Five miles from the cutoff that would take him back to Fort Bragg, Marquez crested a rise, saw a long line of brake lights and in the dip below, flashing lights of emergency vehicles and the highway patrol. The driver of the car in front of him was out of his vehicle with a foot up on his rear bumper. His head turned toward Marquez’s headlights and he squinted, face scrunched as if to say, don’t you get it, buddy, we’re not going anywhere soon. A half hour later the traffic was still at a dead stop and he’d learned that it was a logging truck that had jackknifed and there was a fatality. He called Petersen, thinking she might have to meet Davies and keep him in Fort Bragg until he could get there.
“It must have happened after I drove through,” she said. “How come you talked down to me like that?”
“I wasn’t talking down.”
“You were patronizing me.”
“I wouldn’t do that, but if you want to say being pregnant is the same as not being, then we’re not on the same page.”
“I’m not saying that.”
He didn’t understand the intensity of her reaction, but knew she was serious and apologized again, although the apology didn’t sit that well with him. He swallowed his pride, did it anyway, and then checked the action below. They had something like a 988 Cat with log forks and a top clamp moving logs off the roadway. The operator looked experienced and maybe they’d get the road open soon, but there was no way to know for sure and he told her about Davies’s call.
“He wants to meet tonight in Fort Bragg and claims he’s got information.”
“That he couldn’t give you over the phone?”
“He wants to talk in person, says he’s being followed.”
“Yeah, by little people in his head.”
“I’m wondering if the Feds are tracking him.”
“I think we should write him off. Skip the meeting tonight. He’s trouble and he hasn’t been straight with us.”
“You’re right, but I want to keep a conversation going. How about checking Noyo for his boat and then call me back?”
“This guy makes my skin crawl, John. He’s up with two murder victims at Guyanno, then he’s dumping Huega off his boat after torturing him and you still want to meet with him. I don’t get that.”
“He’s not all smoke. He’s had contact with our abalone buyers.”
“You don’t know that, but if it’s true, what’s that say about him?”
“It says he’s got his own agenda.”
“I’ll check the harbor and call you.”
There was a part of him that completely understood taking Huega up the coast and questioning him. He knew the feeling, but had never given into it. Davies was sure he’d been set up by someone and Marquez didn’t think that part was an act, though he knew he was the only one who believed that. He hung up with her and saw the first cars crawling through down below. An hour later, as he drove through Leggett he took a call from Katherine.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Up near Fort Bragg.”
“That’s four hours away, isn’t it?”
“Almost.”
“We had a funny thing at Presto today, John.”
“What was that?”
“A couple of men came in after you left. They ordered cappuccinos and then just watched me.”
“Were you behind the counter?”
“For a while and then I went in back because they made me nervous.”
“Did you talk to them?”
“I tried to but they stood off on one end of the bar. Sara was afraid they were going to rob us, that’s how weird it seemed.”
“What did they look like?” She gave him a description now and one sounded like the black-haired man they’d videotaped with his friend outside Li’s house. The other she described could be the prison-buffed Hispanic Meghan Burris had told them about. The man who called himself Carlo. She described a thick white scar on his left forearm and he heard the huskiness in her voice, knew she’d been affected by it, and wondered how they’d found the coffee bar. Had he been followed by more than the FBI the other day? He asked her to walk through a description one more time. “They sound like a couple of guys we’ve been after. I’ve got a videotape I’m going to show you.”
“You mean they followed you here?”
“They may have, but I don’t know what it means that they came in and stood at the bar. Whether they’re checking it out or sending a message. Did they talk to anybody?”
“I’m sorry and I’ll do something about it.”
“Do what? What can you do?” He didn’t have an answer for that yet and she continued. “I went up to the house today and got a couple more things. I took that light that I like.”
“Did you think about what I said the other day?”
“I’m thinking about everything.” Marquez didn’t have anything to say to that. “The deer ate your last tomatoes,” she said after a silence. “I guess they got up on the deck.” They were welcome to them. “And Maria said she saw your hawk this afternoon.”
“Maria was with you?”
“Yes. She says she can tell the hawk from the others.”
