Money Bear: A Nick Tanner Crime Thriller

By Kerry K. Cox

When Redwoods Park Enforcement Ranger Kathleen Shepherd finds a third dead bear in the forest, its paws and gallbladder harvested, she contacts U.S. Fish and Wildlife Services for assistance. They send Nick Tanner, one of an elite cadre of undercover USFWS Special Agents. 

Highly valued in Traditional Chinese Medicine, bea

• Language: English
• Publisher: Level Best Books
• Release date: Feb 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781953789150

Kerry K. Cox

Kerry K. Cox was born in Hollywood, California. After four years at Oregon State University, he declared himself graduated and returned to Southern California, where he taught swimming, karate, and pre-school to finance a sputtering launch to what eventually became a lifelong writing career. In the Nick Tanner environmental crime thriller series, Kerry hopes to raise awareness of the worldwide scourge of wildlife trafficking. When he's not writing, he serves as a wildlife and marine mammal rescue volunteer. He lives on California's Central Coast, along with his wife and too many cats.

Book preview

Chapter One

Redwoods State and National Parks

Orick, California

The body was within a hundred yards of a relatively well-used trail, yet no effort had been made to hide it. It lay on its side, a dark mound bulging through the ground cover of leafy ferns, five or six yards from moss-slick rocks that lined a small creek.

The smell was what compelled a pair of hikers to go off the trail and look. Once they hurried back into cell phone range, they called 9-1-1. The operator routed them to the Orick Ranger station, and Enforcement Ranger Kathleen Shepherd.

* * *

An hour later, Shepherd stood over the body. Her eyes watered from the Vick’s under her nose. Or, maybe, from frustration and anger. She couldn’t be sure.

Like the others, a single surgical stroke had opened the belly. Decomposition gases belched organs onto the grass. Thick-bodied, blue-bottomed flies and ravenous yellow jackets jostled for their share of the blackened entrails. Shepherd didn’t bother to wave them away.

The quadruple amputation had been clean and quick. Maybe a large axe? Could be done with one swing from someone really strong. Maybe a chainsaw. The noise would be a risk, though.

Cause of death was easy enough to see. The shot was centered, far behind the shoulder—a through and through lung-shot. From the size of the wound, a broadhead, just like the others.

Shepherd retreated a couple of steps up a path of flattened ferns that led to the body and took a few deep breaths to clear her head. In a minute she’d walk the whole area to see if she could find anything.

Maybe this time.

She came back to the body and knelt beside it, fanning her hat without any noticeable effect on the cloud of insects. She stroked the fur, smoothing a ruffled patch behind the ears. Heat swelled behind her eyes.

The victim was male.

Shepherd checked the teeth—some slight browning at the base, nothing cracked. Canines intact. Appeared to have been in good health. A trail of dried blood ran down the slack tongue and crusted the fur into a black mass under the chin.

Number three.

From what Shepherd could tell, the youngest so far.

Two, maybe three years old.

Chapter Two

Inglewood, California

Nick Capretta and Angel Santos sat on hard wooden chairs. Both were drenched in sweat. Even though he wore only cargo shorts and a white t-shirt cut off at the shoulders, Capretta’s thick black pony tail glistened with moisture. A small athletic bag stuffed with cash nestled in his lap, adding to his discomfort. Not to the point where he would put it down, however. No way.

You got no air conditioning? he asked. Fuckin’ stifling in here.

Sammy Prado shrugged from the other side of a battered desk. It’s a warehouse. You don’t air condition a warehouse. Too expensive.

The puffy Filipino sat on an old swivel chair that squeaked with every motion. Dressed in baggy shorts and a wildly patterned Hawaiian shirt inexplicably buttoned right to the top, he seemed unaffected by the oppressive heat in the cramped, glass-enclosed office.

Fuckin’ stifling, Capretta said, shifting in the chair. Maybe you oughta get a/c just for your office, y’know, like the kind that sits in the window or you build into the wall or something.

I’m not uncomfortable. Are you uncomfortable? Sammy turned to the man seated beside Capretta. Angel, are you uncomfortable?

