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Allerton adjusted her notebook, empty at the moment. She drew ‘1’.

Overby continued, ‘Funny. When you know what she does – that body-language stuff – then go out to lunch with her, you watch what you’re doing, where you’re looking. Like you’re waiting for her to say, “So, you had a fight with your wife this morning, hmm? Over bills, I’d think.”’

‘Sherlock Holmes,’ Allerton said. She added, ‘I like that British one. With the guy with the funny name. Like “cummerbund”.’

Overby, staring into the interrogation room, said absently, ‘That’s not how kinesics works.’

‘No?’ Foster.

Overby said nothing more. As the others turned to the glass, he in turn examined the two members of the Guzman Connection task force present at the moment. Foster, Allerton. Then Dance walked into the interview room. And Overby’s attention, too, turned that way.

‘Mr Serrano. I’m Agent Dance.’ Her voice crackled through the overhead speaker in the observation room.

‘“Mister”,’ Foster muttered.

The Latino’s eyes narrowed as he looked her over carefully. ‘Good to meet you.’ There was nothing nervous about his expression or posture, Overby noted.

She sat across from him. ‘Appreciate your coming in.’

A nod. Agreeable.

‘Now, please understand, you’re not under investigation. I want to make that clear. We’re talking to dozens of people, maybe hundreds. We’re looking into gang-related crimes here on the Peninsula. And hope you can help us.’

‘So, I no need a lawyer.’

She smiled. ‘No, no. And you can leave anytime you want. Or choose not to answer.’

‘But then I look kind of suspicious, don’t I?’

‘I could ask how you liked your wife’s roast last night. You might not want to answer that one.’

Allerton laughed. Foster looked impatient.

‘I couldn’t answer that anyway.’

‘You don’t have a wife?’

‘No, but even if I did I’d do the cooking. I pretty good in the kitchen.’ Then a frown. ‘But I want to help. Terrible, some of the things that happen, the gangs.’ He closed his eyes momentarily. ‘Disgusting.’

‘You’ve lived in the area for a while?’

‘Ten years.’

‘You’re not married. But you have family here?’

‘No, they in Bakersfield.’

Foster: ‘Shouldn’t she have looked all this up?’

Overby said, ‘Oh, she knows it. She knows everything about him. Well, what she could learn in the past eight hours since she got his name.’

He’d observed plenty of Dance’s interrogations and listened to her lecture on the topic; he was able to give the task force a brief overview. ‘Kinesics is all about looking for stress indicators. When people lie they feel stress, can’t help it. Some suspects can cover it up well so it’s really hard to see. But most of us give away indications that we’re stressed. What Kathryn’s doing is talking to Serrano for a while, nothing about gang activity, nothing about crime – the weather, growing up, restaurants, life on the Peninsula. She gets his baseline body language.’

‘Baseline.’

‘That’s the key. It tells her how he behaves when he’s answering truthfully. When I said earlier that kinesics doesn’t work that way? I meant it doesn’t work in a vacuum. It’s almost impossible to meet somebody and instantly read them. You have to do what Kathryn’s doing – getting that baseline. After that she’ll start asking about gang activities he might’ve heard of, then about Guzman.’

Allerton said, ‘So she compares his behavior then to his baseline, when she knows he’s telling the truth.’

‘That’s it,’ Overby replied. ‘If there’s any variation it’ll be because he’s feeling stress.’

‘And that’s because he’s lying,’ Foster said.

‘Possibly. Of course, there’s lying because you just machine-gunned somebody to death. And there’s lying because you don’t want to get machine-gunned. His deception’ll be that there’s a point past which he won’t want to cooperate. Kathryn’ll have to make sure he does.’

‘Cooperation,’ Foster said. The word seemed to take on extra syllables as it trickled from a cynical mouth.

Overby noted that Foster was or had been a smoker – slight discoloration of his index and middle finger. The teeth were yellowish.

Sherlock.

In front of them, in the small, sterile room, Kathryn Dance continued to ask questions, chat, share observations.

Fifteen minutes rolled past.

Dance asked, ‘You enjoy landscaping?’

‘I do, sí. It’s … I don’t know … I like to work with my hands. I think maybe I’d be an artist if I had some, you know, skill. But I don’t. Gardening? Now that’s something I can do.’

Overby noted his nails were dark crescents.

‘Here’s what we’re looking into. A week ago a man named Hector Mendoza was killed. Shot. His nickname was Sad Eyes. He was coming out of a restaurant in New Monterey. On Lighthouse.’

‘Sad Eyes. Yeah, yeah. On the news. Near Baskin-Robbins, right?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Was— I no remember. Was a drive-by?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Was anybody else hurt?’ He frowned. ‘I hate it when children, bystanders are hurt. Those gang people, they don’t care who they hurt or don’t hurt.’