With Maria he’d nursed an injured redtail back to health. For a long time it stayed close to the house, roosting in the redwoods alongside the driveway. They’d raised mice and it was a hard lesson for Maria to watch the hawk swoop down and take a mouse. He hadn’t expected the bird to make it, thought it would end up sitting on a roost someplace like the Lindsay Museum in Walnut Creek. But the hawk had recovered and he and Maria made a game out of spotting it flying up on the mountain.
“I’ll have to talk to her.”
“You won’t tonight. She’s already in bed.” He pictured Katherine’s little house in Bernal Heights. She’d planned to rent it out long-term and he was going to make improvements to it over time. He knew how hard it must have been for her to move back there and remembered how excited and happy she’d been the first year up on Mt. Tam. Katherine went on, “We had a fight after she left the dinner table and headed straight to the bathroom. She thinks I lurk outside the bathroom door every time she goes in there.”
“Were you outside the door tonight?”
“Am I going to get it from you, too?”
“You know, John, you’re one person who doesn’t get to judge me. She looks like a famine victim but thinks she looks like a fashion model.”
“We’ll get through to her. Regardless of what happens between us.”
“I think we’ve already had this conversation.”
He hung up with Katherine and drove into Fort Bragg thinking over the conversation. But there was nothing in this one he could draw from. He’d made the offer to leave Fish and Game, find another job, and that didn’t ring true for her. She didn’t believe he’d do it, he guessed. Or maybe she was already further downstream from the marriage than he realized. He knew something was going to have to give; they weren’t going anywhere this way.
When he hit a stoplight he punched in Ruter’s number, because that was the way they’d left it, that he’d communicate whenever he heard from Davies. Ruter’s voice was slow and it sounded like he’d had a couple of drinks.
“He called me, too,” Ruter said. “I think he wanted to hear my voice after killing my cat.”
“Did he say anything?”
“That Huega, Stocker, and Han, all dealt drugs, and that it’s common knowledge up here. He knows we found dope at Huega’s ex-wife’s, and says Huega moved dope at night out of some of these coves where they used to ship timber. Davies says the dope is going to the same people buying abalone.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Where I’m headed is I think this is looking more like a dope smuggling operation than an abalone poaching ring.”
“Then you know more than you’re telling me.”
“They pulled half a kilo from the ex-wife’s house.”
Marquez listened to more on the dope smuggling theory, Huega, Han, and Stocker moving dope by boat for growers in Humboldt, the spin the DEA had put on it for Ruter to keep the detective out of their hair. Marquez knew because he’d been there himself, knew what lines they would have fed Ruter. Huega, Han, and Stocker putting into these secluded coves at night, dope ferried out to their boats and then transferred to the main buyer, the DEA on the edge of a big bust they’d been working for a year. He could hear it, but his problem was a poaching ring. The dope smuggling would go on forever up here. All you needed to know about the war on drugs was that prices had dropped steadily over the last decade. Match that fact with the basics of supply and demand and you had your answer.
Ruter changed subjects. “Here’s a story about Davies you might not know. Last Christmas, Davies walked through a restaurant parking lot with a Zippo lighter, firing up the American flags everyone was running around with on their cars. He’d set five or six on fire by the time they grabbed him. He then told the arresting officer the flag isn’t the country and people are getting confused. He said the founding fathers would have cleaned their rifle, not flown colored cloth.”
“Where was this?”
“Fort Bragg.”
“He’s right, I guess.”
“You’re a funny guy, Marquez.”
He heard liquid pouring, a glass placed on a hard surface, ice tinkling. “Then there’s one other idea I’m going to throw out there. In this one Davies isn’t the bad guy. He’s being used by an unknown party. I can’t tie anything together; I’m just throwing it out there because you’re the guy to keep kicking that around. Call me after you meet with him. I’ll keep my phone next to me.”
“Yeah, okay.”
A few minutes later he talked with Petersen and she said Davies’s boat wasn’t at Noyo. She chuckled but not with any humor. She really didn’t want any more to do with Davies. “Maybe he spotted people hiding up in the trees when he docked,” she said, “or a black helicopter hovering overhead. They’re probably chasing him down the coast and he’s just barely staying ahead of them.”
“I’ll call him.”
“I wouldn’t. If you ask me, we should let him go. He isn’t worth it and he’s never been who he says he is. But he’s sure got your number, doesn’t he?” She hung up quickly, still angry, he thought.