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  “You got this through wiretaps?”

  Ehrmann nodded and continued.

  “About two weeks later the fire kills Sally Beaudry. When the insurance company balked at paying, he hired a lawyer and fought them. In the end he got paid most of the policy value, and the Russians stopped looking for him soon after.”

  “Have you ever looked at the guy who bought the bait shop and boat?”

  “No. Give me his name.”

  Marquez watched him write down Richie Crey. He wrote it without hesitating. He wrote like he didn’t have any question about how Crey was spelled.

  “It’s possible,” Ehrmann said, “that organized crime fronted Crey the money to buy out Beaudry. They may have told Beaudry what the price would be as part of the whole package of getting forgiven on his late debt payment. You’d have to tell me that sturgeon poaching is worth the effort, if that’s what you’re saying they’d want the business to front for.”

  “Over time it could be worth it. Crey’s an ex-con, and I’ve talked to a few people who wonder where he got the money to buy. There’s also a rumor Beaudry sold too cheaply.”

  “A connection may have been made with Crey in prison. That happens. These deals have a way of getting complicated.”

  Now Ehrmann glanced at his watch. He leaned forward and faced Marquez.

  “We’re eighteen months into an investigation of a Ukrainian group operating along the West Coast. One of the locations we’ve had under surveillance is in Sacramento. We believe there’s some possibility of overlap with your sturgeon poaching investigation.”

  “Are you telling me we’re tracking one or more of the same people?”

  “No, and unfortunately I can’t talk much about our investigation. I have to leave things vague today, and I’m sorry about that. But if there’s an overlap we don’t want any confusion. I’m going to give you a phone number for me and would appreciate one in return that I can always reach you at.”

  “Where would we overlap?”

  “I can’t do this with you, Lieutenant. I’m sorry, I wish I could.” Ehrmann’s gaze went to Douglas. It was about to end. They’d called him in to put him on notice, and about everything else he could draw his own conclusions. “I hope this conversation has cleared up some of your questions.”

  Ehrmann walked out, and it was just Douglas and him again.

  “What’s the bottom line here?” Marquez asked.

  “You may get backed off of whatever you’re doing in a hurry. He wanted your phone number so that all he has to do is call you and say quit. They’ve got a lot of time into the investigation he’s talking about, and they’re close to a bust.”

  Marquez stood, and they looked at each other for a few seconds. He’d been sucker pitched with a promise of information about Beaudry, but either way they would have communicated the possible overlap, the blue-on-blue problem. In which case whatever they were doing always superseded any other agency or department. That’s what it meant to be top dog.

  “Remind me never to call here again.”

  Douglas laughed. “Good to see you. We’ve got to get together. How are Katherine and Maria?”

  “Back east looking at colleges.”

  “That’s where she wants to go?”

  “She doesn’t know.”

  “But her mom has an idea.”

  “That’s about right.” He looked at Douglas again before leaving. “How close are they with their investigation?”

  “They don’t tell me anything. Call me and let’s get the families together.”

  14

  Raburn had cleaned the sturgeon and bedded it on ice in the pickup. He had a special refrigerator set to twenty-nine degrees Fahrenheit, the temperature Ludovna wanted caviar stored at, so he didn’t get the cooler out until Marquez arrived. It wasn’t until they got on the road that Marquez smelled whiskey.

  “Do you always get lit up before you go see Ludovna?”

  “I had a couple of drinks waiting around for you.”

  “Might be a good night to have a clear head.”

  “Look, if I wanted someone to nag me I would have gotten married.”

  “Why don’t you pull over and I’ll drive.”

  Marquez ground the old pickup into gear. At Sacramento Fresh Fish they drove around back to the loading bay. The white BMW was there. Raburn used his cell phone instead of knocking on the door. A rolling door slowly rose after he hung up. An employee wearing a butcher’s apron waited on the other side and didn’t do much more than grunt as he helped unload the sturgeon. When Ludovna walked in he was wearing a dark blue suit and looked like he was on his way to a wedding. Cologne mixed with the smell of fish, and he was careful with his shoes as he walked through the shop.