Dance nodded, on her face a pleasant expression. ‘Now, Mr Serrano, the reason I’m asking you this is that your name came up in the investigation.’

‘Mine?’ He seemed curious but not shocked. His dark face folded into a frown for a moment.

‘The day this man I mentioned, Mendoza, was killed, I believe you were working at the house of Rodrigo Guzman. It was March twenty-first. Now, while you were working for Mr Guzman, did you see a black BMW? A large one. This would be the afternoon of March twenty-first, I was saying, around three p.m.’

‘There were some cars there, I saw. Maybe some black ones but I no think so. And no BMW. Definitely.’ He added wistfully, ‘I always wanted one. I recognize a car like that, I would have gone to look at it.’

‘How long were you there?’

‘Oh, much of the day. I get to the job early, as early as the customers will have me. Señor Guzman, he has a lot of property. And there is always much to do. I was there at seven thirty. Took a lunch break maybe eleven thirty but only for thirty minutes. But, please, I am working for someone involved in the gangs? You are saying that?’ The frown deepened. ‘He a very nice man. Are you saying he involved in this death of … Men- …’

‘Mendoza. Hector Mendoza.’

‘Sí. Señor Guzman, he the nicest guy. Never hurt nobody.’

‘Again, Mr Serrano, we’re merely trying to get the facts.’

‘I can’t tell how he’s reacting,’ Allerton said. ‘He’s shifting in his chair, looking away, looking at her. I don’t know what it means.’

‘That’s Kathryn’s job,’ Overby said.

‘I think he’s a prick,’ Foster said. ‘I don’t care about body language. He’s sounding too innocent.’

Overby: ‘He’s just learned one of his company’s big moneymakers might be a banger and he’s not very happy about it. That’s how I’d act.’

‘Would you?’ Foster said.

Overby bristled but said nothing in response to the condescension. Allerton cast a sharp glance Foster’s way. He said, ‘I’m just saying. I don’t trust him.’

Dance: ‘Again, Mr Serrano, there are many questions, things we don’t know. We have had reports that the man who shot Mr Mendoza met with Mr Guzman just before he drove to New Monterey. But they’re just reports. You can see how we have to check it out.’

‘Sure. Yeah.’

‘So you’re telling me you’re certain there was no BMW at his house that morning?’

‘That’s right, Agent Dancer – no, Dance, right? Agent Dance. And I’m almost just as sure there were no black cars. And at that time I was in the front of the property, near the driveway. I would have seen. I was planting hydrangeas. He likes the blue ones.’

‘Well, thanks for that. Now, one more thing. If I showed you a few pictures of some men, could you tell me if any of them came to Mr Guzman’s house while you were there? Ideally on the twenty-first, but if not, some other time.’

‘I try.’

Dance opened her notebook and extracted three pictures.

‘Hard to see. They’re taken with, what, a spy camera or something?’

‘That’s right, a surveillance camera.’

The young man was sitting forward, pulling the pictures closer. He seemed to notice his dirty nails and looked embarrassed. Once he’d positioned the pictures he slipped his hands into his lap.

He studied them for a long time.

Allerton said, ‘Looks like he’s giving it a real shot. Fingers crossed.’

But then the young man sat back. ‘No, I’m sure I never seen them. Though’ – he tapped one – ‘he look like that outfielder for the As.’

Dance smiled.

‘Who is that?’ Foster asked. ‘I can’t see.’

Allerton said, ‘I think it’s Contino.’

‘Now there’s a prick and a half,’ Foster snapped.

A triggerman for one of the Oakland crews.

Dance gathered the pictures. She put them away and said, ‘I think that’s it, Mr Serrano.’

He shook his head. ‘I wish I could help you, Agent Dance. I hate the gangs as much as you do, no, probably more.’ His voice grew firm. ‘It is our teenagers and children getting killed. In our streets.’

Now Dance was leaning forward and she spoke in a soft voice: ‘If you did happen to see anything at Mr Guzman’s house and tell me, we’d make sure you’re protected. You and your family.’

Now the young man looked away once more. This time it was a moment before he spoke. ‘I no think so. I think I no be working there any longer. I’ll tell my boss to give me other jobs. Even if I make less.’

Allerton said, ‘Boy doesn’t have the cojones to snitch.’

Foster muttered, ‘She didn’t offer him anything. Why would he—’

‘You know, Mr Serrano, we have a budget for people who help us eliminate the gang threats. It’s cash, so nobody knows.’

The young man rose, smiling. ‘There only one problem with what you said. “Eliminate”. If you could eliminate the gangs, then maybe I think about it. But what you mean is, you put a few of them in jail. That leave plenty of others to come pay me and my girlfriend and her family a visit. I gotta say no.’

She held out her hand. ‘Thank you for coming in.’

‘I’m sorry. Not so clean.’ He showed his palms, though not the nails.

