Free Dead Game by Kirk Russell

after Reagan finally brought those bastards to their knees. He was out on my boat a couple of times bragging how important he was in Russia.”
    Marquez showed more photos, including a profile of August taken at fifty feet and not easy to read. Down in the car Beaudry’s companion honked the horn twice, leaning on the horn with the last burst.
    “No, I don’t recognize anyone there.”
    “How about her?”
    In the photo Anna had hair pulled back. She wore sunglasses and a dark blue tank top showing tan shoulders and arms.
    “Sure, she worked as a river guide and bartended in Rio Vista at night. Nice girl and cute. You’re not going to tell me she’s poaching?”
    “What I’m wondering is whether you remember ever seeing any of these people together.”
    “Now her mother was a Russian, wasn’t she?” The horn sounded again, this time a longer blast, and Beaudry yelled, “Goddammit, stop that.”
    Marquez nodded. “Her mother was a Russian who immigrated here. She worked at UC Davis as a scientist. She and Anna lived in the delta.”
    “You’re wondering if I ever saw her with this other Russian?”
    “Did you?”
    “Not that I can remember, and I can’t believe she’d be mixed up with sturgeon poachers. That’s what this visit is all about, isn’t it?”
    “That’s right.”
    “What I remember of her is she loved to be on the water. She worked for one of those guide businesses, but you know that already.”
    The horn sounded again, and Beaudry touched Marquez’s arm. He closed the front door and without a word moved toward the steps, calling back to Marquez after he’d started down.
    “I’ve got to go.”
    Marquez slid the photos back into the envelope and followed him down the steps. He was surprised how unsteady Beaudry was. When they reached the car Marquez asked his last questions.
    “Who’d you sell your business to?”
    “A young man whose father I knew very well. The boy isn’t made of the same stuff as his father, but I needed the money and I wanted to see him try to make a new start. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help to you.”
    Marquez was still at the top of their driveway as Beaudry and the woman drove away. He knew as he got back in his truck thathe was going to call the FBI, and that meant starting with someone he trusted. He found his address book and then the number for Charles Douglas, who as far as he knew was still in the FBI Field Office in San Francisco. He’d worked with Douglas twice before, most recently trying to take down a drug smuggler who’d branched into abalone poaching. But it was the first time he’d worked with Douglas in ‘98 that had marked him most. That was during an FBI search for a child abductor who was working California coastal towns the SOU knew well.
    “Good to hear your voice,” Douglas said.
    “Likewise. How’s your war on terror coming?”
    “Until we figure out what the other side really wants it’s going to go on a while. But my kids are growing up, and my wife got her law degree.”
    “Congratulate her for me.”
    “I will.” Douglas let a beat pass. “But you’re calling.”
    “I’m chasing sturgeon poachers, and there was a fellow who used to own a bait shop in Rio Vista named Tom Beaudry. Beaudry had a sister who died in a fire in Henderson, Nevada, and there may have been some question about whether it was a homicide or an accident. I understand the FBI got involved, that the Bureau may have questioned Tom Beaudry about a loan made to him that may have been Russian mob money.”
    “We call it Eurasian Organized Crime nowadays. EOC.”
    “That’s fine, but the story I heard was that these were Russians.”
    “And where’d you hear all this?”
    “I called a friend.”
    “Okay, let me ask it a different way, what’s this have to do with sturgeon poaching?”
    “I’m not sure yet, but we’re looking at the guy Beaudry soldhis bait shop and boat to. I know it’s a long shot that you can help me, Charles.”
    “It