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‘I got grilled a couple of days ago on how I afforded the down payment on my house in San Francisco. I told them the truth; I got the money from my ex-husband when we divorced. I got it from Pete. It has nothing to do with Group Five, the DEA, or anything that happened eighteen years ago.’

‘How much money?’

‘Two hundred thousand dollars.’

‘They must have asked Pete Phelps. He’s not denying he gave you the money, is he?’

‘He is and he signed an affidavit. He lied.’

Sheryl did something he’d never heard her do. She choked up and wept, wracking sobs that the phone carried easily.

‘I married him,’ she eventually got out. ‘I’ve made such a mess of my life. I’ve made such a mess. I’ll call you tomorrow.’

She hung up.

FIFTY

S
heryl called the next morning and Beth Murkowski, the agent from DEA Internal Affairs that Sheryl called Murky, showed up with another DEA agent in tow. Murkowski didn’t come to his house. She came instead to the FBI San Francisco Field Office. That she came here surprised Marquez and made him wonder if the DEA had a tail on him, or a phone tap in anticipation of Sheryl’s arrest.

Murkowski stood about six foot two with pale blue eyes and a hard face. The male agent’s name Marquez didn’t catch and didn’t need to. He was there to carry her briefcase. In a conference room Murkowski laid it out for him in a very deliberate voice.

‘The Mexican Federal Judicial Police have turned over previously withheld documents to the US State Department. Copies of those documents are in my possession. I’m going to show them to you. I don’t have any problem showing them to you, but I’d like to record your answers if that’s all right with you.’

‘That’s fine.’

The male agent placed a tape recorder on the table.

‘We’re going back to 1989 to the bull ring.’ She watched his eyes as she said that. ‘This is the testimony of a Tijuana police officer who was in the bull ring when you were there.’

She slid it over and as Marquez picked up the Mex Fed document it felt for a moment as if he was in the Cadillac again, rolling through the dusty lot with Billy sitting next to him.

‘There’s a translated copy underneath the one on top.’

‘I can read this one.’

‘Agents at the San Diego Field Office discovered that your former SAC, Jay Holsten, suppressed information that the Mexican Federal Judicial Police had provided the DEA. He buried it or destroyed it, but the Mexicans kept their own records. This is a copy they made from their records. Agent Marquez, if this account is accurate you made a choice in the bull ring about your future.’

‘You’re right, it was a big day, and a sad one.’

‘It’s going to get sadder, I think, but you may feel better when it’s over.’

Marquez didn’t answer that and read the Spanish account rather than the translated. When he finished he laid it down and asked, ‘Where do you want to start?’

‘With Sheryl Javits, ALCRON, the money in the La Paz bank account, and how Jim Osiers got framed. If you help us, I can pretty well guarantee you’ll get a deal.’

‘I don’t need any deal,’ he said quietly, ‘and I’ve made plenty of mistakes myself in investigations. I have to tell you you’re making one now.’

Marquez had been part of operations where a few early conclusions cascaded into a series of mistakes. He’d been in her shoes. He knew how it could go. You get going the wrong way and everything seems to fit and you get more and more pumped up as you build to a confrontation like this.

They went through his version now, the bull ring, the drive back with Billy’s body, the copies of the Fed form, the 52s, and Jim Osiers’ murder. She slid him another document, a signed statement by the same Tijuana cop, as well as one from a Mex Fed who had witnessed Marquez meet Miguel Salazar outside a restaurant in Tijuana.

‘It wasn’t a meeting and it cost me my career. You could check that with my former SAC, Jay Holsten.’

‘Your former SAC is in a nursing home with Alzheimer’s. He can’t remember his name or how to use a toilet.’

Now she handed him her final document, or at least the last of what she’d brought with her. This one got his interest, a single page with all lines blacked-out except for a lone paragraph at the bottom. Someone had written the word
Stoval
in blue ink at the top of the page. Marquez’s guess was that this page was a CIA document passed to her through the State Department. That could mean someone wanted her to have it. Maybe Kerry Anderson could explain that to him. The paragraph at the bottom recounted a bull ring meeting between Miguel Salazar and the DEA agent the Salazars paid to deliver Billy Takado to them.

