Dead Game (23 page)

Marquez cinched down
the straps holding the Zodiac to the boat trailer, then checked to make sure there was nothing in the boat that would catch in the wind and blow out after they got on the road. The FBI was gone, the lot had emptied, and the rain had stopped. It was just Cairo, Shauf, and him. He cleaned mud from his boots and waited for Shauf to get off the phone. She’d drifted out into the middle of the lot. Cairo was near him, one foot on the boat trailer. Roberts was back in the Region IV office until either they resumed the operation or it was declared over, which was what everyone assumed would happen. Alvarez had gone home though he wasn’t back in uniform yet.

The
New York Times,
citing sources high in the FBI, ran a frontpage story this morning indicating that top brass saw the blown bust as a “failure of high-risk warrant service protocol.” Translated to English, that meant they were going to blame Ehrmann. It
struck Marquez that the cowardice of leaking information to the press first as a way of testing public reaction, a habit common to presidential administrations, was particularly unfitting for law enforcement. It had a permanent self-serving sleaze quality to it. TV pundits, including a retired FBI expert that Marquez had watched last night, said more patience was all that had been required. Ehrmann should have waited for the suspects to come out of the building. It was that simple, and it was always that simple. He should have run instead of passing on third down. And now these high-ranking officials on the east coast, guys who picked up their Starbucks lattes on the way into headquarters every morning, they were going to pass judgment on how the bust went down.

The subtext of their leaked message was that we have nothing new to fear. This was just a failure of protocol. The same as 9/11, right? We could stop it all from happening if we were just careful enough. Seal our borders and stick to the protocols. It didn’t make sense that a guy as serious about law enforcement as Ehrmann was being set up for a transfer to North Dakota or the Middle East, or wherever the Bureau saw fit to banish him.

“You okay?” Cairo asked.

“Just thinking about things.”

“What happens to her now?”

“They’ll work her pretty hard unless they find Karsov first. She’s lied to too many people.” “Where do you think we fit in?”

It wasn’t fair to say, but Cairo’s tone was almost one of curiosity, as if expressing interest, but with the understanding the interest wouldn’t be pursued. At the last SOU dinner together at the safehouse Cairo’s enthusiasm for dry farming tomatoes had lit up his face. He had one foot in the future, had accepted what Marquez couldn’t yet.

“I think it was August who sent her to make contact with us. But it’s possible the FBI knew she was living with August, in fact, it’s likely, and it’s likely they told her what she could and couldn’t say to me. When she started to wobble on them, when it looked like the deal with her son might fall through and they were wondering what came next with her, they may have worried she’d pass on information that could compromise their operation. They didn’t pick her up and bring her in because they were hoping she’d lead them to Karsov or someone that would get them closer. When she contacted me they were afraid she was going to tell me too much. At least, that’s my guess.”

And they’d question her now about the weapons they hadn’t found in Weisson’s. They’d question her for hours about those.

He put the boots in the truck and saw Shauf was off the phone. The FBI had requested that he come in this afternoon, and he’d agreed. But the question was where they were going now. Was Cairo flying to San Diego, then driving out to the desert to look at greenhouses, and was Shauf going early to spend more time with her nieces and nephews? They were at a cusp, and as Shauf walked back over, Marquez decided to put it to a vote.

“There’s a news report they may have caught one of the three that got away,” Shauf said.

“Which one and where?”

“Munoz. In LA.”

Carlos Munoz, wanted for conspiracy trafficking of cocaine,
money laundering, murder. According to Ehrmann, Munoz operated out of LA. So it was believable.

When they made the ride out to the command center Ehrmann had ticked off details on Karsov as well. The passports he carried, aliases, fluency in language, a big plus for the modern-day criminal, black hair, blue eyes, Ukrainian national, six foot two, one hundred eighty pounds, kept himself fit. Karsov was wanted for arms trafficking, conspiracy murder, drug trafficking, grand theft, money laundering, RICO violations, a long, long list, Ehrmann said.

The third face they’d gone public with was Misha Filipovna. RICO charges, conspiracy to traffic in drugs, conspiracy murder (six), dating to 1995, five foot eleven, one hundred ninety pounds, built like a middle-heavyweight, brown hair, green eyes, a good-looking, confident face that was showing on CNN, FOX, and the rest.

