Broxmeyer was listening now. Verriker had got his attention when he came back from his north valley call; the two of them were talking in his office when Runyon and I walked in. The deputy frowned when he saw us, then motioned us to join them.
I showed him the Balfour Construction pad. Verriker went around to look at it over his shoulder, said through clamped teeth, “Crazy fuck!” I had to tell Broxmeyer that we’d been out to Balfour’s place, that it looked like he’d gone there right after leaving the fairgrounds to take on supplies for a run-out. No, we hadn’t gone onto the property; the gate was locked. He didn’t buy that, or my story about where we’d found the invoice pad, but he didn’t make an issue of it, either. Nor did he say anything to indicate he had any doubts that Balfour had made those “Verriker dead” scrawls.
I said, “Convinced, deputy?”
“That Balfour had it in for Mr. Verriker? Yes. But there’s still no proof that he was responsible for the explosion, or that he kidnapped your wife.”
“So you still think she’s lost in the woods?”
“I didn’t say that, did I?” Broxmeyer looked harassed, agitated, maybe a little embarrassed at his earlier treatment of Runyon and me. “Christ, man, I’m not your enemy. But I can’t go off half cocked…”
“That mean you’re not going to do anything about Balfour?”
“No. I’ll put out a statewide BOLO on him and his vehicle.”
“That won’t do any good if he’s planning to lose himself in the wilderness somewhere.”
“You don’t know that’s what he intends to do.”
Verriker said grimly, “Bet you it is. Always bragging on what a great hunter, great woodsman he is.”
I said, “But you don’t have any idea where he might go?”
“No. Heard him say once he had a favorite spot, but he wouldn’t tell where it was.”
I asked Broxmeyer, “Can’t you make it an APB instead of a BOLO?”
“You know I can’t. Nor request a search warrant, either, without more evidence that Balfour has committed even one felony. I don’t have the authority.”
“The sheriff does. Notify him yet?”
“He has my reports to date-”
“Not what I asked you.”
“No, not yet. I will, but I guarantee he’ll tell you the same thing.”
“Do it right now, okay?”
Broxmeyer chased Runyon and Verriker out to the waiting area, but let me stay while he made his call to the county seat. He said when the sheriff came on the line, “I’ve got a situation here, Joe,” and talked for three minutes, mostly listened for another three. I could tell from his expression and his monosyllabic responses that he was being told pretty much the same as he’d told me. I stood it as long as I could, hanging on to my temper, then made gestures until he reluctantly let me have the receiver.
The sheriff was an officious bastard, strictly by the book. He claimed to understand what I was going through, but he wouldn’t listen to my arguments; nor did my not-insubstantial career in law enforcement or my acquaintance with Jack Logan, SFPD’s assistant chief, cut any ice with him. Deputy Broxmeyer was following the correct protocol, he said: there was insufficient evidence to warrant anything more than a wanted-for-questioning BOLO on Pete Balfour.
When he ended the conversation, I had to make a conscious effort not to slam down the receiver. Broxmeyer said, “I’m sorry, but I told you, our hands are tied.” I didn’t trust myself to answer him.
I couldn’t stay in the cubicle or the substation any longer; I’d come close to saying something that would have alienated the sheriff, and I was afraid of losing it with Broxmeyer. Outside, I said to Runyon, “BOLO, that’s as far as they’ll go.”
“We could try going over their heads to the FBI.”
“And run smack into the same stone wall. Nobody’s going to do anything without having hard proof shoved in their faces.” I turned to Verriker. “That favorite wilderness spot of Balfour’s. He always go hunting there by himself?”
“Far as I know. Man don’t have any friends.”
“Anybody you can think of that he might’ve told about it?”
“Well… Charlotte, maybe. His ex-wife. She’d be the only one.”
“She still live in the valley?”
“Right here in Six Pines. Works in the city manager’s office at city hall.”
He took us over there, a refurbished brick building opposite the town park. Charlotte Samuels was a fat woman with dyed-blond hair and dim little eyes; she and Balfour must’ve been some pair. She didn’t want to talk about her ex-husband, but Verriker coaxed her into it-for all the good it did. Balfour had never taken her hunting with him-she liked venison, but hated seeing animals killed-and she had no idea where he went hunting, he’d never told her.
Outside again in the sticky heat, I asked Verriker, “You do much hunting?”
“Now and then.”
“So you know the good spots, the more remote ones-say, within a fifty-mile radius.”
“Some place Balfour might pick? A couple, maybe. But hell, we’d never find him if he’s holed up.”
“We can try. Unless you have another suggestion?”
“No. Wish I did.”
Runyon hadn’t said much since we’d driven back into Six Pines, but that was because he hadn’t had anything to contribute. He’d been thinking though, more clearly than I had. Problem-solving.
He said now, “There’s one other thing we can do if we can’t find him, and the law can’t. Long shot, but so is anything else we try.”
“Let’s hear it.”
He laid it out. Long shot, yeah, but long shots come in sometimes, and if Runyon was reading the situation right, this one just might. The odds were no worse than those on the other long shots we had to depend on-blind luck, a spread-thin sheriff ’s department and a scattering of highway patrol officers, and the whims of an unbalanced mind.
26
PETE BALFOUR
Rosnikov had his order ready right on schedule. The Russian could get you just about anything you wanted in the way of ordinance, legal or illegal, and other stuff, too, such as a couple of clean license plates with current stickers for an ’06 Dodge pickup. Didn’t take him long, neither. Must’ve had a regular armory somewhere in the Stockton area, in addition to this old storage warehouse on the waterfront where he did business. Mob ties, too, probably, but who the hell cared about that?
Only problem was what the bugger charged. Arm and a leg for everything, and no haggling or the deal was off. Balfour had to fork over almost half his cash to get everything he’d asked for.
Place made him nervous while the deal was going down. Rosnikov, big and scowly, his two bodyguards or enforcers or whatever they were, standing there looking nasty with handguns bulging in their clothes. They’d told him to drive inside and then they’d shut the doors behind him; his pickup with the loaded camper shell was sitting right there in plain sight. What if Rosnikov got it into his head that he was carrying more cash than he’d showed, decided to double-cross him, knock him off? Wouldn’t be anything he could do about it, one against three packing heat. They’d get the other $3,500, the truck, and his firepower. But that wouldn’t be all they’d get. Big surprise when they saw what else he had in there.
Nothing like that happened. Hell, Rosnikov was a professional, wasn’t he? Balfour hadn’t had any trouble with the Russian when he bought the Bushmaster and the Sterling, he didn’t have any trouble this time. Paid his money, Rosnikov counted it and handed over the package, nobody said a word until he was ready to leave. He asked if he could switch the plates on the pickup before he drove out, Rosnikov said okay, and even took the old ones off his hands.