At three hundred and fifteen pounds of sloppy blubber, it was unlikely there were three consecutive seconds that Angel wasn’t uncomfortable to one degree or another. Still, he shook his head. I’m good, Mr. Prado.

See? Angel is comfortable. I’m comfortable. Maybe it’s you, Mr. Capretta. Maybe you’re too much muscle, not enough fat. You need to get some padding, like him and me. His laugh erupted like a yelping dog, ending as abruptly as it began. His eyes narrowed even more, if that were possible. Maybe you’re nervous about something?

Not nervous. What I am is pissed off. Capretta checked his watch. Now you’re almost an hour late.

Customs works on a timetable all its own. I’m sure Angel told you this. He didn’t wait for a response. If you’re going to be in this business, Mr. Capretta, you need to develop patience. Am I right, Angel? This time he looked at the fat man.

Angel nodded and mopped rivulets from his forehead with a sodden handkerchief.

Sammy checked his computer screen. There, you see? Nothing. We have received no indication that the shipment is being held up for inspection, or unduly delayed in any way. Sometimes the process takes a little longer.

Capretta checked his watch again.

For a minute or so, no one said a word. Finally, Sammy broke the silence.

So, Mr. Capretta, Angel told me a little about you. He vouches for you, and as a longtime business associate I place great trust in him. I know this is your initial foray into our line of work, but I understand you have a solid background in a related industry. I’ve never dealt in firearms. I would be very interested in learning a little more about it. And you.

Capretta sat back in his chair. Took his time pulling a cigarette from a pack in his shirt pocket. Lit it, took a long drag, blew it out. Try to imagine how little I care about what you’re interested in.

Angel’s head snapped around, first to Capretta, then to Sammy. Sammy’s expression froze for a moment before he willed a suggestion of a smile.

Mr. Capretta, I am trying to pass the time. I did not mean to intrude in any way. Just making small talk until the truck arrives.

And I got no fuckin’ desire to pass time. I came here to receive goods, make payment, and get the fuck outta Dodge. I don’t want to chat. I don’t want to tell you about my hobbies or where I went to school or what I did last fucking summer. I want to get the deal done, that’s it. That’s all I care about. That’s all you should care about. So, where the hell is that fucking truck? I’ve had mine sitting in a parking lot for over an hour now, which is not only costing me money, it’s a big fuckin’ risk that I can’t control. The kind of risk that one day fucks you in the ass. I don’t want today to be that day, Sammy. This is not the way I’m used to doing business.

He took a quick sideways glance at Angel, who was breathing audibly, face flushed, veins popping on his forehead. The fat man dragged the saturated handkerchief over his face again, a futile effort with no effect.

Sammy held up his hands. Please, I meant no offense. Truly. I understand your concern, and I apologize for the lateness. His phone’s text alert chimed, and he checked the screen. Ah. As I suspected, Customs simply took longer than we anticipated. But it has cleared, and the shipment is en route. In fact, ETA is under a half-hour.

Capretta leaned forward and crushed out his cigarette on the desk. Okay. Okay, good. That’s more like it. He looked at his watch and tapped it. All right. Once I have a look at everything, I’ll call my truck and we’ll switch over the load.

He sat back again. Look, Sammy, I’m sorry I got a little hot. You seem like a straight guy and Angel spoke highly of you. But goddamn it. You gotta get a fuckin’ air conditioner.

Sammy barked out another laugh, and Capretta joined him. All Angel could manage was a nervous smile.

* * *

Three miles away and a little over two hours earlier, a Boeing 747 Large Cargo Freighter touched down at LAX and disgorged its contents for Customs inspection. Among the goods were a number of crates originating from Nigeria, each packed with handcrafted furniture: wildly colorful deck chairs, coffee tables, dining sets, and barstools.

A team comprised of two CBP officials and two Fish and Wildlife Service Special Agents redirected all the Nigerian crates to a special Customs Inspection Station for an initial pass through the Vehicle and Cargo Inspection System, a first stage examination using x-rays. Although standard operating procedure would require a notification to the Customs Broker or the Consignee on Record that this shipment was flagged for inspection, no such notification was sent.

