Solitude Creek

‘Kathryn, no. You can’t be Civil half the time, Criminal the rest. It doesn’t work that way. We’ve been through this.’

Charles Overby seemed just pissy. She was in his office, close to five p.m. She was surprised he was still there: there was still an hour of tennis light left.

She knew he was right but the fast dismissal — It doesn’t work that way — was irritating. She asked, ‘Who else is going to handle it? We’re short-staffed.’ The CBI had been hit with budget cutbacks, like every other agency in California, whose new nickname among government workers was the ‘Bare State’, a play on the grizzly on the flag.

‘TJ. Rey. I’ll assign one of them.’

They were two very competent agents but young. Neither they nor anyone else in the Bureau had Dance’s skill at interrogation. And this case, she felt, had instances aplenty to get people into interview rooms. There were nearly a hundred victims, any one of whom might have a lead. Any one of whom might also be the perp. Stationed by the club door last night, where he could escape safely if it became too dangerous — maybe to enjoy his revenge for a real or imagined slight.

Or just because he wanted to watch people die.

‘You shouldn’t even be in the office. You should be home planting flowers or baking or something … All right, I’m just saying.’

Dance forwent the grimace. She said, ‘How’s this? Michael O’Neil.’

Chief of detectives of the Monterey County Sheriff’s Office.

‘What about him?’

‘He’ll run it.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Charles. It’s not a Fire Department matter. The burn in the oil drum was secondary. Makes sense the MCSO would handle it.’

His eyes slipped away. ‘You’ll brief O’Neil, that’s all.’

‘Sure. I’d advise.’

Advising wasn’t the same as briefing. Overby didn’t protest but she sensed he might not have noted her verb.

‘Nothing changes, Kathryn. No weapon. You’re still Civ Div.’

‘Sure,’ Kathryn Dance said brightly. She was winning.

‘You think he’ll agree?’ Overby said.

‘We’ll see. I think so.’

She knew this because she’d already texted him. And he had agreed.

But now Overby was troubled once more. ‘Of course, if it becomes a county operation …’

Meaning he’d miss out on the credit — and press conferences — that went with closing a case.

‘Tell you what. You can’t do more than brief.’

Advise.

‘But we can still get our oar in.’

She’d never understood that expression. ‘How do you mean, Charles?’

‘Let’s involve the CBI folks we’ve got here, on the task force. Jimmy Gomez and Steve Foster.’

‘What? Charles, no. They’re on Serrano and Guzman … I need them focused on that.’

‘No, no, this’ll be good. Just to kick around some ideas with them.’

‘With Foster? Kick ideas around with Steve Foster? He doesn’t kick around ideas. He shoots them in the head.’

Overby was looking away. Perhaps her glare seared. ‘Now that I think about it, makes sense to run it by them. Good on all counts. We have … considerations. Under the circumstances.’

‘Charles, please, no.’

‘Let’s just go talk to them, that’s all. Get Foster’s thoughts. Jimmy’s too. He’s one of us.’

Whatever the consequences, he’d decided his office couldn’t take a complete back seat to the Sheriff’s.

Avoiding her eyes, he rose, slipped his jacket over his immaculate white shirt and strode out of the office. ‘I think it’s a brilliant idea. Come along, Kathryn. Let’s have a chat with our friends.’

CHAPTER 14

The Guzman Connection task force was up to full strength.

In addition to blustery Steve Foster and staunch Carol Allerton, two others were present in the conference room dedicated to the operation.

‘Kathryn, Charles.’ This was from Steve Lu, the chief of detectives at the Salinas Police Department, a.k.a. Steve Two, since another, Foster, was on the team. Lu, an excessively skinny man — Dance’s opinion — was a specialist in gangs. His younger brother had been in a crew and been busted on a few minor counts — though he was now out of the system and clean. Lu was persistent and no-nonsense, maybe trying harder to make up for his sibling’s stumble. He was humorless, Dance had learned over several years of working with him, but he was not, as the other Steve was, bluntly contrary.

The fourth task-force member was Jimmy Gomez, the young CBI agent whose name had come up earlier. Dark-complexioned and sporting a moustache as brown as Foster’s was light and elaborate, he stayed in shape by playing football — that is, soccer — every minute when he wasn’t at work or attending to his family. He was assigned to this division of the CBI and his office was two doors down from Dance’s. They were both co-workers and friends. (Just two weeks ago Dance, her children, Gomez, his wife and their three youngsters had done the Del Monte Cineplex thing, then gone to Lala’s after, to discuss over dessert and coffee the brilliance of Pixar and which animated character they each would want to be; Dance had selected the hero from Brave, mostly because she envied the hair.)