Torp and Perry’s white van was still in front of the room they’d rented. The two rooms between theirs and his were empty. No lights were on. He didn’t hear any sounds, and this was probably needless worry. He softly shut his door, threw the deadbolt, and then, rather than walk past Torp and Perry’s room and down the road to the marina building, he went the opposite way up to the levee road.
Now he looked down on the roofs of the rooms Lisa rented and the big marina building, the boats docked below, the light on the river. He stayed in the shadow out of the moonlight and knew there was a footpath somewhere up here that led back down. It took a few minutes to find it. Then he climbed over the guard rail and dropped steeply on the path through mud and brush until he was down to where Lisa’s car sat in a narrow carport.
He worked his way to the dark corner of the marina building. He knew he hadn’t imagined the footsteps but wondered now if it had been Torp or Perry going outside for a smoke. He kept one hand sliding along the wood siding of the marina building as he worked his way around it, moving toward the river and the moonlit deck.
When he rounded the corner and was under the deck he heard movement on the deck. Soft footsteps. They stopped, then started again. He edged his way around to the river face of the deck, staying low, listening to a scratching noise, and then moved onto one of the deck steps and saw someone at the bar door, his back turned to him. He climbed the steps slowly and moved toward the figure, knew if the man turned he’d see him on the deck in the moonlight. It’s Torp, he thought, looking at the back of him. Heard the faint rattle of the door lock, Torp trying to get the door open, and not turning around until Marquez was within ten feet of him.
“I’m getting a drink,” Torp said, jumping back, startled and surprised.
“There’s a whole river you can drink. Where’s your friend?”
He saw a blur of movement or maybe he heard a chair scrape, or Torp was too quiet, too slow to answer. When Perry charged across the deck Marquez was already in motion. Perry’s blade sliced through his coat, and Marquez swung a deck chair with his left hand, missed Perry but caught Torp in the face and broke a leg of the chair. He saw Torp go down moaning and faced Perry, was close to drawing his gun but swung the chair instead, kept Perry circling. Torp started to rise, and Marquez swung at Perry again, then kicked Torp in the head, watched him stagger, lie flat, and surprisingly start to get up yet again.
“Do him,” Perry said and advanced on Marquez, the knife blade flashing in the moonlight. “Liam, shoot him.”
Marquez swung the chair at the advancing Perry, and Torp was on his feet again. He reached into his coat, and Marquez jumped toward him with the chair and with a slashing swing forced him to block with his arms and jump back before he was hit. In the same motion he continued around with the chair and caught part of Perry. Then he was on Torp clubbing him to the deck, his big fist hammering down on the back of Torp’s neck. Marquez pulled the gun from Torp’s belt and aimed at Perry.
“Drop the knife.”
“Are you going to shoot me, Fish Boy?”
“Right now.”
He clicked the safety off, aimed at Perry’s midsection, and heard the knife clatter onto the decking. He backed Perry up, picked up the knife, then walked them both up the road to the rooms and had Perry lie face down on the gravel near their van as a bleeding Torp staggered around getting their stuff out of their room. Then he had Perry get in and start the van. After they drove off he sat out in the cold for an hour and talked to Cairo, who was down the street from Crey’s house where the lights were on still. He was still shaking from adrenaline.
“These guys are operating outside of Crey,” Marquez said.
“You need to bag it and pull out tonight, Lieutenant. We can get a police cruiser to sit out there and watch the marina.”
Marquez looked at the knife and gun, knew that they wouldn’t be back tonight and that things were in motion now with Torp and Perry in a way that wouldn’t stop until satisfied. He left it with Cairo that he’d find him around dawn, then went back into the room, lay down with his gun near him, his heart still pounding.
28
Around midday Marquez knocked on the door of Chief Bell’s house. When Bell answered, his face was puffy, hair uncharacteristically uncombed, and he hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. He wore jeans, a robe, no shirt, and tasseled brown loafers without socks.
“We haven’t always gotten along,” Marquez said, “but I want to say good-bye. I heard you’re going east.”
“I have a job offer.” He stared as though daring Marquez to challenge the truth of that. “Come in, Lieutenant.”
It was an invitation Marquez had never had. He’d attended a single backyard cocktail party, but only the catering company serving food had been in and out of the house that night. Guests had used the bathrooms in the cabana.
In the kitchen was a long plank table and a fireplace. Marquez took a seat at the bar counter, and Bell moved stiffly around to the other side to face him. He offered coffee.
“I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors about my wife.”
“I heard you were served divorce papers at headquarters.”
“Oh, I’m sure the story has made the rounds. Ellen ran off with a friend of ours. I couldn’t count how many times he’s had dinner here. This is a bastard I played golf with and thought was a friend of mine. I called him a day or two after she left to tell him because I needed somebody to talk to. When I found out it was him I had to lock up my gun. You can take that story back to headquarters, I’m sure they’ll like that one too.”
Marquez didn’t know what to say to Bell. His pride was badly hurt, and Marquez didn’t know Bell’s wife, didn’t know much of anything about their marriage. It made an awkward moment.
“What’s the job in D.C.?”
Now Bell had to decide how much he wanted to say to this lieutenant who’d largely been difficult to manage. Bell had hobnobbed regularly with politicians, attended fund-raisers, made speeches about environmental preservation and gave of his time to different candidates. In the single conversation Marquez had ever had with Bell about those ambitions, Bell had been frank, said he felt his place was in the public arena. That’s where his skills were best suited, and maybe that’s what moving to Washington was about. He’d come out of a middle-class suburb, gone to UCLA, pursued biology and law, then served in the National Guard Reserves before coming to Fish and Game. He didn’t have any children, was a hard worker and well liked inside the administration building, though disliked by all field wardens Marquez knew. Shauf had caught it best, saying when she was in his office she always got the feeling she wasn’t supposed to touch anything or sit on the furniture, because Bell drew a clear line between the help out in the field and those who worked administration.
“I’m sure you’ll be happy to see me go.”
“You always had your reasons, and you always seemed to believe them. I thought someday you’d be running the show. But I came to say good-bye because we worked together for years. I figure to turn my own badge in when this operation ends.”
“You don’t mean that. What would you possibly do?”
“I don’t know yet. What’s the job in D.C.?”
“Lobbying for an environmental group at quadruple the pay I made with the department. I get a living expense, a car, and a credit card for entertaining.”
The world didn’t need any more lobbyists.
“When does it start?”
“Next week. My wife and I made several trips to Washington looking for a house to rent.” Bell studied his face. “Lieutenant, I know it’ll be a hard adjustment having the SOU close down, but you’ll get used to a uniform again. Chief Baird has a place for you.”