  “This is my friend I told you about,” Raburn said, and Ludovna looked at Marquez without saying anything. He pulled his suit coat back so it didn’t brush against the stainless-steel table and the fish they’d unloaded. He leaned over to smell the sturgeon.

  “It’s old,” he said.

  “No, it’s not,” Marquez answered, giving it back to him, reading him as a bully.

  “Who the fuck are you again?”

  “John Croft, and it’s great to meet you. Sorry we’re late. The fish was on ice as soon as it came out of the water. Then it was in Abe’s freezer.”

  “Are you going to tell me I don’t know fish?”

  “I don’t know anything about you, so I don’t know what you know or don’t know. But I know about this sturgeon.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you know about this sturgeon.” He stared hard at Marquez. “Where’s the caviar?”

  The cooler was behind the seats in the pickup, and Raburn went to get it. He carried it in and put the cooler down on a stainlesssteel counter, opened it, removed the bowl with the caviar, and peeled back the Glad wrap. Ludovna dipped a finger in the eggs.

  “Tastes like mold, like shit.”

  “Let’s just load it back in the truck,” Marquez said to Raburn, saying it evenly, meaning to disrupt the show here. “I don’t need this tonight. I’ve got plenty of people I can sell to.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer from Raburn and picked up the bowl and resettled it in the cooler before starting toward Raburn’s old Ford.

  “Stop the fuck where you are and bring it back.”

  When he turned, Marquez saw Ludovna pointing a finger at him, and Nike Man with a gun showing but still tucked in his waist. Meanwhile the employee lowered the rolling door. Marquez set the cooler down on the concrete, and Ludovna registered that but turned to Raburn.

  “You’re a drunk and you’re stupid. You think you can fool me, but I have a dog smarter than you. You don’t deserve anything, but I’m going to pay some money tonight. I’m going to give you half, then you leave, and if this happens again then we never do any more business.”

  Marquez looked to his left at the big sinks they rinsed fish in, drains that could handle fish guts. He looked at the small amount of money on the table representing all the sturgeon species was worth tonight, looked at the men who were destroying it, and crossed to where the money lay on the stainless-steel counter. He picked up four one-hundred-dollar bills, clean new notes Ludovna had counted out. One bill fluttered to the floor.

  “Pick it up,” Ludovna said. “You take two bills and leave the rest. Pick the one you dropped up.”

  Marquez picked up the bill off the floor and laid it on top of the other three, then walked back over to the cooler, everyone watching as he carried the cooler to one of the big sinks and sloshed eight pounds of caviar into the sink. Repackaged as Caspian beluga in two-ounce jars it might have brought fifteen thousand dollars. He swiveled the spigot, the water gushed, and a stream of gray eggs flowed toward the drain. They rolled and swirled in the water and sucked down the drain as Ludovna yelled and Nike Man pulled his gun.

  “Keep your money. We’ll take the sturgeon home with us, too.”

  Marquez swept the eggs with his hand and washed another p
ound down the drain, the water a torrent getting the upper hand now. Soon the sink would be clean. Eggs popped against his palm. Ludovna crossed to him, saw the last go down the drain, and drove an open palm into Marquez’s shoulder, pushing him back. His face was dark red. A shine had started on his forehead, and Nike Man held the gun with both hands, aimed at Marquez’s head.

  “What the fuck did you just do?”

  “We’re not selling anymore. You didn’t like my caviar, so I threw it out. I’m the one taking the loss, so tell your goon to put his gun down.”

  “He’ll shoot you and we’ll feed you down the drains.”

  Ludovna said something in Russian, and the goon racked the slide. Marquez froze, his wet hands flat on the stainless-steel table. “You fuck,” Ludovna said. “You make one step and he’s going to kill you. Put your head in the sink. I’ll wash your blood down the drain, you fuck.”

