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 blonde 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 email from the governor, though, given their meeting now, it was probably halfway between. The athletic if pear-shaped man said, ‘Okay, all task-forced up? Let’s get this thing done.’ He sat and opened a manila folder.

His ingratiating words were greeted with the same non-negotiable 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 operation that was part of a statewide push to address a recent trend in gang activity. You could find organized crime everywhere in California but the main centers for gang activity were two: north and south. Oakland was the headquarters of the former, LA 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 Interstate-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 LA, 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, 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 had 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 gang-banger, 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 to assemble here, now, for a briefing.

‘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. Also, it was true that law enforcers were quite sensitive about their colleague’s attempts to poach confidential informants.

‘Our office.’

Foster grunted. Maybe he was irritated he hadn’t been 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 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 dominos.’ Then he didn’t seem to like his metaphor.

‘This witness, Serrano. Tell us more about him.’ Allerton fiddled with a yellow pad of foolscap, then seemed to realize she was doing so. She 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.’

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. Ready to go.’

‘Okay, bring him up.’ 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. 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 forearm, near the sweat jacket, 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, 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 Foster, who was the sort to 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. He was also within lobbing distance of the legislature.