Once the VACIS was completed, the Customs men—officially the Contraband Enforcement Team—moved into the next phase, an Intensive Exam. The first crate was opened, and several of the multi-hued deck chairs removed. Each chair was subjected to gamma ray visualization, which—assuming the chairs were constructed of ordinary materials—would reveal nothing of interest.

In this instance, that was definitely not the case.

After thorough, yet accelerated, documentation, the items were replaced and the crates resealed. They were then released, but not before one of the Special Agents took care of a last piece of business.

* * *

The three men walked to the loading dock at the back of the warehouse. Capretta carried his bag of cash. Angel trailed behind, wheezing and wet.

When they reached the dock, Sammy flipped a switch, and a corrugated metal door slid noisily up its track. Outside, a twenty-foot unmarked box truck backed down a loading ramp towards the opening, its warning beeper echoing off the cement walls.

Want to call your truck now? Sammy asked.

I’ll take a look inside first.

Sure, why not.

The truck came to a stop. Two burly Hispanic men climbed down from the cab. One unlocked and opened the truck’s back doors, revealing a full load of crates. The other moved several paces away from the truck, his eyes on Capretta.

There they are, Mr. Capretta, Sammy said. From Nigeria, to you. And now…the final payment, please.

Capretta walked to the edge of the loading dock and looked at the crates. Saw what he was looking for, turned and tossed the bag at Sammy’s feet. I’ll call the truck. I want to be on the road pronto.

He pulled out his cell phone and punched a speed dial number. You ready? he asked. There was no answer.

Instead, sirens erupted from half-a-dozen squad cars and three utility vehicles that roared into the loading area. Two slid to a skidding stop in front of the truck, an unnecessary precaution as the Hispanic men showed no inclination to drive away. They were off and running at the first squeal of tires. Two LAPD cars swung around to give chase.

God damn it! Capretta yelled and launched himself at Sammy. The chubby little man threw a flailing punch before he was tackled to the ground. Where’s the wire, you fuck? Where’s the wire? Capretta screamed in rage as he tore at Sammy’s shirt.

LAPD and Fish and Wildlife agents swarmed in with guns drawn. On the ground! On the ground! Two LAPD officers ran toward Capretta. You! Get off him and lie flat on the ground, now!

You’re gonna fucking burn for this! Capretta yelled, and slammed his fist into Sammy’s nose. The officers levelled their guns a few feet from Capretta’s head.

Down on the ground, now!

With Sammy wilting and half-conscious, Capretta slid off him and went prone on the ground, hands and legs spread. He was familiar with the drill. All right, all right, I’m down, I’m down. Then he lashed out a final kick that connected solidly with Sammy’s ribcage. Fuck you! Sammy moaned and curled up like a sowbug.

One of the cops sat on Capretta’s legs while the other cuffed his wrists. Capretta lifted his head and spotted Angel. The fat bastard was sitting on the warehouse floor, hands cuffed, sobbing. His pants were soaked. You’re a dead man! Capretta yelled. You hear me Angel? A dead man!

* * *

Two hours later, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service Resident Agent in Charge Steven Moore strode out of his corner office, carrying a file folder and munching on an oatmeal-raisin energy bar as he passed the cube farm.

Still chewing, he stopped at a door marked Conference Room, and opened it without knocking. The room was an unremarkable space, barely containing an oblong, wood veneer table ringed with stains, ten well-worn chairs of various fabrics, and one occupant: U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service Special Agent Nick Tanner.

Moore settled into a squeaking leather chair at the head of the table. You’re gonna burn for this?

Tanner shrugged. Not my best line.

Uh-huh. And the kick at the end?

I strive for authenticity.

Yeah, well. You busted two of his ribs. It was totally unnecessary.

Fuck him.

Nick, we already had him, it was over. There was no reason for it.

He’s an asshole.

You better hope one of the LAPD boys doesn’t pipe up.

Tanner shrugged again. You’re dropping crumbs.

Moore flicked at his tie, clearing some remnants. Tasteless shit. This goddamn diet. I’d kill for a cheeseburger.

Think how handsome you’ll be when you finally look more like me.

It’s my dream. Moore leaned back and sighed. Ah, hell, Nick. Seriously, you gotta get a handle on it. I don’t need every suspect to start the booking process in the hospital.

Tanner said nothing.