  “I don’t cheat people. I don’t sell bad product, but how good did you expect it to be this time of year?”

  Ludovna turned abruptly to Raburn.

  “I should kill you both.” Then to Nike Man, “Search him, and if he moves, shoot him.”

  Nike Man checked him for a wire, doing it quickly and efficiently from behind. Ludovna waited until that was done.

  “The caviar was moldy.”

  Marquez gauged the change in Ludovna.

  “It wasn’t the best,” Marquez agreed.

  “It’s shit.”

  “I did the best I could with it.”

  “It’s still shit.”

  Ludovna moved over close to him. He was close enough that Marquez could feel his breath and smell the cologne again.

  “You keep two hundred dollars tonight.”

  “I don’t want any money, and you can keep the sturgeon. It was all a mistake. It was a mistake asking Abe if he knew anyone who’d be interested in doing business long term. I’m interested in a relationship. I want someone I can call without a lot of complication when I have a fish to sell.”

  Ludovna smiled, repeated Marquez’s words, making them sound weak. “A relationship.” He put a hand on Marquez’s shoulder and squeezed too hard. “That’s what you want, a relationship. Okay, next time we’ll have a drink together. You come to my house.” His voice changed, was quieter. “You want to do business with me, then I have to know who you are, okay?” He massaged Marquez’s shoulder, rubbing the skin between his fingers. “You come to my house.”

  “Sure.”

  “You get another fish and you call me.”

  “All right.”

  “When you come to my house you come alone.”

  Marquez nodded. Ludovna continued to stare at him, his breath on Marquez’s face. Then he stepped back. He insisted Marquez keep two hundred dollars. He smiled and patted Raburn on the back, and all the problems were over.

  15

  Marquez rented a room at Lisa’s that night. She had four rooms side by side up the road from the marina building. He parked his truck where he could see it from the window and brought his gear in. The confrontation with Ludovna had taken something out of him and left him tired. The main marina building was down the road a hundred yards, and he could see part of the roof and a corner of the deck. The lights were off in the bar, or he might have walked down and sat for a little while. He was hungry, but that could wait too.

  The door squeaked as he unlocked it and went in. He put his gear bag down, showered, and lay on the narrow bed. The foam mattress wasn’t much, but it was enough tonight. He lay on his back looking out on the darkness, thinking about what had happened, and then about Katherine and Maria, wondering how the trip was going. Katherine wouldn’t mind the SOU coming to an end. She might even buy a bottle of champagne to celebrate. His head turned with images of the confrontation with Ludovna, Nike Man racking the slide. Before falling asleep he decided he’d bring some gifts when he visited Ludovna next. The guy’s anger was mercurial, but he could probably get through to him. He did not remember falling asleep, but his cell phone woke him at 2:15.

  “Hold for a second,” he said, found his pants, his coat, and walked out barefoot to his truck. It was Selke.

  “Where are you, Marquez?”

  “At Lisa’s Marina.”

  “You’re not far from us. We’re around the back side of Dead Horse Island. You’ll see the lights and the vehicles.”

  “What’s there?”

  “The body of a woman. The body isn’t in good shape, but I want you to take a look at her.”

  Selke’s voice seemed to come at him from a distance. He’d talked himself into believing she hadn’t been abducted. He packed his gear, swung the small pack onto his shoulder, and the neighbor’s fist hammered the shared wall as Marquez tried to get the door lock to work. A man’s muffled swearing carried into the night, and Marquez didn’t turn his headlights on until he got up to the main road.

  He drove through thick fog, overshot the slough, had to backtrack, and now he drove out the dirt road on the levee above the slough. He saw the lights up ahead, counted eight vehicles and a coroner’s van. A deputy stepped out and blocked the road as he got close.

  “Selke’s up there,” the deputy said. “You’ll see him.”

  “When did they find the body?”

  “I heard there was a tip or something a couple of days ago, and one of the detectives drove out here this afternoon and saw where the riverbank was torn up, so they got a diver out and he found the refrigerator after dark.”

