Solitude Creek (31 page)

‘Night.’ She kissed him.

Into the next bedroom.

‘Mags?’

Maggie was asleep. Dance tucked the blankets around her and latched her window. Kissed her head.

At close to midnight she and Boling walked upstairs to her bedroom. He had here a set of clothes in a gym bag, which represented a tentative escalation in their relationship. This was fine with her: some clothes, not wardrobes’ worth.

No rush …

She showered and dressed in PJs and crawled into bed next to him. They lay thigh to thigh, and she sensed he was ready to talk about her day if she wished but wasn’t going to push it. Thank you, she thought silently, and squeezed his hand as a gesture of the thought, which she knew he understood. She wondered if he’d heard the argument between her and Michael O’Neil.

She asked, ‘How’s Mags doing?’

‘I kept an eye on the Skype session with the Secrets Club gang. Bethany’s quite the young lady. I expect to see her as the head of the State Department in a few years. The White House is an option too. I think they were using codes. I couldn’t figure them out. Like they’ve created their own language.’

Dance laughed. ‘If they put half that energy into schoolwork.’

‘When I was a kid and supposed to take a shower, I spent more time running the water, getting a towel wet and rubbing dirt from the floor on the washcloth than if I’d just jumped in. Something about getting away with it.’

‘Did it work?’

‘Not once. But I kept trying. Oh, not to worry, I’m over shower-cheating now.’

Her mind returned to the argument she’d had with O’Neil. Her gut clenched and she felt a flash of anger. She realized that Boling was saying something else.

‘Hmm?’

‘Just goodnight.’ He kissed her cheek.

‘Night.’

Boling rolled over on his side and in a few minutes he was in enviable sleep.

Dance realized she was staring intently at the ceiling. Then she told herself to relax. But how ridiculous an order was that?

She continued to wrestle with the greater implication of O’Neil’s words, which he had not spoken to her. That if she had taken a weapon, yes, maybe they would have stopped the Solitude Creek killer today. Maybe she would have been closer to the door and seen him trying to escape.

And if anyone else died in another attack, that would be on her shoulders.

But if she had, and word had gotten back to CBI headquarters that she’d broken protocol with a pistol, it would have been the end of her involvement in the case and, more important, her secret role in the Serrano matter. She wasn’t willing to do that. Michael had to understand.

Except, obviously, he didn’t.

She, too, rolled over, back to the man beside her, hoping for prompt sleep.

It was nearly dawn before her addled mind stumbled into nonsensical thought and, finally, dreamless dark.

‘Did you hear from TJ? The lead came through, got a location and we’d better move on it.’

Those words, uttered by Al Stemple, were virtually one sentence, one breath. And not a single grunt. He knew he wasn’t known for speedy anything and the fact that he was taking a let’s-go attitude with the Guzman Connection task force was meant to convey: Time’s a-wasting, boys and girls.

Carol Allerton, Jimmy Gomez and Stephen Lu were in the war room. Lu asked, ‘Lead?’

Stemple grumbled, looking at his watch, ‘Yeah, yeah. Lead to Tia Alonzo, Serrano’s skirt.’

Drawing a glance from Allerton.

Oh, please …

Lu said, ‘Where?’

Stemple wondered where Lu got his clothes. He had to have a size-thirteen neck. Tiny. His white shirt and black slacks bagged. ‘Houseboat off Moss Landing.’

‘Houseboat?’

What I said, Stemple thought.

‘She with anybody?’ Gomez asked.

‘No, just her. Was with some guy but he left, TJ said.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Kathryn’s outside. She’ll go with us. So, draw straws. Jimmy?’

‘Sure, I’ll go.’

Lu said, ‘Why don’t we all go?’