‘That’s all right.’

They gripped hands and he walked out of the room. Dance flipped the lights off.

CHAPTER 5

Dance stepped into the observation room and swung the door shut behind her. She walked to the table, set her notes down. She hit the button that shut off the recorder. Clicked her Glock back in its holster.

‘Well?’ Steve Foster asked. ‘Did something wonderful happen that I missed?’

‘What’s your assessment, Kathryn?’ Overby asked.

‘Very few variations from the baseline. I think he’s telling the truth,’ Dance announced. ‘He doesn’t know anything.’ She went on to explain that some people were masters of deception and could manipulate their behaviors – like the yoga experts who could slow their heart rate nearly to stopping – but Serrano didn’t strike her as that skilled.

‘Oh, I think he’s got a few skeletons. But nothing related to the CI or the gangs or Guzman. I’d guess he boosted a car when he was a kid or scores some weed from time to time. Got a ripple of evasion when we were talking about life on the Peninsula, never in trouble with the law. But it was small-time.’

‘You read that?’ Allerton said.

‘I inferred it. I think it’s accurate. But nothing we can use.’

‘Hell,’ Overby muttered. ‘Our one chance to nail Guzman.’

Dance corrected, ‘A chance. That didn’t pan out. That’s all. There’ll be others.’

‘Well, I don’t see a lot of others,’ Foster pointed out.

Carol Allerton said, ‘We’ve got that delivery boy. He knows something.’

Foster muttered, ‘The pizza kid? That’s a non-lead. It’s a dead lead. It’s a pushing-up-daisies lead.’ His face tightened. ‘There’s something about that asshole Serrano. I don’t like him. He was too slick. You learn anything in body-language school about slick?’

Dance didn’t answer.

Allerton: ‘It’s a pepper.’

‘What?’ Overby asked.

‘Serrano’s a pepper. Just saying.’

Foster read texts. Sent some.

Allerton thought for a moment, said, ‘I think we should try again – to turn him, I mean. Offer him more money.’

‘No interest,’ Dance said. ‘Serrano’s a dead end. I say we put better surveillance on Guzman. Get a team in place.’

‘What, Kathryn, twenty-four/seven? You know what that costs? Try the pizza boy, try the domestic staff in Guzman’s. Keep following up on the other leads.’ Overby looked at his watch. ‘I’ll leave it to you guys and gals to work it out.’ His body language suggested that he regretted using the second G-word. Political correctness, Dance reflected, could be so tedious. Overby rose and walked to the door.

And nearly got decked as TJ Scanlon pushed inside. He looked past them and into the observation room. Eyes wide. ‘Where’s Serrano?’

‘He just left,’ Dance told him.

The agent’s brow was furrowed. ‘Shit.’

‘What’s up, TJ?’ Overby asked sharply.

‘He’s gone?’ the young agent exclaimed.

Foster snapped, ‘What?’

‘Just got a call from Amy Grabe.’ FBI special agent in charge of the San Francisco office. ‘They busted this guy in Salinas for possession, major. He gave up Serrano.’

‘Gave him up?’ Foster’s brow furrowed deeply.

TJ nodded. ‘Boss, Serrano’s on Guzman’s payroll.’

‘What?’ Dance gasped.

‘He’s a shooter. He was the triggerman took out Sad Eyes. Serrano picked up the BMW at Guzman’s that afternoon, popped Sad, then went back and finished his shift planting daisies or pansies or whatever. He’s taken out four witnesses for Guzman in the last six months.’

‘Fucking hell,’ Foster raged. His eyes on Dance. ‘Outfielder for the As?’

‘Is it confirmed?’

‘They found the piece Serrano used. Ballistics check out. And it’s got Serrano’s prints all over it.’

‘No,’ Dance whispered harshly. She flung the door open and began sprinting down the hall.

He grabbed her before she got three feet into the parking lot behind CBI.

The tackle took Dance down hard and she sprawled on the concrete. She got her Glock out of her holster but, fast as a striking snake, he pulled the gun from her hand. He didn’t turn it her way, though. He saw that she was lying stunned on the ground and fled, a pounding sprint.

‘Serrano!’ she called. ‘Stop!’

He glanced at his car, realized he couldn’t get to it in time. He looked around and spotted, nearby, a slim redheaded woman in a black pantsuit – an employee of the CBI business office. She was climbing out of her Altima, which she’d just parked between two SUVs. He sprinted directly toward her, flung her to the ground. And ripped the keys from her hands. He leaped inside the SUV, started the engine and floored the accelerator.

The sounds of the squealing, smoking tires and the engine were loud. But they didn’t cover the next sound: a sickening crunch from the wheels. The woman’s screams stopped abruptly.

‘No!’ Dance muttered. ‘Oh, no.’ She rose to her feet, gripping her sore wrist, which had slammed into the concrete when he tackled her.