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  Perpendicular to Foster was Carol Allerton, in a bulky gray pantsuit. Short hair frosted silver, black and gray, Carol Allerton was a senior DEA agent operating out of Oakland. The stocky woman had a dozen serious collars to her credit. Not legend, but respectable. She'd had the opportunity to be fast-tracked to Sacramento or even Washington but she'd declined.

  Kathryn Dance was in a black skirt and white blouse of thick cotton, under a dark brown jacket, cut to obscure if not wholly hide her Glock. The only color in her ensemble was a blue band that secured the end of her dark blond French braid. Her daughter had bound it this morning on the way to school.

  "That's done." Hovering around fifty, Charles Overby looked up from his phone, on which he might've been arranging a tennis date or reading an e-mail from the governor, though, given their meeting now, it was probably halfway between. The athletic if pearish man said, "Okay, all taskforced up? Let's get this thing done." He sat and opened a manila file folder.

  His ingratiating words were greeted with the same nonnegotiable stares that had surveilled Dance a moment ago. It was pretty well known in law enforcement circles that Overby's main skill was, and had always been, administration, while those present were hard-core line investigators. None of whom would use the verb he just had.

  Mumbles and nods of greeting.

  The "thing" he was referring to was an effort to address a recent trend in gang activity in the state. You could find organized crime everywhere in California but the main centers for the biggest gangs were two: north and south. Oakland was the headquarters of the former, L.A. the latter. But rather than being rivals, the polar crews had decided to start working together, guns moving south from the Bay Area and drugs moving north. At any given moment, there would be dozens of illicit shipments coursing along I-5, the 101 and the dusty, slow-moving 99.

  To make it harder to track and stop these shipments, the senior bangers had hit on an idea: They'd taken to using break-bulk and way stations, where the cargo was transferred from the original tractor trailers to dozens of smaller trucks and vans. Two hours south of Oakland and five north of L.A., Salinas, with its active gang population, was perfect as a hub. Hundreds of warehouses, thousands of vehicles and produce trucks. Police interdiction nearly ground to a halt and illicit business surged. This year alone the statistics cops reported that revenue in the gun/drug operation had risen nearly a half billion dollars.

  Six months ago the CBI, FBI, DEA, and local law enforcement agencies had formed Operation Pipeline to try to stop the transportation network but had had paltry success. The bangers were so connected and smart and brazen that they constantly remained one step ahead of the good guys, who managed to bust only low-level dealers or mules with mere ounces taped to their crotches, hardly worth the bytes to process into the system. Worse, informants were ID'd, tortured and killed before any leads could be developed.

  As part of Pipeline, Kathryn Dance was running what she'd dubbed the Guzman Connection and put together a task force that included Foster, Allerton and two other officers, presently in the field. The eponymous Guzman was a massive, borderline psychotic gangbanger who reportedly knew at least half of the transfer points in and around Salinas. As near a perfect prize as you could find in the crazy business of law enforcement.

  After a lot of preliminary work, just last night Dance had texted the task force that they had their first lead to Guzman and arranged a briefing here, now.

  "So, tell us about this asshole you're going to be talking to today, the one you think's going to give up Guzman. What's his name? Serrano?" From Steve Foster.

  Dance replied, "Okay. Joaquin Serrano. He's an innocent--what all the intel shows. No record. Thirty-two. We heard about him from a CI we've been running--"

  "Who's been running?" Foster asked bluntly. The man was adept at interruption, Dance had learned.

  "Our office."

  Foster--from a different Bureau of Investigation office--grunted. Maybe he was irritated his branch hadn't pried up a Serrano of its own. Or maybe just that he hadn't been earlier informed. His flick of a finger said, Go on.

  "Serrano can link Guzman to the killing of Sad Eyes."

  The victim, actually Hector Mendoza (droopy lids had led to the nic), was a banger who knew higher-ups in both the north and the south operations. That is, a perfect witness--had he remained alive.

  Even cynical, sour Foster seemed content at the possibility of hanging the Sad Eyes killing on Guzman.

  Overby, often good at stating the obvious, said, "Guzman falls, the other Pipeline crews could go like dominoes."

  "This witness, Serrano? Tell us more about him." Carol Allerton fiddled with a yellow pad of foolscap, then seemed to realize she was doing so and aligned the edges and set it free.

  "He's a landscaper, works for one of the big companies in Monterey. Documented. Probably trustworthy."

  "Probably," Foster said.

