Solitude Creek

Charles Overby tapped a roll of fat above his belt. He wasn’t alarmed but he knew he’d have to rein in the snacks that went down a little too easy at the Nineteenth Hole. Maybe go to red wine. He believed it had fewer calories than white.

No, a spritzer. After the martini, of course. And no artichoke dip. It was the devil.

On his desk were ordered stacks of documents — the sign of a sane mind and a productive body, he often said. The one that troubled him most was the pile that was topped with a sheet that read: ‘Incident Report: Joaquin Serrano’. The other words that jumped out from the grayish boxes were ‘Kathryn Dance’. He noted too: ‘Disciplinary recommendations’.

His phone hummed with a text, which he read, and shaking his head for no one’s benefit, he rose. He debated a jacket but decided no.

Down the hall, aware of the peculiar smell of a cleanser the staff had switched to recently. Why was he aware of that? he wondered. Because of the case. Small distractions dulled the concerns.

Serrano …

In the Guzman Connection task-force conference room, Carol Allerton sat alone, squeezing the life from a chamomile teabag. She leaned starboard, to make sure any spatter wouldn’t hit the dozens of papers in front of her. She, too, was well ordered when it came to the stacks of documents in her cases.

‘Charles.’

‘Where is everybody?’

‘The two Steves’re in Salinas. FBI had somebody in town from one of their Oakland task forces. They’re picking his brain.’

‘Meetings, meetings, meetings,’ Overby said, with the boredom of truth in his voice, though no contempt. ‘Jimmy?’

‘He said he had another case lead, something he was working on before we put Guzman together.’

‘Well, we caught a lead in Serrano.’ He held up his phone, on which he’d just gotten the text. She glanced at it, perhaps wondering why the show-and-tell. ‘We have to move fast.’

‘You’ve got Serrano’s location?’

‘Not that lucky. But TJ found this guy knows Serrano.’

‘Who?’

‘Wasn’t more specific, except to say he wasn’t a banger. Worked with Serrano or his brother or somebody. A painter, house painter. May know where Serrano’s hiding out.’

‘Really?’ The woman’s voice was throaty and sensual. Overby, married to the same woman for ever, noted her tone objectively. ‘You should move on it. I’m going to call Sacramento and I’d love to be able to tell them that we’re closer to nailing Serrano.’

She’d be thinking: Because CBI West Central was the outfit that let him slip away in the first place.

‘Where is this guy?’

‘Seaside. Works nights, TJ says. Name of Tomas Allende.’

‘Not traditionally Mexican.’ Allerton was speaking absently.

‘I don’t know. What would that be?’

‘What? Oh, Spanish.’

‘Well. Here’s the address. Take Al Stemple with you. No reason to think it’s hostile, but no reason to think it isn’t. I’ll call him.’ Overby punched buttons.

Allerton rose and tugged down her close-fitting gray skirt. She, too, had a bit of fat over the belt. Other circumstances, he might’ve talked to her about how hard it was to lose those last twelve pounds. She pulled her jacket over her broad shoulders.

His phone clicked. ‘Yeah?’

‘Albert, ’s Charles. Need you to go with Agent Allerton, follow up on a lead to Serrano … That’s right … I don’t know, parking lot?’ He lifted an eyebrow to Allerton. She nodded. ‘Good. Now.’ He disconnected. ‘Good luck,’ Overby said and retreated to his office.

CHAPTER 23

Albert Stemple had been told he grunted a lot, though he didn’t think that was the case. He never said much, didn’t find it necessary most of the time, so he would respond to people with an Ah or Oh.

Maybe people thought words like that were grunts. I look like a guy who grunts, so people hear grunts.

The massive man, head free of hair and shaped like an egg, though shinier, stood with his arms crossed outside the rear door of CBI, looking over the parking lot. Since Stemple was the closest thing CBI had to a SWAT team, he’d been in more firefights and had more collars than any other agent in the division, which meant he had a price on that glossy head of his.

Stemple tended to check vistas and shadows regularly.

CBI’s back door opened and Carol Allerton stepped outside, nodding to Stemple, taking in his jeans, black T-shirt and impressive Beretta .45, the only caliber a man should carry. He supposed the bump on her hip through her gray jacket was a teeny Glock. A 26, he guessed. Not bad. If you liked peashooters.

When she looked at his face with a bit of hesitation, Stemple knew she’d been considering the scars. You should see the other guys.

He nodded.

‘Hi,’ Allerton said.

‘We’re going to Seaside. A Serrano lead.’

‘Right.’

‘Hm.’ Maybe grunt-like. ‘I’ll drive,’ he told her.

‘Hey,’ came a woman’s voice behind them.