Say yes, sir, I hear you, sir.

Yes, sir, I hear you, sir.

God damn you’re a pain in the ass. Moore popped the last of his bar in his mouth, brushed his hands together, then folded them behind his head. So. You hear how much was in the shipment?

I heard it was big.

Set a record, Moore said, allowing himself a smile. Eighteen untouched tusks, most of ‘em probably male. Could be twenty-five hundred pounds of ivory, built right into the chair and table legs.

Sweet. Think Prado will lead anywhere?

Moore shrugged. We’ll cut him a deal if he gives us anything worthwhile.

The guys from the truck?

"LAPD grabbed both of ‘em. Right now, they’re no habla Inglis, they know nothing, they were never even near the truck, it’s all a big mystery to them."

They moved like pros. Pretty sure both were armed.

"Not when we caught ‘em. But we’ll squeeze them, and of course their docs are bullshit, so we’ll bring in la Migra at some point and send them back from whence they came. So, all looks good."

Great. Oh, and going forward, tell whoever’s at the Customs intercept not to make the go-mark so obvious. I was worried the truck guys would spot it and ventilate me. It was a big black mark on the facing side of the crate, I don’t know how the one guy missed it.

Okay.

One other thing. Angel Santos is the absolute worst CI I’ve ever worked with. We’re lucky Sammy has the brains of a turnip, or he’d have made me in a heartbeat. Angel looked like he was gonna have a stroke. Don’t put him out there again. He’ll either croak or blow the play.

Duly noted. Now, some news. Once you finish the paperwork on this, I need you to head upstate.

Tanner shook his head. Enough was enough. Come on, boss. I need a couple weeks at least, I’m whacked. This thing was six months solid, and before that I was down at the border for what, three? You said I’d get some PTO, and I’m taking it.

I said that? Moore shook his head. I’m such a liar. I’ve got to work on that. He tossed the file folder in front of Tanner. Anyway, this came in from Sacramento, by way of the Arcata office. Someone’s poaching bears in Redwoods.

Tanner rubbed his eyes. So let the Rangers handle it.

It’s not just poaching. They’re taking the gallbladders.

Oh, shit. Tanner leaned forward, resting his forehead in his hands. How many?

Up until today, three. That they’ve found, anyway. Last one only a couple years old. All done with an arrow.

Keeping the noise down.

No doubt.

God…dammit, Tanner said, drawing it out. He stood. Anyone with me?

At this stage of the fiscal year? What do you think?

So, it’s just me and Ray Charles.

Moore stood and pushed in his chair. Finish up your paperwork, hit the road, and say hi to Ray for me.

Chapter Three

Orick, California

For thousands of years, humans and the vast Northern California redwood forests shared a peaceful, symbiotic relationship. The various independent Native American tribes that dotted the forests and coastline enjoyed the plentiful bounty—fishing, hunting and gathering—to their heart’s content. Fallen redwoods provided planks for crude but adequate housing.

Ranger Kathleen Shepherd ushered the tour group a little further down the trail and continued the speech she could now recite while drunk, asleep, or both.

The majestic redwood itself was regarded as a Spirit Being, part of a deific race that pre-dated humans in the region. The trees were, in essence, divine gifts to humans, teaching them the proper way to live in harmony with the forest. With each redwood living an average of five hundred to seven hundred years—some as much as two thousand years—the forests have been linked to fossil records that date back millions of years. Prior to 1850, about two million acres of verdant land was blanketed by these magnificent, towering giants.

She stopped and delivered her next line with practiced severity.

Starting in 1850, it took gold-crazed Euro-Americans less than sixty years to reduce the redwoods range by more than half. While they were at it, they did a pretty good number on the Native Americans, too.

As always, the crowd tsked-tsked, groaned, sighed, and emitted all the politically correct noises. Also, as always, Shepherd knew it was inevitable that some of these nature lovers would leave plastic water bottles and other trash scattered around the woods, abandon a smoldering campfire, smoke cigarettes as they hiked, leave food scraps out when they tucked themselves into their sleeping bags at night. All the routine knucklehead moves made by park visitors on a daily basis.

Shepherd motioned for the group to follow her to a small ridge that overlooked a canyon. There, she treated them to a stunning view, thousands of hillside acres carpeted by old-growth redwood.

