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The victim, actually Hector Mendoza (droopy lids had led to the nic), was a banger who knew higher-ups in both the north and the south operations. That is, a perfect witness--had he remained alive.
Even cynical, sour Foster seemed content at the possibility of hanging the Sad Eyes killing on Guzman.
Overby, often good at stating the obvious, said, "Guzman falls, the other Pipeline crews could go like dominoes."
"This witness, Serrano? Tell us more about him." Carol Allerton fiddled with a yellow pad of foolscap, then seemed to realize she was doing so and aligned the edges and set it free.
"He's a landscaper, works for one of the big companies in Monterey. Documented. Probably trustworthy."
"Probably," Foster said.
"He's here now?" Allerton asked.
"Outside," Overby replied.
Foster said, "Why's he going to want to talk to us? I mean, let's be transparent. He knows what Guzman'll do, he finds out. Use him for target practice."
Allerton: "Maybe he wants money, maybe he's got somebody in the system he wants us to help."
Dance said, "Or maybe he wants to do the right thing." Drawing a laugh from Foster. She too gave a faint grin. "I'm told it happens occasionally."
"He came in voluntarily?" Allerton wondered aloud.
"He did. I just called him up. He said yes."
"So," Overby inquired, "we're relying on his good graces to help us?"
"More or less." The phone against the wall hummed. Dance rose and answered it.
"Yes?"
"Hey, boss."
The caller was a thirtyish CBI agent in the West-Central Division. He was Dance's junior associate, though that was not an official job description. TJ Scanlon, a dependable, hardworking agent and, best put, atypical for the conservative CBI.
TJ said, "He's here. Good to go."
"Okay, I'm ready." Dance dropped the phone into the cradle and said to the room, "Serrano's coming in now."
Through the mirror window, they watched the door to the interview room open. In walked TJ, slim, his curly hair more unruly than usual. He was in a plaid sports coat and red pants, which approached bell-bottoms. His T-shirt was tie-dyed, yellow and orange.
Atypical...
Following him was a tall Latino with thick, short-cut dark hair. Late twenties. He walked in and looked around. His jeans were slim-cut and dark blue. New. He wore a gray hoodie with UCSC on the front.
"Yeah," Foster grumbled. "He graduated from Santa Cruz. Right."
Dance said stiffly, "Not graduated. Took courses."
"Hmm."
The Latino's right hand was inked, though it didn't seem to be a gang sign, and on his left wrist, near the sweat jacket cuff, you could just make out the start of a tat. His face was untroubled.
Over the speaker, they heard the young agent say, "There you go. There. Take a seat. You want some water?"
The somber man said, "No."
"Somebody'll be in in a minute."
