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"Mine?" He seemed curious but not shocked. His dark face folded into a frown for a moment.
"The day this man I mentioned, Mendoza, was killed, I believe you were working at the house of Rodrigo Guzman. It was March twenty-first. Now, while you were there, did you see a black BMW? A large one. This would be the afternoon of March twenty-first, I was saying, around three p.m."
"There were some cars there, I saw. Maybe some black ones but I no think so. And no BMW. Definitely." He said wistfully, "I always wanted one. I recognize a car like that I would have gone to look at it."
"How long were you there?"
"Oh, much of the day. I get to the job early, as early as the customers will have me. Senor Guzman, he has a lot of property. And there is always much to do. I was there at seven thirty. Took a lunch break maybe eleven thirty but only for thirty minutes. But, please, I am working for someone involved in the gangs? You are saying that?" The frown deepened. "He a very nice man. Are you saying he involved in this death of...Men..."
"Mendoza. Hector Mendoza."
"Si. Senor Guzman, he the nicest guy. Never hurt nobody."
"Again, Mr. Serrano, we're merely trying to get the facts."
"I can't tell how he's reacting," Allerton said. "He's shifting in his chair, looking away, looking at her. I don't know what it means."
"That's Kathryn's job," Overby said.
"I think he's a prick," Foster said. "I don't care about body language. He's sounding too innocent."
Overby: "He's just learned one of his company's big moneymakers might be a banger and he's not very happy about it. That's how I'd act."
"Would you?" Foster said.
Overby bristled but said nothing in response to the condescension. Allerton cast a sharp glance Foster's way. He said, "I'm just saying. I don't trust him."
Dance: "Again, Mr. Serrano, there are many questions, things we don't know. We've had reports that the man who shot Mr. Mendoza met with Mr. Guzman just before he drove to New Monterey. But they're just rumors. You can see how we have to check it out."
"Sure. Yeah."
"So you're telling me, you're certain there was no BMW at his house that day?"
"That's right, Agent Dancer, no,
Dance, right? Agent Dance. And I'm almost just as sure there were no black cars. And then, that time, I was in the front of the property, near the driveway. I would have seen. I was planting hydrangeas. He likes the blue ones."
"Well, thanks for that. Now, one more thing. If I showed you a few pictures of some men, could you tell me if any of them came to Mr. Guzman's house while you were there? Ideally on the twenty-first but if not, some other time."
"I try."
Dance opened her notebook and extracted three pictures.
"Hard to see. They're taken with, what, a spy camera or something?"
"That's right, a surveillance camera."
The young man was sitting forward, pulling the pictures closer. He seemed to notice his dirty nails and appeared embarrassed. Once he'd positioned the pictures he slipped his hands into his lap.
He studied the photographs for a long time.
Allerton said, "Looks like he's giving it a real shot. Fingers crossed."
But then the man sat back. "No, I'm sure I never seen them. Though"--he tapped one--"he look like that outfielder for the A's."
Dance smiled.
"Who is that?" Foster asked. "I can't see."
