Solitude Creek, Page 3

  The young man rose, smiling wistfully. "There only one problem with what you say. '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 a visit. I have to say no."

  She held her hand out. "Thank you for coming in."

  "I'm sorry. Not so clean." He showed his palms, though not the soiled 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. He's telling the truth," Dance announced. "He doesn't know anything." She went on to explain that there were some people who 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 at lying.

  "Oh, I think he's got a few skeletons. But nothing related to the informant's death 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 being 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 nonlead. 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 not an option. I say we put better surveillance on Guzman. Get a team in place."

  Overby scoffed. "What, Kathryn, twenty-four/seven? You know what that costs? Try the pizza boy, try the domestic staff. 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. He was sweating, out of breath. "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 snapped.

  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 snapped. His eyes on Dance. "Outfielder for the A's?"

  "Is it confirmed?"

  "They found the piece Serrano used. Ballistics check out. And he was printed when he got his green card; the gun's got Serrano's prints all over it."

  "No," Dance muttered. 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. He'd stepped to the side to light a cigarette and glanced up, shock in his eyes, as Dance burst through the door.

  The tackle took her 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 turned 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 leapt inside the sedan, 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 walk from his tackle.

  The others in the Guzman Connection task force ran to Dance.

  "I've called an ambulance and MCSO," TJ Scanlon said and ran to where the redhead was lying in the parking space.

  Foster raised his Glock, aiming toward the vanishing Altima.

  "No!" Dance said and put her hand on his arm.

  "The fuck're you doing, Agent?"

  It was Overby who said, "Across the highway? There? On the other side of those trees. It's a day care center."

  Foster lowered the weapon, reluctantly, as if insulted they'd questioned his shooting skill. He reholstered his Glock as the stolen car vanished from sight. Foster glanced toward Dance, and though he didn't fling her words about the young man's innocence back in her face, his body language clearly did.

  Chapter 6

  What would the next few hours, next few days bring?

  Kathryn Dance sat in Charles Overby's office, alone. Her eyes slipped from pictures of the man with his family, to those of him in tennis whites and in an outlandish plaid golf outfit, to those with local officials and business executives. Overby, rumor was, had his eye on political office. The Peninsula or possibly, at a stretch, San Francisco. Not Sacramento; he'd never set his sights very high. There was also the issue you could get to fairway or tennis court all year-round here on the coast.

  Two hours had passed since the incident in the parking lot.

  She wondered again: And a few hours from now?

  And days and weeks?

  Noise outside the doorway. Overby and Steve Foster, the senior CBI agents here, continued their conversation as they walked inside.

  "...got surveillance on the feeders to Fresno, then the One-oh-one and the Five, if he's moving fast. CHP's got Ninety-nine covered. And we've got One roadblocked."

  Foster said, "I'd go to Salinas, the One-oh-one, I was him. Then north. He'll get, you know, safe passage in a lettuce truck. All the way to San Jose. The G-Forty-sevens'd pick him up there and he disappears into Oakland."

  Overby seemed to be considering this. "More chance to get lost in L.A. But harder to get to, roadblocks and all. Think you're right, Steve. I'll tell Alameda and San Jose. Oh, Kathryn. Didn't see you."

  Even though he'd asked her--no, told her--to come to his office ten minutes ago.

  She nodded to them both but didn't rise. A woman in law enforcement, she was constantly aware of that gossa
mer thread she negotiated in the job, with her bosses and fellow officers. Excessive deference can derail respect; too little can, as well. "Charles, Steve."

  Foster sat beside her and the chair groaned.

  "What's the latest?"

  "Not good, looks like."

  Overby said, "MCSO found the Altima in a residential part of Carmel, near the Barnyard."

  An old outdoor shopping center, with a number of lots for parking cars.

  And for hijacking or stealing them too.

  Overby said, "But if he's got new wheels, nobody's reported anything missing."

  "Which could mean the person who could do the reporting's dead and in the trunk," Foster offered. Implicitly blaming Dance for a potential death-to-be.

  "We're just debating: Would he go north or south? What do you think, Kathryn?"

  "What we know now, he's associated with the Jacinto crew. They've got stronger ties south."

  "Like I was saying," Foster reminded, speaking exclusively to Overby, "south is three hundred miles of relatively few roads and highways, versus north, with a lot more feeders. We can't watch 'em all. And he can be in Oakland in two hours."

