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"No. The other thing."
He sighed, glanced at her hip, where her weapon would otherwise have resided. "I'll go with you."
"Not for this. It's all right. I'll have backup. I have to handle it a particular way. This one's tricky." She almost said "It's a thing," but from O'Neil's concerned expression she knew he wouldn't have appreciated the levity.
Chapter 22
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 that 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: "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, noting a 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 tea bag. 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?"
Allerton explained, "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 is hiding out."
"Really?" Allerton's voice was sultry. Sexy. Overby, married to the same woman forever, noted its qualities 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 it be?"
"What? Oh, Spanish. South American."
"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.