"By the early nineteen-hundreds concerned citizen groups like Save the Redwoods worked in tandem with the State of California to purchase and protect old-growth redwoods from extinction, but it wasn’t until nineteen sixty-eight—when an estimated ninety percent of the old-growth forests had been logged—that the feds also took action. Redwood National Park protected an additional fifty-eight thousand acres, merging with the hundred-thousand already under State protection."

Shepherd smiled at a cluster of three women in the group, one of whom was quite attractive.

Today, the Redwood National and State Parks—or Redwoods, for short—is cooperatively run by the National Park Service and the California Department of Parks and Recreation, bordered and bisected by reservation land for various tribes. The Visitor Center here in Orick is our operational headquarters. If you haven’t visited yet, I definitely recommend it.

What she definitely would not recommend was living here for four years. She didn’t say it, but she felt it.

Shepherd was thirty-three years old and single. She considered herself to be in decent shape and reasonably good looking, yet hadn’t been laid in a year. The pickings in Orick were slim to none, assuming one’s standards included nominal dental hygiene. She’d had a little thing going with an RN down in Arcata, so intense and incendiary it seemed certain to flame out. Oddly, it didn’t. It kind of fizzled. Shepherd figured it was mostly her own fault things went south. She found it hard to commit to someone when all she really wanted was to leave the area as soon as possible.

As the Park Enforcement Ranger, Shepherd was the law in Redwoods. In the course of her duties she’d been spit on, shot at, cursed out, run from, disobeyed, willfully ignored, burned, fish-hooked, and generally disrespected. It was her observation that there was a good reason city folk should stay in the city. In general, they tended to approach the wilderness with the same mindset as a trip to Disneyland, and most were disappointed as a result.

Are we gonna see any bears? asked a pimply teenaged boy.

Someone always asked. Shepherd plastered on her patented Friendly Ranger Smile. In fact, the highest density of black bears in California live right here in Redwoods, so it’s always a possibility.

But we ain’t seen any yet.

The boy’s mother, a graceless, heavyset woman sucking from a straw in a gigantic cup, spoke up. We come a long way, we thought there was bears here to see.

Yeah! the boy yelled.

Well, they don’t come when you call, heh, heh, Shepherd said. But if you’re lucky enough to see one, please remember it’s strictly forbidden and very dangerous to feed the bears or approach them in any way. And if one happens to approach you, stand up, wave your arms, you can even throw small rocks. That’ll usually discourage it from coming closer.

Now it was the father’s turn, a guy with a Humpty Dumpty build and pants a little tight around the armpits. You said ‘lucky enough.’ You mean it ain’t likely? You mean all we’re likely to see is more of these trees?

Ah, fuck me, thought Shepherd. She briefly fantasized about this annoying family being devoured by rampaging bears and comforted herself with the thought of the transfer request she’d put through. There was an immediate opening available at Liberty National Park in New York City, and right now, that was Shepherd’s dream job.

No more city dwellers becoming instantly bored with nature. No more dealing with roaming meth labs, outlaw marijuana farms, drunken campers, or, most disturbingly, the recent appearance of murdered, butchered bears.

Instead, an endless stream of sleek, beautiful, exotic women from all over the world, their eyes moist with emotion, lips quivering as she delivered her inspiring Statue of Liberty tour speech and infused them with patriotic fervor.

She walked the group to a large relief map mounted on a stand overlooking the canyon. Okay folks, you can see here on the map where the Yurok, Tolowa, Hupa, and Karuk Native American tribes still live in this area today. The yellow areas indicate reservation land. For instance, this land here, the Yurok reservation, is the largest and runs all along Redwoods Creek, right through the middle of the parkland.

Woo-woo-woo-woo, woo-woo-woo-woo, trilled the boy, patting his mouth with his hand.

* * *

Later, Shepherd sat in her cramped office. She started to check her email yet again, something she’d been doing obsessively of late. But this time she stopped, and stared a moment at her screen saver. It was a photo of a moon-faced rookie Ranger posing by the Orick station sign, a lop-sided grin showing perfect white teeth. Shoulder-length blonde hair worn