  A small crane had been brought in, and as Marquez parked and walked up, the crane operator was leaving. The road was lit with klieg lights, and the light reflected brightly off the fog. A sheet of thick clear plastic had been unfolded on the dirt road, and a white household refrigerator lay on its back, door open in the middle of the plastic, the effect almost comical. Selke stood with a group of men near it but not too close, as a county photographer worked his way around it.

  If it was Anna, Marquez wasn’t ready yet and looked from the men back to the refrigerator, then stopped. The open door of the refrigerator made him think of a coffin. He made out the darker color of the body inside. He listened to the men talking and the hum of the klieg lights and a sound in his head like ocean waves breaking on a shoreline.

  When he started forward he saw metal banding, the type used to bind pallets or a load of lumber, and guessed that the refrigerator had been banded shut when they craned it out. He didn’t want anyone to tell him or talk to him yet. He acknowledged Selke and lifted a hand to let Selke know to hang on another minute. He didn’t understand the camaraderie of detectives. He just wanted to look and if it was her, take it in alone. Selke walked over.

  “Take your time,” Selke said. “No hurry. Her face is so badly damaged you won’t recognize anything, but there are other identifying marks you may be able to help with.” He added quietly. “I hear you’ve seen bodies before.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “No one I talk to seems to remember anything. How was she found?”

  “A couple of fishermen who haunt this stretch for catfish snagged on the box and knew it hadn’t been there long. One of them is a diver, and since they didn’t like what it was doing to their trolling he went down for a look. He saw the bands and of course he knew about Burdovsky being missing, so because of the bands we came out. We figured with the banding it was more than the old tradition of throwing old appliances in the river.”

  “Do you believe these two men?”

  “I had the same reaction, but we’re talking about some fiftysomething guys that everyone around here knows. The one who went in the water was a Navy diver in Nam. He’s kept on diving so it was no big deal for him to go in. Neither one of them has any money.” Selke looked at him. “You ready?”

  Marquez’s legs felt weighted, and from the way Selke held himself he knew Selke believed it might be Anna. As he followed Selke, he felt like he was floating away from his body and looking down i
nto the refrigerator cavity from a height where he saw her folded, head tucked to her knees, lying on her side. The black hose of a small pump curled over the refrigerator, and he realized they’d drained the water and saved it. Her hands were shrunken, gray and curled like bird’s claws, her face destroyed, nose and eyes gone, a knife taken to her cheeks and lips. Someone had started to scalp her, then stopped. Part of her scalp and hair lay to one side, the hair wet and twisted like something cleaned from a drain. There was no face to identify, but Selke pointed at a small tattoo on the back of her neck.

  “That would have been up under the hairline,” Selke said.

  “I don’t remember seeing a tattoo there on Anna.”

  “What about a little tattoo on her right breast?”

  Marquez looked at the breast tattoo, a butterfly, shook his head. “Never saw this part of Anna.” He felt a need to touch her, and Selke stopped him. He couldn’t shake the sense of being outside himself, his shock at the brutality, but he didn’t know if the body was Anna Burdovsky’s. He backed away, walked down the road away from the group with Selke, listening to him recount again how they found her, as if in the retelling a truth would reveal itself.

  “If you had to guess,” Selke asked.

  “I’d guess it’s not her. Shoulders don’t seem right. The body is heavier.”

  “I can tell you’ve seen this kind of thing before.”

  Marquez nodded. “Cartel wars,” he said. “Yeah, I saw some bad stuff when I was DEA.”

  More than enough for a lifetime. Enough to where he’d lost his tolerance for it, and he knew Selke was probing for more than that reason. Selke had wanted him to see the body just to watch his reaction. He had wanted to point out the breast tattoo and gauge Marquez’s face. The guy was pure detective.

  “Can you see someone doing this to her over sturgeon poaching?”

  He wasn’t sure he needed to answer. The young woman was badly mutilated, and that was more than hiding her identity. It was rage, and Selke knew that better than he did.