Allerton: ‘I need somebody here. I’ve got to finish these transcripts from Oakland. The prosecutor needs them in a couple of hours and I don’t think I’m going to make it. ’

Lu said, ‘Sure. I can do that. Happy to help out.’ That defined Steve Two. Somebody else might’ve said, ‘Oh, I just
looooove
paperwork. Can’t get enough.’ But sincerity was baked into his core. He returned to the tasks on his desk.

Gomez pulled on his tan sports jacket, checked his Glock. As if the bullets had fallen out between the last time he’d checked and now. ‘After you, Al.’

Together the men walked out into the parking lot.

Kathryn Dance was waiting.

‘Hey,’ Gomez said.

‘Jimmy.’ She nodded. And they walked toward Stemple’s cruiser.

Looking around, Dance asked, ‘Charles doesn’t know I’m here, does he? You’re sure?’

‘Not from us,’ Gomez confirmed. ‘We Fab Four took a vow of silence. Even Steve Foster’s agreed. He can be a … you know.’

‘I do.’

It was transparent, Stemple thought.

They climbed into the car. Stemple started the engine and sped west on 68, heading for Highway One, which would get them to Moss Landing in twenty minutes.

‘Who’s this Tia we’re going to see?’ Gomez asked. Then: ‘Whoa.’

Stemple never paid much attention to speed limits.

Dance said, ‘Tia Alonzo. Use to be an exotic dancer.’

‘Love that. “Exotic”.’

‘And model. Wannabe, of course. Serrano met her at a party and they, well, kept up partying for a month or two. It ended but they hook up occasionally. TJ found Tia’s gotten a couple of texts from Serrano lately. He’s checking her sheet now, seeing if there’s any paper we can use to leverage her into helping us. Or maybe she’ll just cooperate. Out of the goodness of her heart.’

Now, yeah, Stemple grunted.

A real houseboat.

Rundown but Al Stemple liked it.

About forty feet long, fifteen wide, a squat whitewashed structure on top of pontoons.

Wouldn’t mind something like that.

Moss Landing was a stretch of marinas, shops and restaurants scattered along a sandy road that paralleled Highway One. The houseboat was anchored in a secluded area of docks. In its heyday, the years of plentiful fish, the Steinbeck years, this spot had been home to hundreds of fiftyand sixty-foot fishing boats. No longer. Some pleasure craft, a few small fishing operations – party boats and commercial – and then, like here, a houseboat or two.

Stemple parked about a hundred feet from the place. The three CBI agents climbed from the car and slowly made their way toward the boat. A beat-up Toyota was parked in the weed-filled lot in front of the vessel. Or house. Or whatever.

‘One car only. But doesn’t mean she’s alone.’ Stemple made a fast security sweep. And returned. ‘Looks good to me.’

Dance regarded her phone. She said to Gomez, ‘TJ. He’s telling me no paper on Alonzo. Yellow sheet – lewd and lascivious, prostitution, public drunkenness. Years ago. She’s been a good girl since.’

‘Nothing violent, then.’

‘Nup. But we have to assume she’s armed.’

Gomez said, ‘And you’re not, right?’

‘Nope. Stay close, Jimmy.’

‘Oh, I will.’

‘And, Al, don’t watch the perimeter.’

‘Gotcha.’

They approached the boat, which was called the
Lazy Mary
. Stemple didn’t like the name. Wasn’t elegant. If he had a houseboat, he’d call it something like
Diamond Stud
. No, too tacky.
Home of the Brave
. Good. He liked it.

Near shore was a breakwater, so the occasionally ornery Monterey Bay waters didn’t intrude here. Today the
Lazy Mary
rose and fell, Stemple decided, lazily.

Gomez glanced at Dance, who nodded and said, ‘Let’s do it.’

They walked over a short gangplank and onto the deck, painted gray, scabby. Gomez knocked on the door.

It opened and they stepped inside.

Stemple looked out over the marina, adjusted his Beretta on his wide hip and crossed his arms.

Fifteen minutes later Gomez, Stemple and Dance were driving back to headquarters.

She called the task force and got Carol Allerton.

‘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.’