  Dance said, "Steve, airplanes. He flies to a private strip in L.A., out in the country, and he's in South Central in no time."

  "Airplane? He's not cartel level, Kathryn," Foster fired back. "He's I'm-hiding-in-a-lettuce-truck level."

  Overby put on his consideration face. Then: "We can't look everywhere and I think Steve's's the more, you know, logical assessment."

  "All right. North, then. I'll talk to Amy Grabe. She'll get eyes going in Oakland, the docks, the East Bay. And--"

  "Whoa, whoa, Kathryn." Overby's face registered surprise, as if she'd just said, I think I'll swim to Santa Cruz.

  She looked at him with a critical furrow of brow. There was a lace of condescension in his tone.

  She glanced at Foster, who had lost interest in her and was studying a golden-colored golf ball on Overby's desk, some award. He didn't want to be seen gloating when she heard what she knew was coming. Better to look at small-time awards made of plastic masquerading as precious metal.

  Overby said, "I've just been on the phone with Sacramento. With Peter."

  The director of the CBI. The boss of bosses.

  "We talked, I explained..."

  "What's the bottom line, Charles?"

  "I did everything I could, Kathryn. I went to bat for you."

  "I'm suspended."

  "Not suspended, no, no, not completely." He beamed, as if she'd won a Caribbean Cruise in a state fair drawing. "You lost your weapon, Kathryn. He's got it now. That's... Well, you know. It is unpaid leave-of-absence territory. They're not going to go there. But they want you in Civil Division for the time being."

  Civ-Div would correspond to a traffic division in the city police department. No weapon and with all the power of anybody else to make a citizen's arrest. It was the entry level into the Bureau of Investigation and involved such tasks as compiling information on noncriminal violations by citizens and corporations, like failure to follow building or revenue-collection regulations, improper signage in the workplace and even failure to promptly remit soda bottle deposits. Agents tended to endure the overwhelming paperwork and crushing boredom for only so long. If they weren't promoted out into Crim-Div, they usually quit cold.

  "So I am suspended. From Criminal."

  "I'm sorry, Kathryn. I didn't have a choice. I tried. I really did."

  Going to bat for her...

  Foster now regarded Overby with a neutral gaze that Dance, however, read as contempt for her boss's backpedaling.

  "I told him body language isn't an exact science. You did the best you could with Serrano. I saw you. We all did. It looked to me like he was telling the truth. Right, Steve? Who could tell?"

  Dance could see that Foster was thinking, But it's not our area of expertise to sit across from a perp and pick apart the entrails of his words and poses and gestures to get to the truth.

  Overby continued, "But no one was hurt. Not badly. No weapons were discharged."

  The redhead in the parking lot had not been run over after all. She'd rolled out of the way, under an SUV, as the Altima had sped out of the parking space. Her Dell computer and her lunch had not survived; their loss was what the horrific-sounding crunch had signaled.

  "Charles, Serrano is High Mach. I missed it, I admit. But you see those one in every hundred cases."

  "What's that? High what?" Foster asked.

  "A category of liars' personalities. The most ruthless and, yeah, slick"--she threw the word back at Foster--"are the 'High Machiavellians.' High Machs love to lie. They lie with impunity. They see nothing wrong with it. They use deceit like a smartphone or search engine, a tool to get what they want. Whether it's in love, business, politics--or crime." She added that there were other types, which included social liars, who lied to entertain, and adapters, who were insecure people lying to make positive impressions. Another common type was the "actor," someone for whom control was an important issue. "They don't lie regularly, only when necessary. But Serrano, he just didn't present like any of them. Sure not a High Mach. All I picked up were what I said, some small evasions. Social lies."

  "Social?"

  "Everybody lies." The statistics were that every human being lied at least once or twice a day. Dance shot a glance to Foster. "When did you lie last?"

  He rolled his eyes. She thought: Maybe when he'd said "Good to see you" this morning.

  She continued, "But I was getting to know him. I'm the only one here or in any other agency who's spent time with him. And now we know he could be a key to the whole operation. I don't need to lead it. Just don't take me off the case."

  Overby ran a hand through his thinning hair. "Kathryn, you want to make it right. I understand. Sure you do. But I don't know what to tell you; it's been decided. Peter's already signed off on the reassignment."

