehler said, and Marquez knew the prelude was over. Despite the conditioned air he felt sweat prickle on his spine. He didn’t want the FBI’s heavy hand over him. Before they knew it they’d be getting three sets of papers stamped just so they could set up surveillance in a harbor. “We’ve had very direct inquiries from the FBI that we believe you should know about. They’ve asked for and we’ve provided the names of the members of the SOU.”
“You’re kidding, sir.”
“I’m not. We also got asked for information through the DFG liaison to the California antiterrorism unit here in Sacto even though nothing in this has anything to do with terrorism.” Marquez knew that by nightfall the FBI would have photos and be building a file on the team. He picked at the food, no longer hungry and very sur-prised the Feds had been given that information. No doubt the line was that they needed to know for the safety of Marquez’s team, in case there was another overlap, but his gut said the truth lay some-where else. He watched Buehler drink a full glass of water, diluting the scotch, and was glad it was Buehler, not him. Marquez didn’t miss walking out into hot afternoon sunlight and needing to take a nap to metabolize alcohol. But he was roaming a different country of the mind now, in many ways a worse one, about Katherine. He focused on the table again. This FBI request only reaffirmed his certainty about Kline’s presence. The waiter returned and they ordered coffees after the dishes were cleared, both Buehler and himself ordering double espressos, the chief ordering black coffee. “How old are you, Lieutenant?” Buehler asked.
“Forty-six.”
“I’m ten years older than you and I was too young for it, but what I’m leading to are the similarities between this post 9/11 gear-up and the way the FBI responded to the Cold War communist threat in the fifties. They spent a lot of money and threw a lot of agents at the problem and our enemies just adapted. They’re in the process of making the very same mistakes. Their real problem is their ability to get inside these organizations; it always has been. Now, I don’t know what they’ve got going with this individual they say they’re trying to apprehend, but I do know they hold the power right now. Trying to fight the Feds this year is like wading up a fast, cold river. We’d only get so far. They have their good years and their bad ones, and right now everything is running their way.”
When no one said anything Buehler folded the credit card receipt and stood up. “Let’s go, gentlemen.” They stepped outside and Buehler clapped Marquez on the back, telling him not to worry about the FBI getting their names. “If we can’t trust them, we’ve lost anyway.” Marquez watched him get in a black Mercedes convertible and wave as he drove off. He turned to Keeler.
“You were quiet, Ed.”
“I didn’t want to do anything that would interfere with him hearing himself.”