this guy at all, and I don’t want anything to happen to me.”
10
Marquez walked with Chief Baird from headquarters to an Italian restaurant that Baird liked. It was early for lunch, and there wasn’t anyone in the dark room other than a bartender doubling as a waiter, sitting at a table folding napkins. He led them to a booth, took an order for two draft beers, and dropped a couple of heavy leatherbound menus on the table. Baird waited until he was behind the bar pulling the drafts.
“I think you know what I’m going to say, but what you don’t know is how proud I am of what you’ve done with the team in the past decade.”
So they were done. Marquez looked from Baird to the bartender drawing two pint glasses of beer.
“Lieutenant, you know my heart is in the field, always has been, that’s where our real job is.”
What Marquez knew was last year he had a one point one million–dollar budget to work with and this year 13 percent of that.Next year was slated to be less again and with no equipment upgrades. He had vehicles with 275,000 miles on them, but Baird was telling him that didn’t matter anymore. He wouldn’t need them.
“I don’t agree with Chief Bell that we can fill in the gap with uniform wardens,” Baird said, “but I agree we’re taking too many chances without sufficient backup. This event with the informant wouldn’t have happened if the team was at its former strength.”
“It depends on what happened.”
“The point is we’re stretched too thin.”
“Take everything that’s happened in the last decade, Chief, and this sturgeon poaching operation we’re up against now is the most organized and efficient we’ve dealt with.”
“This Raburn character is efficient?”
“No, but getting to the traffickers beyond him is hard. From the rumors and the number of CalTIP calls coming in, we know a lot of sturgeon is going out. We may be starting to feel pressure from the collapse of the Caspian Sea stocks.”
“You don’t really have any evidence to back that up, do you?”
“We know the overall poaching has heated up.”
Baird was quiet and watched the bartender return with the beers. He obviously wanted to do this in a way Marquez could accept.
“You’ve always spoken highly of DBEEP,” he said.
“Sure, they’re great. But they’re not enough.”
Baird took a sip of beer and Marquez looked at his own but felt no desire to pick it up. He listened to Baird order a meatball sandwich. When the bartender turned in his direction, Marquez shook his head. He didn’t have any appetite.
“Maybe you should work with DBEEP,” Baird said after they were alone.
“Give me another month, Chief. Let’s see if it works out flipping Raburn. Give us until the first of the year. The storms are coming through and that kicks up the bottom and gets the sturgeon biting. We can use the fog to our advantage.” He heard himself plead, couldn’t believe it had come to this. “We’ve got some new contacts and leads.” He told Baird the story of Beaudry, the bait shop, Richie Crey.
The bartender tried again to take an order from Marquez and finally gave up, refilled the bread sticks, brought Baird’s meatball sandwich, and the chief couldn’t find a way to take a bite out of it. The meatballs were too big. He had to cut them.
An hour later Marquez had until Christmas to make whatever arrests he could, and he’d told Baird the focus would be on Ludovna, August, and this Richie Crey who’d bought Beaudry’s Bait Shop in Rio Vista. Leaving the restaurant with Baird, he felt a strange mix of gratitude and emptiness. Big picture, it was over, no more SOU. Three more weeks and then finished until new money could be found. That after a decade of running the team.
As they walked back toward headquarters Marquez asked for one more thing. “Let me get some of the old team back.”
“Who?”
“Brad Alvarez and Melinda Roberts. Roberts has been bouncing around, and she’s up in the
10
Marquez walked with Chief Baird from headquarters to an Italian restaurant that Baird liked. It was early for lunch, and there wasn’t anyone in the dark room other than a bartender doubling as a waiter, sitting at a table folding napkins. He led them to a booth, took an order for two draft beers, and dropped a couple of heavy leatherbound menus on the table. Baird waited until he was behind the bar pulling the drafts.
“I think you know what I’m going to say, but what you don’t know is how proud I am of what you’ve done with the team in the past decade.”
So they were done. Marquez looked from Baird to the bartender drawing two pint glasses of beer.
“Lieutenant, you know my heart is in the field, always has been, that’s where our real job is.”
What Marquez knew was last year he had a one point one million–dollar budget to work with and this year 13 percent of that.Next year was slated to be less again and with no equipment upgrades. He had vehicles with 275,000 miles on them, but Baird was telling him that didn’t matter anymore. He wouldn’t need them.
“I don’t agree with Chief Bell that we can fill in the gap with uniform wardens,” Baird said, “but I agree we’re taking too many chances without sufficient backup. This event with the informant wouldn’t have happened if the team was at its former strength.”
“It depends on what happened.”
“The point is we’re stretched too thin.”
“Take everything that’s happened in the last decade, Chief, and this sturgeon poaching operation we’re up against now is the most organized and efficient we’ve dealt with.”
“This Raburn character is efficient?”
“No, but getting to the traffickers beyond him is hard. From the rumors and the number of CalTIP calls coming in, we know a lot of sturgeon is going out. We may be starting to feel pressure from the collapse of the Caspian Sea stocks.”
“You don’t really have any evidence to back that up, do you?”
“We know the overall poaching has heated up.”
Baird was quiet and watched the bartender return with the beers. He obviously wanted to do this in a way Marquez could accept.
“You’ve always spoken highly of DBEEP,” he said.
“Sure, they’re great. But they’re not enough.”
Baird took a sip of beer and Marquez looked at his own but felt no desire to pick it up. He listened to Baird order a meatball sandwich. When the bartender turned in his direction, Marquez shook his head. He didn’t have any appetite.
“Maybe you should work with DBEEP,” Baird said after they were alone.
“Give me another month, Chief. Let’s see if it works out flipping Raburn. Give us until the first of the year. The storms are coming through and that kicks up the bottom and gets the sturgeon biting. We can use the fog to our advantage.” He heard himself plead, couldn’t believe it had come to this. “We’ve got some new contacts and leads.” He told Baird the story of Beaudry, the bait shop, Richie Crey.
The bartender tried again to take an order from Marquez and finally gave up, refilled the bread sticks, brought Baird’s meatball sandwich, and the chief couldn’t find a way to take a bite out of it. The meatballs were too big. He had to cut them.
An hour later Marquez had until Christmas to make whatever arrests he could, and he’d told Baird the focus would be on Ludovna, August, and this Richie Crey who’d bought Beaudry’s Bait Shop in Rio Vista. Leaving the restaurant with Baird, he felt a strange mix of gratitude and emptiness. Big picture, it was over, no more SOU. Three more weeks and then finished until new money could be found. That after a decade of running the team.
As they walked back toward headquarters Marquez asked for one more thing. “Let me get some of the old team back.”
“Who?”
“Brad Alvarez and Melinda Roberts. Roberts has been bouncing around, and she’s up in the
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