  "He's here now?" Allerton asked.

  "Outside," Overby replied.

  Foster said, "Why's he going to want to talk to us? I mean, let's be transparent. He knows what Guzman'll do, he finds out. Use him for target practice."

  Allerton: "Maybe he wants money, maybe he's got somebody in the system he wants us to help."

  Dance said, "Or maybe he wants to do the right thing." Drawing a laugh from Foster. She too gave a faint grin. "I'm told it happens occasionally."

  "He came in voluntarily?" Allerton wondered aloud.

  "He did. I just called him up. He said yes."

  "So," Overby inquired, "we're relying on his good graces to help us?"

  "More or less." The phone against the wall hummed. Dance rose and answered it.

  "Yes?"

  "Hey, boss."

  The caller was a thirtyish CBI agent in the West-Central Division. He was Dance's junior associate, though that was not an official job description. TJ Scanlon, a dependable, hardworking agent and, best put, atypical for the conservative CBI.

  TJ said, "He's here. Good to go."

  "Okay, I'm ready." Dance dropped the phone into the cradle and said to the room, "Serrano's coming in now."

  Through the mirror window, they watched the door to the interview room open. In walked TJ, slim, his curly hair more unruly than usual. He was in a plaid sports coat and red pants, which approached bell-bottoms. His T-shirt was tie-dyed, yellow and orange.

  Atypical...

  Following him was a tall Latino with thick, short-cut dark hair. Late twenties. He walked in and looked around. His jeans were slim-cut and dark blue. New. He wore a gray hoodie with UCSC on the front.

  "Yeah," Foster grumbled. "He graduated from Santa Cruz. Right."

  Dance said stiffly, "Not graduated. Took courses."

  "Hmm."

  The Latino's right hand was inked, though it didn't seem to be a gang sign, and on his left wrist, near the sweat jacket cuff, you could just make out the start of a tat. His face was untroubled.

  Over the speaker, they heard the young agent say, "There you go. There. Take a seat. You want some water?"

  The somber man said, "No."

  "Somebody'll be in in a minute."

  The man nodded. He sat down in a chair facing the one-way mirror. He glanced at it once and then pulled out his cell phone and read the screen.

  Foster shifted slightly. Dance didn't need any body language skills to understand his thoughts. She said, "He's just a witness, remember. We don't have a warrant to intercept. He hasn't done anything wrong."

  "Oh, he's done something wrong," Foster said. "We just don't know what yet."

  She glanced at him.

  "I can smell it."

  Dance rose, slipped her Glock out of its holster and set it on the table. She picked up her pen and a pad of yellow paper.

  Time to go to work and uncover the truth.

  Chapter 4

  She works miracles, does she?" Foster asked. "This kinesics stuff?"

  "Kathryn's good, yes." Overby had taken a dislike to his co
lleague from Sacramento, who was the sort who'd snatch credit and press time away from those who'd done much of the legwork. He had to be careful, though. Foster was roughly on Overby's level, pay grade-wise, but higher up, in the sense that he was based in Sacramento and had an office no more than thirty feet from the head of the CBI. Foster was also within lobbing distance of the legislature.

  Allerton adjusted her yellow pad, tore off and discarded the first page and then wrote on the new top sheet, "1."

  Overby continued, "Funny. When you know what she does--that body language stuff--then you 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 guess.'"

  "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?" From Foster.

  Overby said nothing more. As the others gazed through 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 aimed 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 of his head. 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 of her specialty. "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 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." Foster, paying half attention.

  "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 because 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 fingers. 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, si. 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? That's something I can do."

  Overby noted his nails were dark crescents.

  "Now, here's what we're looking into. Not long 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. "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 there, 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 said 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. Senor 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."

  "Si. Senor 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've had reports that the man who shot Mr. Mendoza met with Mr. Guzman just before he drove to New Monterey. But they're just rumors. 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 day?"

  "That's right, Agent Dancer, no,
Dance, right? Agent Dance. And I'm almost just as sure there were no black cars. And then, 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 appeared embarrassed. Once he'd positioned the pictures he slipped his hands into his lap.

  He studied the photographs for a long time.

  Allerton said, "Looks like he's giving it a real shot. Fingers crossed."

  But then the man sat back. "No, I'm sure I never seen them. Though"--he tapped one--"he look like that outfielder for the A's."

  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 mumbled.

  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, something helpful to us, we'll 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 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, nobody knows."