Ehrmann put it flatly. By the rules of the game, Burdovsky had abandoned her son by leaving the country, and the boy had been legally adopted by a relative of Karsov’s. Had she been in the country or had the Ukrainian courts found a way to contact her in the United States, which they weren’t obligated to do, then she could have contested the proceedings. Now it was very difficult to unravel. The boy didn’t know her and wanted to stay where he was, and the email contact she had with him was evidently more sporadic than she’d told the FBI. They didn’t doubt she wanted her son back, but she hadn’t been truthful with them either.

“Let’s hope they get all three,” Marquez said, then took the conversation to Crey. “Do I become Crey’s new partner?”

He looked from Shauf to Cairo and wanted them to understand this was a decision they were going to make together. He
knew Shauf had been on the phone to her brother-in-law. He knew Cairo had one foot out the door, but he also had the heart of an elephant and never quit anything. The assumption was they were down, it was over, the FBI investigation into whether the blown bust was preventable would include interviewing anyone with any contact with Weisson’s, which meant they’d visit Ludovna and question him about selling illegal sturgeon. Cairo nodded, then Shauf spoke.

“I’m in. Let’s partner up and play it out another round.”

Marquez called Crey
as he and Shauf pulled away with the Zodiac.

“I’m in, but we’re going to have to talk about how to handle a couple of things.”

“We’ll get a drink and talk it out.”

“I can’t do it today, but let me ask a couple of things.”

“Do it.”

“The questions might make you a little touchy.”

“Go ahead, my man.”

“There are rumors about how you bought Beaudry’s business. People say you stashed some drug money, retrieved it after you got out, then used it to buy the business. Are the Feds going to come after you someday for that?”

“Nope. Because those rumors are bullshit. I borrowed money from a friend to buy the business.”

“Cool. That’s what I wanted to hear.”

“Well, you’re hearing it, and you can tell anyone who says anything else to come talk to me.”

“What about Beaudry?”

“What about him?”

“Is he completely out of the picture?”

“He’s way gone, and no one is ever coming after him either, regardless of what you hear. All Beaudry ever did wrong was Fish and Game shit. You go out with the right party with him, and he didn’t care what you caught. It got a little out of hand for a while, then he got scared Fish and Game was going to catch his ass. That DBEEP boat started watching him one afternoon. That about cured him.”

“You were there?”

Crey coughed and cleared his throat. His impulse not to implicate himself in anything kicked in.

“I’m not saying I was there per se, you know, but let’s just say I checked out the business before I made an offer.”

“Okay, good enough.”

“What else?”

“The pinheads.”

“Like I told you, it would be just you and me. A detective called looking for them again yesterday and they’re thinking about taking off until he stops calling.”

“I don’t want them coming back thinking you and me owe them something later because they helped you out.”

“Not going to happen, man. I’ll deal with them. It’s cool.”

“All right, partner, we’ll figure out everything else over a drink.”

The next morning Marquez was back in Beaudry’s driveway. Beaudry’s Chevy was parked in the shade with ice on the windshield. He climbed the stairs, knocked hard, and waited.

“Now what?” Beaudry asked.

“You never told us you ran party boats for poachers.”

“That’s a lie.”

“I’ve got people who’ll testify.”

“Then get them to and I’ll see you in court if I don’t see you in hell first.”

Beaudry started to shut the door.

“I think you’d better invite me in. You close that door and you’re opening a case file.”

Beaudry had a study, an office that smelled of dust caught and slowly burning in the coils of a portable heater. His website was up on two computer screens. A bloodstained FBI shield showed on the site, and Marquez recognized it from a news photo. Beaudry must have cut and pasted from a newspaper.

“I warned those fools thirty years ago they needed to be prepared for military-type assaults.”

“You also looked me in the eye for years, and I have a hard time with that, Tom. You made the phone calls tipping us, and we thought you were a man of your word. Now it turns out you weren’t.”

“It’s all a lie.”

“Ludovna kept a record.”

“Of what?”

Marquez studied him, saw his eyes drop to the desk, then gambled.