‘Emrahain Stoval gave that account to a CIA officer eight years ago. I know you’re on a Stoval task force and I’m very clear who Stoval is, but as you also know, he has a relationship with the CIA. Regardless of what anyone thinks about that relationship, it exists. What you’re holding in your hand is his testimony. Tell me why he would lie.’

‘Tell me why he wouldn’t.’

She didn’t really like the look of the document any more than he did and he doubted she believed in it because as soon as he laid the document down she switched abruptly to talking about Jim Osiers. Still, the blacked-out page lay on the table as another layer. It troubled him.

‘You went to Loreto in 1990 looking for Alicia Guayas.’

‘That’s true, I did, but I didn’t find her and I learned later she’d gone north and crossed the border.’

‘We have reason to believe you murdered Alicia Guayas and dumped her body in the Sea of Cortez in May 1990.’

‘You don’t stop, do you?’ Marquez turned and looked at the other agent. ‘You two came here believing I murdered Alicia?’

‘You went back to Loreto and you found her.’

‘I went back but I didn’t find her. I found her in California later and she’s not dead. She lives here in the Bay Area and I still see her about once a month. Her son lives with her.’

‘Where? Give me an address.’

‘She’s not legal. She never took the steps. I’m not ready to give you an address.’

Murkowski had to think awhile on that one. She had several options including going to the SAC here and requesting that he get Alicia Guayas’ address from Marquez. Instead, she demanded, ‘Are you in a relationship with her?’

‘As in an affair, no, and my wife knows her. Alicia and her son have been to our house for dinner.’

‘Why?’

Marquez understood what she was asking. ‘It’s complicated, but let’s say I have always believed that Jim Osiers may have been innocent. I saw his body. I made the identification. Miguel Salazar tortured him.’

The agent next to her snorted and said, ‘You knew ahead of time he was in the truck outside the Field Office.’

Marquez glanced at him, but spoke to Murkowski after reaching and tapping the first document she’d slid at him.

‘There were two cartel guards in the bull ring, both with AK-47s. One was a Tijuana cop Billy recognized.’ He held her eye and acknowledged her work. ‘I see how you got there.’

He did see it. She stepped out of the room now with her assistant and Marquez picked up his cell and scrolled down to the address book. He found Alicia’s phone number. Murkowski walked back in just as Alicia answered. An hour later Murkowski stood in Alicia’s apartment looking at a photo of Alicia retrieved from her bedroom. In the photo she was young and Osiers looked trim and fit standing alongside her. Behind them was the Sea of Cortez. Osiers was smiling. He was a month from dying. Alicia cradled the framed photo as Murkowski studied it.

Marquez watched her change as she talked to Alicia. They were there two hours and outside she allowed she’d made mistakes, but took a parting shot before getting in her car.

‘If you interfere at all with my investigation of Sheryl Javits, you’re going to end up with an obstruction charge. I’ll give you my word on that. Is that clear enough?’

FIFTY-ONE

E
arly the next morning Marquez flew into LAX and then drove to Venice. He walked into the Rose Café a little after 9:00 and told the hostess, ‘I’m looking for a friend.’

Without missing a beat, she answered, ‘So am I.’

They both laughed and she led him to a table outside under a covered area where Raymond Mendoza aka Rayman sat alone with an omelet and a plate of toast. He wore a leather cowboy hat, a long-sleeved black T-shirt, jeans, and sandals. He looked like an artist.

‘Rayman.’

‘Hey man, what’s going on, long time.’

There were no handshakes, smiles or pretense of liking each other, no pretending that they were both just living their lives doing their thing. Marquez slid one of the plastic chairs back and sat down. Rayman took another bite of omelet and spread jelly on a piece of toast. Sheryl didn’t know whether Rayman knew yet about Holsing, but said use the information with Rayman if you need to, and Marquez dropped it right on him now.

