Marquez called Ruter and related the Davies conversation, said it sounded to him like Huega would be dumped somewhere south of Punta Gorda, beyond the abandoned lighthouse, maybe between Sea Lion Gulch and Randall Creek. There were stretches where the cliffs were on top of you and the beach was a white ribbon that sleeper waves could cover completely. You had to keep your eye on the ocean, but there was no fog tonight and Huega would see a big wave well before it happened. He’d see a black hump rise and roll toward him with moonlight glistening off its shoulder.
“You might ask the Coast Guard to take a run up there and see if they spot him on the beach,” Marquez told Ruter.
“Is he hurt?”
“He may be.”
“Thanks for the call.”
“Let me know what happens.”
Ruter never answered. Marquez was in Oakland, a block and a half from Li’s house, parked alongside an empty house for sale. A half-eaten burrito, two chicken tacos, and a thermos of coffee were on the passenger seat. The food would carry him until another SOU warden, Cairo, took over after midnight. Lately, he’d been living off Mexican food; fish tacos, burritos, tostaditos, guacamole, and chips. Since Katherine and Maria had moved out he’d barely been to the store, other than for the most basic staples and for dinner on the nights they came over. He had tomatoes growing on the deck, wrapped in chicken wire to keep the deer off. He’d make a dinner out of bread, tomatoes, peanut butter, and rum or beer.
He had all his gear with him tonight, two guns, the takedown vest, all the cameras and night vision equipment, everything he needed if Li rolled, though the team reported that Li hadn’t left the house all day. He thought more about Davies as he sat in the darkness. Davies had gone over some edge and the question was whether it was before he’d called from Guyanno or after. He reached over and closed up the bag with the tacos, lowered his window, and leaned back in his seat. Another hour went by and then his phone rang.
Davies’s voice was remorseful, slowed, and thick. “He slid against a knife, Lieutenant, but he’s fine. He’s onshore. I dropped him. He got cut when the boat pitched, but it was no big deal, maybe a couple inches long, a quarter-inch deep. He’s walking out to Gitchell Creek. You’ll want to pick him up there. That’s going to be a good time to lean on him.”
“How much farther do you want to cross over the line?”
But Davies didn’t seem to hear him.
“I got some information from him and he got on the phone for me. We made some calls to his friends. You sit Danny down, Lieutenant, and he’ll talk to you. Put his feet to the fire, though. That’s the way to get results.”
“Bring your boat in, Mark.” He hoped this Huega was okay, figured he probably was, and felt a quiet regret for Davies, who’d be looking at prison time for this. “You’re blowing it; they’ve got an all-points bulletin out on you.”
“If I come in I’ll be sitting in a cell with some dweeb-ass county defender trying to tell me to plead guilty because he’s never won a case in his life. You don’t have to tell me I fucked up today, Lieutenant.” He hung up.
Marquez stared at Li’s house after Davies clicked off. He phoned Ruter, left a message, and was surprised by a call back two hours later.
“We got him,” Ruter said, “and we’re looking for Huega. You ready to admit you were wrong about Davies? Maybe you ought to check out your informants more carefully.”
“Do you have anything tying him to the killings?” Marquez asked.
“No one is going to teach you anything about denial, Marquez. You could write the goddamned book. I’ll call you after we sit down with him.”