After Sheryl’s call, Marquez drove to the Field Office. At dawn he tried again to convince Holsten.
‘You’re not going,’ Holsten said. ‘Hundreds of federales are already looking for him and Highway 1 is shut down both directions. The Mexicans put up roadblocks at Santa Rosalia and outside Lazaro Cardenas last night. They’re stopping vehicles in and out of Ensenada this morning. They’re stopping boats. There’s nothing you’re going to bring to the equation and you’re needed here.’
Just before noon Sheryl called from Loreto, her voice flat and dead as she reported, ‘Jim had a girlfriend in Loreto named Alicia Guayas. She’s nineteen and pregnant. The Mex Feds just took me to meet her. She says it’s his baby and they also claim he has a bank account in La Paz under a false name. The girlfriend told them that Jim is leaving his wife for her. They’re trying to tell me Jim staged his disappearance so he could run off with her.’
‘Did you get to talk to her?’
‘Yes, but with the locals watching over my shoulder, but she’s either a great actress or really is scared that something has happened to him. I’m going back this afternoon to interview her, but don’t tell Holsten or Boyer that I told you that. I’m not supposed to tell anyone.’
Marquez understood. Earlier, he’d seen Boyer, Group 5’s ASAC, in a conference room with Holsten and a translator. Neither Holsten nor Boyer would talk about it when they came out.
‘Did you know about a girlfriend?’ Sheryl asked.
‘No.’
‘The girlfriend says he pays for her house.’
‘What’s her name again?’
‘Alicia Guayas. She has photos with her and Jim.’
‘How do you read her?’
Sheryl hesitated. She sighed.
‘I don’t know.’
Marquez wrote the name Alicia Guayas on a pad. From his desk Marquez could easily see Jim Osiers’ desk and the framed family photos. He could see Jim’s marriage hitting a hard spot, but not Jim abandoning it or taking bribe money.
‘What about Rayman?’ he asked.
‘No word.’ There was static and then she said, ‘The Mex Feds claim they have people in Loreto who’ve known about the girlfriend and say it’s been going on for awhile. In one photo he’s got an arm around her and he’s leaning over as if he’s going to kiss her.’ Marquez was more worried about the false bank account. He heard voices in the background and Sheryl said, ‘I’m going to have to call you back.’
Jim Osiers had three sons and a wife in the Inland Empire. He bitched about his salary and commute, but who didn’t? Even with locality pay it was tough to make it in LA on a DEA salary, and Marquez had always gotten the feeling Osiers savored the break in Loreto just to get away from the grind of the commute and trying to raise three sons on his salary. Marquez lived in Hermosa Beach out in South Bay like a lot of the single agents, but he’d always thought Osiers lucky to have a family to come home to at night. The drug war was a soul destroyer. It ate you from the inside out and you needed ways to counter that.
Marquez walked out of the Field Office in the late afternoon looking for food. The afternoon was smoggy and hot, the sky white with no depth. On the sidewalk two construction workers talked loudly about a truck parked in their restricted zone as if the owner would overhear and move it before they had it towed. Marquez glanced at the panel truck as he passed, rust-stained, chalky white paint, Perez Cabinets stenciled on the sides in black letters. It had two front tires bald in a way you could only get away with in a part of the country where it didn’t rain much. More than likely, the Perez Cabinet guys were working nearby and saw a chance to steal free parking.
He bought a black coffee and a tuna sandwich, and when he walked back the construction superintendent and other worker were gone. In the Field Office a TV played and he ate the sandwich and watched a CNN report with shots of the Sea of Cortez and Highway 1 in Baja. Competitors called CNN crisis news, but at least they were there. No one else was covering.
A flyover search for bodies in the Sea of Cortez had yielded two local fishermen and they were looking for four others in what CNN called cartel infighting. There was nothing new on Jim Osiers and it was too late for good news. Marquez stayed at the office until 8:00 that night and then went home to the apartment, frustrated that Holsten wouldn’t let him go to Baja, but also very disturbed by what Sheryl had learned.
Marquez lived in a one-bedroom on the second floor of a three-story stucco apartment building with a Spanish motif. The apartment had oak flooring and a concrete deck with black iron railing, the deck with a view of the ocean. At night after the traffic died, he could hear the waves breaking. Sometimes he’d sleep with the sliding door open just so he could hear that.