‘They found Holsing’s body last night.’

Rayman briefly put his toast down, then reconsidered and took another bite as Marquez guessed he already knew Holsing was dead.

‘Do you want to know where he was found and how he died?’

Rayman, mouth full of toast, shook his head, no.

‘I need you to pass a message to Stoval for me. It’s personal.’

Rayman’s face had filled out and his eyes sat back in it, coal black, watchful, the student who studied economics in college still back there somewhere, the guy who did a ten spot in prison watching him.

‘The message is that if anything happens to anyone in my family I’m going to quit my job and hunt Stoval until I find him. The message is this time I won’t stop. Pass it up the chain. It’ll get there.’

‘I’m not in the biz anymore. I did ten years in prison.’

‘From what I know about him he wouldn’t want you to sit on the message. But that’s your decision to make. Do you want me to try somebody else and tell them I tried you and you refused to pass the message on?’

‘You don’t want to send that message, man.’

Rayman ate some more and then got agitated. He pushed the plate away and waved the waitress off as she tried to refill his coffee. He pulled his wallet out to pay as Marquez asked, ‘After you made that phone call eighteen years ago and gave Sheryl the tip that the Salazars were going to rip off a load, who did you call next?’

‘Miguel.’

‘Miguel Salazar?’

‘Yeah, man, Miguel Salazar. Who else would I call?’ He belched and laid a twenty dollar bill on the table. ‘I was working for him.’

‘Jim Osiers got set up.’

Now Rayman smiled. ‘The bitch is in trouble, isn’t she? It’s why you’re here. She came to my parole hearings and fucked with me and now she’s going to get hers. I’m talking to the DEA, I’m out with it, man. I’ve told them how the Salazars made me lie.’

‘Who else did you call that night?’

‘No one.’

‘Yeah, you called Miguel and you made at least one other call, didn’t you? Then you figured it was a done deal. You disappeared back across the California border. But it didn’t end there and it was still waiting for you when you walked out of prison. It’s waiting for you now.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I can’t follow your crap.’

‘What happened has to be answered for. Pass that on to Stoval. Tell him I said it’s not over for him either.’

‘You’re like a prophet, man. You’re like this crazy dude who lives down the street from me and dresses like Jesus. He knows all about the future because he reads the Bible. Is that what you read?’ Rayman leaned forward, his bloated face hovering over the table. ‘Fuck you, Marquez.’

Marquez stood. He tucked the chair back in.

‘Pass the message on, Rayman.’

FIFTY-TWO

‘
S
toval is in Indonesia,’ Desault said. ‘Have you ever heard of the Pramuka Market in East Jakarta?’

Marquez looked through the slider out toward the dark of the ocean and knew this was the call.

‘I’ve been there,’ he said. ‘I once rode along on a raid there, but it was all a big joke. Everyone was in on it but me. They set up these raids for illegal trade in endangered animals and I learned later they tip off the traders first, so the traders either don’t show up or leave the illegal animals at home. We were zeroing in on four people in LA who were bringing in orangutans and selling them for thirty thousand dollars each. They’d buy them for nothing and then ship a half dozen babies hoping one or two would survive the trip.’

‘Stoval got there last night. His jet is in Jakarta. If he flies out of Jakarta we’ll get some help tracking the flight, but you could be landing and taking off again. You could be coming right back home.’

‘I get it.’

And that’s what happened. Stoval flew out when Marquez was still in the air. Marquez got the word when he landed, but still went out to see the Pramuka Market, see if anything had changed. Not much had. It was still about the size of a football field and packed with animals that were terrified and for the most part marked for death. He walked through aisles with a pair of men trailing him as he took photos without buying. But no one bothered him and he spent a day there before returning to Jakarta. When he flew home Katherine gave this first run her appraisal.