“Of everything.” He pointed at Beaudry’s computer screen. “What do you think the Feds are doing right now?”

“I wouldn’t have any idea of what they’re doing.”

“Do you think they’re sitting in the office wondering what happened? No, they’re burying the dead and they’re furious. They’re going to find out who and how, so they’re questioning everybody remotely tied to the Russian mob.”

Marquez reached over and touched the screen.

“I was there when those car bombs went off.” He turned his wrist to read his watch. “I’m going to give you sixty seconds to start telling me the truth.”

He didn’t take his eyes from Beaudry’s face as he sat back down, but he knew Beaudry well enough to know he would let the clock run out, and he did. The sixty seconds passed without Beaudry looking up. But he didn’t challenge Marquez either. Then he began to talk.

“It was because of gambling. I had a problem I couldn’t control until I went through a program.”

“You took fishing parties out and let them catch whatever they wanted as long as you got some extra money.”

Beaudry nodded, said, “I’m sorry for it now. I’d take Ludovna and the people working with him out on the boat. They wanted sturgeon, and I know where to find them. We traded. He paid gambling debts of mine. The KGB sonofabitch had money when he landed here. He told me the U.S. government helped him move here. I think it was the goddamned FBI. Then, when my sickness was at its worst the people in Vegas I’d borrowed from wanted to collect everything. They wanted me to sell everything to pay them. They didn’t want to wait anymore.”

“Do you think Ludovna knew them?”

“I don’t really know. If he does he’s worse than I thought.”

“So with him you only traded illegal fishing trips for cash. He serviced some of your debts for you.”

“Yes, but when they wanted everything right away, I had to put the business up for sale. Then my sister died in a fire and left me life insurance money. I paid them with that.”

“You sold the business too cheaply to Crey.”

“How do you know that?”

Marquez played on Beaudry’s fear of conspiracies now. Black helicopters, UN takeovers, FBI plots to overturn the Constitution, turn us into zombies with drugs.

“Because the FBI tapped everything. They listened to every sound you made.”

“Then you know I didn’t want to sell to him any more than I’d wanted to sell to the people I’d borrowed from in Vegas.”

“Then why did you sell to Crey?”

“I was afraid not to. I knew the FBI wasn’t going to help me after the way it ended with them, and Richie made it sound like his investors already knew about my business. I thought it was the Vegas money coming back, and they’d decided they were going to get the business after all.”

“What did you think Crey was going to use the sport boat for?”

“For the same things I did.”

“Poaching and taking out regular customers.”

Beaudry nodded again. “Richie knew Ludovna. I knew he’d take him out.”

“So you sold out knowing Crey was going to use your business to poach whenever he could, and that was okay because that’s what you’d done all those years you were helping us.”

“I am sorry.”

“Are you?”

“Yes, sir, I truly am.”

Baird came down from headquarters,
met him on Ninth, and they walked across the capitol lawns toward J Street. There were school buses, children grouped out in front of the capitol building getting ready for a tour of the capitol, and after they’d threaded their way through the kids Marquez explained.

“Beaudry told me this morning he sold way too cheap because he was afraid he was dealing with the same guys he’d borrowed from to pay his Vegas debts. He thinks they scouted his business after he said he’d sell it to pay what he owed. On his own or with the mob, Ludovna bought Beaudry’s business using Crey as a front.”

“That’s the way it strings together?”

“I think so. Ludovna went out on the boat enough times to decide he wanted the business. He knew Crey was an ex-con with no prospects so loaned him the money with a lot of conditions attached. Crey gets to own the business, but the catch is he’s also
got a debt to pay off to Ludovna and has to provide a steady supply of sturgeon. What we’re selling Crey is making its way to Ludovna.”

“But we can’t prove that.”

“Not yet, and we don’t know whether Ludovna is tied in with this Las Vegas group either. When I’ve talked to the FBI about Ludovna they haven’t been too interested.”

“I remember Beaudry. Didn’t he help us out? Didn’t we give him CalTIP money?”

“Yeah, we did, and he turned in a few poachers. They were probably crowding his boat and taking all the good fish.”

