Overby noted that Foster was or had been a smoker—slight discoloration of his index and middle fingers. The teeth were yellowish.

Sherlock.

In front of them, in the small, sterile room, Kathryn Dance continued to ask questions, chat, share observations.

Fifteen minutes rolled past.

Dance asked, “You enjoy landscaping?”

“I do, sí. It’s, I don’t know, I like to work with my hands. I think maybe I’d be an artist if I had some, you know, skill. But I don’t. Gardening? That’s something I can do.”

Overby noted his nails were dark crescents.

“Now, here’s what we’re looking into. Not long ago a man named Hector Mendoza was killed. Shot. His nickname was Sad Eyes. He was coming out of a restaurant in New Monterey. On Lighthouse.”

“Sad Eyes. Yeah, yeah. On the news. Near Baskin-Robbins, right?”

“That’s it.”

“Was—I no remember. Was a drive-by?”

“That’s right.”

“Was anybody else hurt?” He frowned. “I hate it when children, bystanders, are hurt. Those gang people, they don’t care who they hurt or don’t hurt.”

Dance nodded, on her face a pleasant expression. “Mr. Serrano, the reason I’m asking you this is that your name came up in the investigation.”

“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. Señor 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.”

“Sí. Señor 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.”