  "Already."

  Foster: "More efficient, when you think about it. We didn't really need two agents from this office. Jimmy Gomez is good. Don't you agree, Kathryn?"

  A junior agent at the CBI, one of the two others on the Guzman Connection task force. Yes, he was good. That wasn't the point. She ignored Foster. She stood and to Overby said, "So?"

  He looked at her with one raised eyebrow.

  Her shoulders rose and fell impatiently. "I'm Civ-Div. So, what's on my roster?"

  He looked blank for a moment. Then scoured his desk. He noted a Post-it, bright yellow, glaring as a rectangle of sun fell on it. "Here's something. Got a memo on the wire from MCFD a little while ago. About that Solitude Creek incident?"

  "The fire at the roadhouse."

  "That's right. The county's investigating but somebody from the state is supposed to make sure the club's tax and insurance certificates're up-to-date."

  "Tax? Insurance?"

  "CHP didn't want to handle it."

  Who would? Dance thought.

  Foster's absence of gloat was the biggest gloat she had ever seen.

  "Take care of that. Then I'll see what else needs doing."

  With Dance "tasked" to take on the fine print of California insurance regulations, and tacitly dismissed, Overby turned to Steve Foster to discuss the manhunt for Joaquin Serrano.

  Chapter 7

  First, this is interesting--there was no fire."

  "No fire?" Dance asked. She was standing in front of the Solitude Creek club, which was encircled with yellow police tape. The man before her was stocky, forties, with an odd patch on his face; it looked like a birthmark but, she knew, was a scar from a blaze years ago that attacked the newly commissioned firefighter before he snuffed it dead.

  She'd worked with Monterey County fire marshal Robert Holly several times and found him low-key, smart, reasonable.

  He continued, "Well, there was, technically. Only it was outside. The club itself was never on fire. There, that oil drum."

  Dance noted the rusty fi
fty-five-gallon vessel, the sort used for trash in parking lots and behind stores and restaurants. It rested near the club's air-conditioning unit.

  "We ran a prelim. Discarded cigarette in the drum, along with some rags soaked in motor oil and gasoline. That's all it took."

  "Accelerant, then," Dance said. "The oil and gas."

  "That was the effect, though there's no evidence it was intentional."

  "So people thought there was a fire. Smelled smoke."

  "And headed to the fire exits. And that was the problem. They were blocked."

  "Locked? The doors were locked?"

  "No, blocked. The truck?"

  He pointed to a large tractor trailer parked against the west side of the club. It too was encircled with yellow tape. "It's owned by that company there. Henderson Jobbing and Warehouse." Dance regarded the one-story sprawling structure. There were a half-dozen similar tractors and trailers sitting at the loading dock and nearby. Several men and women, in work clothes, a few in suits, stood on the dock or in front of the office and looked over at the club, as if staring at a beached whale. They were both grim and curious.

  "The driver parked it there?"

  "Claims he didn't. But what's he going to say? There've been other incidents of trucks blocking the roadhouse parking lot. Never a fire exit."

  "Is he here today?"

  "He'll be in soon. I called him at home. He's pretty upset. But he agreed to come in."

  "Why would he park there, though? Anybody can see the signs: NO PARKING, FIRE EXIT. Tell me the scenario. What happened exactly?"

  "Come on inside."

  Dance followed the burly man into the club. The place had apparently not been straightened up after the tragedy. Chairs and tables--low-and high-tops--were scattered everywhere, broken glasses, bottles, scraps of cloth, snapped bracelets, shoes. Musical instruments lay on the stage. One acoustic guitar was in pieces. A Martin D-28, Dance noted. An old one. Two thousand dollars' worth of former resonance.

  There were many smears of old blood on the floor, brown footsteps too.

  Dance had been here dozens of times. Everybody on the Peninsula knew Solitude Creek. The club was owned by a balding, earringed restaurateur and former hippie from (where else?) Haight-Ashbury named Sam Cohen, who had been to the Monterey Pop show in '67 and reportedly not slept for three days. So moved by the show had the young man been that he devoted his early life to promoting rock concerts, not so successfully, then gave up and opened a steakhouse near the Presidio. He sold it for a profit and pocketed enough to buy an abandoned seafood restaurant on the small tributary that became the club's name.