Marquez had drifted into his early thirties living alone. Ask him why and he’d shrug off the question, though he knew the answer was his wife’s murder in Africa. ‘Wife’ was an impersonal word for Julie, and really, married barely fit them. They married young, most would say way too young, and maybe time would have done to them what it did to other people, but Marquez still let himself believe otherwise. He allowed himself that. He didn’t indulge grief and make a touchstone out of sorrow. He didn’t sit at a bar, drink with you, and then wait for the chance to tell you about his sadness. But he did live alone.
He’d gone out with plenty of women in the last five or six years. He wasn’t a loner. He liked to laugh and have fun. He got a beer from the refrigerator now and opened it. Summer dusk was settling in. Jim Osiers was missing and he couldn’t picture Osiers staging his disappearance. The girlfriend, OK, maybe, but Rayman making the call after Sheryl arrived, the late night tip, the bank account revealed before mid morning the next day, no way. It all felt a little too organized. He needed to go there and find out.
He finished the beer and then stacked some charcoal in the Hibachi and lit it. Smoke curled in from the deck through the open slider. The sailboat of an ex-cop named Dunfield slowly passed out beyond the surf, ghostly in the twilight. The boat’s name was Blow Me and for that Dunfield, who was retired, had become a minor celebrity with the local teens. Dunfield was often in shorts, sandals, a T-shirt, and a cap. He was getting by on not much more than his pension money, but seemed happy.
Marquez opened another beer and then grilled a chicken breast and corn. He was eating when his sister, Darcey, called.
‘Nathan left last night,’ she said, meaning her husband. ‘He’s going back to New York and leaving me the boat and the restaurant.’
She sounded defeated and he was sorry for her but it didn’t surprise him. This had been coming for awhile. It was a long way from New York to Seward, Alaska, and owning a restaurant that made its money on tourists in a season that wasn’t much more than five months. Darcey loved it there, but Nathan had threatened to leave more than a few times.
‘I’m sorry, Darcey.’
‘I’m not. I’m glad it’s over.’
Marquez didn’t know what to say to that. She was hurting. That’s why she was calling. He wished they talked more. He wished she lived closer and was happy. He listened and tried to forget about Osiers as he talked with her.
He hung up remembering a foggy night when he was fifteen and crossing the Golden Gate Bridge in his grandmother’s old Chevrolet Impala desperate to find her. He didn’t have a driver’s license yet, just a permit, and was afraid the bridge toll-taker would see it in his eyes, call the cops, and they’d stop him from driving into San Francisco to the Tenderloin where one of Darcey’s stoner friends had told him she’d gone after running away from home.
That night he had a photo of her lying on the passenger seat, a blowup of her high school yearbook picture, though she’d stopped looking like her photo months ago. Heroin made her rail thin, her hair stringy, and her face dull and gaunt. He found the address in the Tenderloin and then a building with a stairwell stinking of urine and littered with trash. On the fourth floor pale yellow light came out from under the door and when he knocked, the man who opened the door said, ‘Go home.’
‘I’m looking for my sister.’
‘I don’t care if you’re looking for God. Get the fuck out of here before I kick your ass down the stairs.’
Marquez had pushed his way in and the guy punched him, but Marquez was already six foot one and strong. He hit back and hard, but the fight like all fist fights was a mess. When he left the man on the floor and staggered down a hallway and pushed into a bedroom he found a doped-up Darcey, maybe not even aware what the fat guy on top of her was doing. It was that hard and that long ago. He had carried her out wrapped in a blanket smelling of sex and sweat.
On the sidewalk a big guy pulled a knife and said, ‘I own the bitch.’
Marquez still believed the guy would have stabbed him if a police cruiser hadn’t rounded the corner. The police didn’t hesitate and in that moment his view of the police changed permanently. He’d run wild as a kid, wandered the forests of Humboldt County, and listened to his parents’ friends talk about their pot fields and getting ripped off by cops. The family had lived for two years in a tent with a dirt floor and later in San Francisco they’d lived out of a VW van. The cops were always rousting them. He’d been a truant before he was seven years old and was taught to look at the police as enemy. But not after that night, not after those cops got out and helped him. That night changed everything.