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"But Charles," Allerton said. "He suspended you from criminal duty."
Stemple watched Dance's lips tighten. "All right. The other thing?" She glanced at Stemple, then decided, it seemed, to plunge ahead. "You don't know Charles as well as I do. If I were a man and what happened with Serrano happened? He wouldn't've busted me. Hate to say it but..." Dance shook her head. "You've been through this too, Carol. You know how it is."
Allerton's expression said: Yes, I do.
Women in law enforcement.
Dance added, "I'll give you full credit, for everything I find out. And that'll go all the way to Washington. I'll disappear."
"No, that's not necessary."
"Actually, yeah, it is. Charles can't know anything, that I'm involved. All I want is to nail Serrano."
"Sure," Allerton said, nodding. "I get it. Completely sub-rosa."
Whatever that meant. Though Stemple hammered out a definition.
Now another glance his way.
Dance said, "I may already be under the bus--"
"Charles'd do that to you?"
Now Stemple couldn't control the grunt.
"Already under the bus but we get Serrano back, Sacramento won't be clamoring for my head quite so loud. It's the only chance I've got to pull something out of the fire here."
Allerton was scanning the parking lot, thoughtful, not looking for acquiring targets, though, as Stemple was doing. "The fact is, Kathryn, I could use your help. I'm not the best interviewer in the world."
"Deal then?"
"Deal."
Dance's eyes swiveled to Stemple.
"You asking me? I'm just backup. Do whatcha want."
They walked to the unmarked car, Stemple easing into the driver's seat. The big Dodge bobbed under the weight. The women too got in. He fired up the engine and they squealed out of the lot toward the highway.
A half hour later Stemple turned onto surface streets in Seaside and eased the cruiser along a crumbling asphalt road, bordered by grasses, dusty brush, rusting wire fences. A hundred yards along they came to a development, probably fifty years old, bungalows and Cape-style houses, tiny, all of them.
"That's it," Allerton said, pointing to the scabbiest house here, a lopsided one-story structure that had last been painted a long, long time ago. White originally. Now, gray. The yard was half sand, half yellowing grass. Thirsty, Stemple thought.
Everything was thirsty. This drought. Worst he could remember.
He shut the engine off. Everyone climbed out.
Stemple scanned the perimeter while the agents, looking around, headed toward the front door. Allerton knocked. No response. Dance pointed to the side, where there was a patio. She and Allerton disappeared that way.
Stemple walked around the property, looked at the houses nearby, wondered why somebody had taped a massive poster of a daisy in a window. Was it a sunscreen? Wouldn't a sunflower've made more sense?
Mostly, though, he was looking for threats.
This wasn't a cul-de-sac but it wasn't highly traveled. He counted four cars pass by, all seeming to contain families or individuals on their way to or from school, work or errands. That didn't mean there weren't gangbangers inside, of course, with MAC-10s, Uzis or M4s. Gone were the days when crews conveniently piled into gangmobiles, pimped-out low-rider Buicks with jacked-up suspensions. Now they tooled around in Acuras, Nissans and the occasional Beemer or Cayenne, depending on how the drug and arms trade had been lately.
But no one, driver or passenger, paid him any mind.
He walked back to the cracked sidewalk and was looking down at some vibrant purple plant, when there was from inside the bungalow a crash of something containing glass, a lot of glass.
