“What did Perry say to you?” he asked her.
“That he was the gentleman who’d sent the beer.”
“Did he tell you I was the gentleman who paid for it?”
“No, because I told him I hadn’t noticed any gentlemen in the room.”
“Come on, how can you say that? You must have seen me down there.”
She laughed, and he liked hearing her. The last cutback, the one that took out Roberts and Alvarez, had been the worst. They used to have a pretty good time together even on the long surveillances.
“Now he wants to go home with you.”
“Yeah, lucky me.”
But nothing about them trailing her was funny. Roberts worked her way through the outskirts of Sacramento, and they were quieter because the opportunity was there for Torp and Perry to catch up. She moved into a part of town with more traffic and stoplights, and they got ready in case the Le Mans closed on her. But other than race lights a couple of times to avoid losing her, Torp and Perry hung back. When Roberts turned onto 80 eastbound toward Reno, the heavy Le Mans swung onto the on-ramp behind her, its engine a deep roar as it accelerated onto the freeway.
“Take the Roseville exit,” Marquez said.
“Roger, that.”
Half an hour later Roberts did a slow figure eight through a large shopping center off the freeway in Roseville. She stopped briefly, went into a store while the Le Mans idled in the lot, waiting. Then she got back on the freeway and ran it up to eighty-five as the CHP unit dropped down alongside the Le Mans. Torp and Perry kept glancing over at the CHP officer, waiting for him to go ticket her, but the officer just rode alongside them, his sunglassed eyes turning from time to time to return their stares. Eventually, they slowed even more to get away from him. When they did that they had to let Roberts go.
In Sacramento Roberts switched vehicles, then caught up to Shauf, who was with the Le Mans at a Sacramento McDonald’s, watching Perry and Torp eat in their car in the McDonald’s lot.
“You’re on your own with them,” Marquez said, “I’m going to stop in at Lisa’s Marina and see if I can find her.”
He figured Selke had already blown his cover with the owner of Lisa’s Marina, so why not come clean with her and find out if she saw anything? If Anna’s vanishing act was schemed, then she would have needed to know he was at Lisa’s before going forward with it. That had caused him to wonder about the fishermen who’d been at the bar that night.
When he walked into the marina bar it was empty. The tall windows looked out across the river, and this part of the building was one story with a high ceiling. But there was a second story that covered half of the building and held Lisa’s office and apartment. He thought about calling from the bottom of the stairs, then spotted her out on the deck.
“Hi,” she said, “Sorry to keep you waiting. I was cleaning. Do you need a room tonight?”
“No, I’m here to talk to you, Lisa, if you have a few minutes.”
She brushed a strand of hair back from her forehead.
“I wondered when you’d come explain, or whether you ever would. The detective came by and asked a lot of questions about you and the woman they’ve been searching for. I haven’t been able to sleep through a night since that happened. I think about Anna all the time.”
“You know her?”
“Sure, it’s the delta. There aren’t that many of us.”
“She’s probably fine.”
“That’s what the detective said. He thinks she faked it. But why would she do that?”
“Do you have time to sit down?”
They took a table out on the deck, and it was warm in the sun. The mention of Selke’s name conjured the body last night, an image he pushed away when Lisa asked if he wanted coffee. Now he watched her come back outside with two coffee mugs. She had rose spots on her cheeks from cleaning the rooms. She had a wisp of hair that kept falling over her forehead and she kept pushing it back.
“Sometimes at night I just like to sit here and listen to the river,” she said. “I’ve been here twelve years this coming March. I moved here from Florida after my husband died in a boating accident.”
“Is he the one in the photos on the wall inside?”
“He’s the one driving the boat.”
Marquez knew she’d been a waterskiing star in Sarasota, Florida, when she was younger. Photos of her cutting through slalom courses, trick ski shots, and jumps were framed and on the walls outside the restrooms near the pay phone.
She took a sip of coffee. “So you’re not a research biologist.”
“No, I run an undercover team for California Fish and Game called the Special Operations Unit. Our mission is to stop the commercialization of wildlife. Right now we’re working a sturgeon poaching operation. Anna was working as an informant for us.”
She moved the strand of hair off her forehead again.
“What’s your real name?” she asked.
“John Marquez.”
“So it is John.”
“Yes.”
“Is Marquez Spanish?”
“My grandfather came here from Barcelona. My grandmother was English. They met in San Francisco.”
Undoubtedly, she had Selke’s voice in her head and was evaluating him as they talked, wondering about the things Selke had asked her. When she finished with questions about him, he brought out his mug shots and photos. He reconstructed Friday night, the three men sitting at the bar while he was outside on the deck with a beer. When she couldn’t tell him much about the fishermen he brought out photos of August, Crey, and Ludovna. She picked up Ludovna’s photo, black-and-white, grainy.
“He’s been here, though not in a while. He drives a white BMW, or a friend of his does. I remember that because I’ve always wanted one of those.” She tapped August’s face. “I don’t know about him.” Her expression changed, remembering something, a fingernail moving to Ludovna’s face. “This guy I think is a Russian immigrant. He said he was going to buy the marina from me, give me a big price, but he was drunk that night.”
“What would he do with it?”
She laughed, moved the strand of hair off her forehead again. “Lose money, I guess. Sit up nights trying to figure out how to get people to come here. Give free power and water to the boats that stop to use the bathrooms, but I’m whining.”
“Would you sell?”
“At the right price.”
“Did he know that?”
“No, I don’t have anyone to talk to, and I don’t gossip at the bar, but I was born in the Keys and I miss Florida. I’m ready to move back.” She seemed to feel she owed some further explanation. “I was towing my husband waterskiing, and he hit a piece of waterlogged lumber that was submerged.” He saw her take a breath. “It broke his leg and the bone severed the femoral artery. He died before we got to shore, and I just couldn’t stay in Florida after that.” She touched Ludovna’s face again, almost tenderly. “He is Russian, isn’t he?”
“Yes, but he became a U.S. citizen in ‘97.”
“And I know Richie Crey,” she said. “I mean, there aren’t that many people in business in the delta. He brings his sport boat here sometimes, you know, with the fishermen. I’m supposed to let him drink for free in return, but he sure can run up a bar tab. Sometimes it works out for me, but Richie can drink a lot. He’s still got problems. He’s not real happy, sort of like a big kid with tattoos and a record. It’s like he can never get away from some types of people he shouldn’t associate with anymore. But this guy, the Russian, scares me. I don’t mean he scares me like I’m afraid he would do something to me, but there’s something cruel about him. He kind of looks right through you.”
“Looks through you?”
“I mean it.”