‘It’s Kathryn. You’re on speaker here with Jimmy and Al.’
‘You’re speakered as well. Steve Foster’s back. And Steve Two, too.’ Uncharacteristic humor from a DEA agent.
‘Steve and Steve,’ Dance said.
‘Hi, Kathryn.’ Lu, of course, since the greeting sounded warm.
‘Yeah?’ A gruff voice. Did Foster ever utter a cheerful syllable?
‘We just left Moss Landing,’ Dance said.
‘And?’ Foster grumbled.
‘Tia Alonzo hasn’t seen Serrano for a month. I believed her.’
Silence from Foster now. He didn’t say what he wanted to.
Dance continued, ‘But she gave up another name. Pete or Pedro Escalanza. TJ’s going to track it down. Ninety percent the guy’s got Serrano’s present whereabouts.’
‘Lead to a lead to a lead,’ Foster said, with buoyant cynicism.
Allerton asked, ‘So, at the houseboat. It was productive.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you’re okay. Jimmy’s okay?’
‘I’m good,’ Gomez said.
‘Tia was saying this Escalanza, he’s got access to some of Serrano’s accounts. If we play it right, we might be able to pick up his credit-card numbers, track him in real time.’
‘Or maybe we’ll find another lead,’ Foster chimed in. ‘Let’s be transparent here. I’m not overly reassured.’
Stemple coughed.
Dance said, ‘The best we could do, Steve.’
Allerton said, ‘I’ll tell Charles.’
‘Thanks.’
‘We’re coming back in.’ Dance disconnected.
Stemple said, ‘Life’s a fucking checkers game. No, chess. You play chess, Jimmy?’
‘No. You?’
‘Yeah, I play chess.’
‘Really?’ Gomez asked.
‘Why really? Because I bench-press three hundred and group my rounds touching at fifty feet – if I’m using the long barrel?’
‘I don’t know. You just don’t seem like a chess player.’
‘Mostly people think I tap dance for a hobby.’
In a half-hour, eleven a.m., she was back in CBI headquarters, making for Overby’s office, in the company of TJ Scanlon.
As they walked along, she checked her phone again. Texts from her mother, Boling. Maggie, silly and happy – because, of course, she’d been pardoned from the cruel and unusual punishment of singing in her class’s talent show.
Nothing from O’Neil.
Did she expect an apology? The hard words had been motivated by his concern for her but she’d found them patronizing. That was difficult for her to get past.
She supposed the frisson between them would dissipate, like smoke from a brief fire. This happened from time to time, head butting. Still, they had had such a complicated history, personal and professional, that she never knew if the flare would spread like a wind-fueled brushfire racing over the dry, bristly coat of the landscape in this state. Destructive, even fatal. She’d never prepared for a final rift with Michael O’Neil because, well, it was unimaginable.
A glance at her phone once more. Nothing.
Let it go …
They arrived at Overby’s office and the CBI head waved them inside. ‘Just found something interesting. Got a call from Oakland PD. The arson?’
Dance nodded and explained to TJ about the Operation Pipeline warehouse that some crew had burned down.
‘But – it wasn’t a gang that did it.’
Dance cocked her head.
Her boss continued, ‘Mercenaries.’
TJ said, ‘Working for a crew, then. Didn’t want to get their dainty little fingers dirty.’
‘No. Not working for a crew. They got out of the country but left some tracks behind. Guess where they were based? Baja.’
‘But not working for one of the Mexican cartels?’
‘No. Working for someone else.’
Dance understood. ‘Well, well: Santos hired them. He was behind it.’
‘Bingo,’ Overby said.
Chihuahua Police Commissioner Ramón Santos, who’d called the other day to excoriate the US contingent of Operation Pipeline for not doing enough to stanch the flow of guns into his country.
‘He took matters into his own hands.’
‘Oakland DEA contacted some of their people in Mexico and confirmed it.’
Dance grimaced. ‘Thought he was taking down a source for the guns? Well, he shot himself in the foot. That warehouse was a great source for intel. Does he know he’s set us back a month with his little fireworks display?’
‘He will,’ Overby said, ‘after I call him this afternoon.’
Whatever else about his personal style, Overby combined righteousness and indignation very, very well.
‘So Santos,’ TJ said, ‘has got an interesting approach to enforcing the law. He breaks the law.’
Then a sound behind her, paper shuffling, footsteps. Michael O’Neil came into the office.
‘Ah, Michael.’
‘Charles.’
She looked his way. He nodded to everyone. ‘Morning.’
Overby said, ‘Okay, the Solitude Creek unsub. Where are we?’
O’Neil glanced toward Dance. She said, ‘Well, all we have are dead ends with the unsub’s Honda. But Jon Boling’s hacking into the unsub’s phone now. It might be the burner he used to call Sam Cohen or the one at the Bay View Center, where he called nine one one, the media and the restaurant on Fisherman’s Wharf after the Bay View incident. Or maybe another one. Jon’s also cracking Stan Prescott’s computer – the man killed in Orange County. We hope it gives us some clue why the unsub went to all that trouble to murder him. And TJ? Update on Anderson Construction?’
The young agent reminded Overby that he was trying to track down officials from the Nevada corporation hiring Anderson to do some construction work in the Solitude Creek area. In hopes of finding some witnesses. ‘They’re taking their sweet time getting back to me. Weekend-itis maybe. I’ll definitely squeeze them tomorrow. And I’m keeping up canvassing people who were at the roadhouse that day. But same old. No leads.’