Marquez and Baird moved away from the capitol lawns, Marquez laying out what the SOU was doing now, partnering with Crey. At a street corner as they waited for the light to change, they overheard two young men, one asking the other, “Did you hear the FBI blew away one of those guys they’ve been looking for? Up in Seattle.”

Marquez turned to the young men, interrupted their conversation. “When did that happen?”

“Like an hour ago. Not the Karsov dude, but the other one.”

The light changed, and Marquez and the chief crossed. They walked on for another half hour, in part for Baird’s health. Baird’s doctor had him on a high dosage of statins and an aspirin a day. He’d been told to exercise regularly, so he walked. But now they ducked into a bar Baird knew had a TV. The bartender changed the channel to news, and they watched. It only took a few minutes to get the gist.

Rain slicked off the coat of the CNN reporter in Seattle. She interviewed a bystander who’d witnessed the gun battle with
Filipovna. Filipovna had attempted to shoot his way out when they knocked on the apartment door.

“They must have known where to wait for him,” Baird said as they came back out into sunlight. He slowed and turned toward Marquez. “You got your three-week extension and now we’re down to the last risks I’m going to okay. What happened to the FBI has shaken me. If we’re dealing with any of the same people that’s very disturbing, but I agree, we’re at a crossroads where we either give in or stop them. I’m trusting your judgment. If you’re wrong, God help both of us.”

Marquez nodded.

“Make sure you keep me in the loop.”

Marquez found Raburn on his houseboat, trimming out his new windows. He had a couple of sawhorses set up on the Astroturf. A gallon paint can of quick-drying primer and a brush were nearby. The Astroturf around the sawhorses was dotted with white paint drips, and Raburn dipped his hand into the river and scrubbed primer off his fingers.

“I was a lot happier before I got mixed up in any of this.”

“Next time don’t shoot your windows out.”

“Next time don’t force me to lie to a guy who wouldn’t have a problem killing me.”

“You may remember I asked you to stop working with him. I told you if he calls you and asks for sturgeon, you refer him to me.”

“It doesn’t quite work like that.”

“Then you’re not telling me what’s going on. You’re holding back. If you’ve been doing that since we got into this, then you haven’t kept your word.”

Raburn looked past him at some spot above the river.

“When did Ludovna last call you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“In the last few days?”

Raburn didn’t answer. Marquez studied him and the paint all over the Astroturf. He thought about Raburn shooting out his own windows. Beaudry was scornful of Raburn. Ludovna called him a drunk and a goof. Even Crey looked down on him, yet Raburn had managed to work with everybody, including the SOU. The guy was more clever than anyone gave him credit for.

“He called you, but you don’t want to talk to me about it. Is that because you’ve played it both ways ever since we made the offer to you?”

“I’ve done everything you asked. I’ve taken you out to people I’ve bought from, I’ve cleaned sturgeon and made caviar. I’ve driven you around—”

“Yeah, and you helped load Anna’s car in the middle of the night so she could deliver caviar. You help everybody. Tell your brother and sister-in-law I’m going to come see them tomorrow morning and have a talk with them about the canning room before they see charges filed. And I don’t know if you know this, but in California, if they both go down on felonies the judge has the right to place the kids in foster homes. That’s what you’ve got them into.”

“There’s something wrong with you.”

“You’re so sure you’re going to beat us at this, you’re willing to let them take big risks. Tell them I’m going to talk very frankly tomorrow and I’d advise them to do the same. I’m advising you
not to talk to anyone else about any of this. Something is going down now that I don’t think you want to be a part of.”

He left Raburn standing near his sawhorses, then he met Crey at the Bighorn in Rio Vista and drank several beers. Afterward they walked the ten blocks back to the bait shop, and Crey unlocked the door and fired up a joint that he smoked alone as he showed Marquez his sport boat schedule and pored over a navigational map, pointing out sturgeon holes. He got a bottle of Jack Daniels from the back room and two short glasses.

“That girl that works for me is coming back here in an hour.” He winked at Marquez. “I’ve got a bunk on the boat, and she’s bringing Chinese food.”

“How long have you known her?”

“She just about came with the place.”

They drank to the new partnership, and he should have realized then how hard Crey was working to find out where he’d be later tonight.