“She with anybody?” Gomez asked.

“No, just her. Was with some guy but he left, TJ said.” He lowered his voice. “Kathryn’s outside. She’ll go with us. So, draw straws. Jimmy?”

“Sure, I’ll go.”

Lu said, “Why don’t we all go?”

Allerton: “I need somebody here. I’ve got to finish these transcripts from Oakland. The prosecutor needs them in a couple of hours and I don’t think I’m going to make it.”

Lu said, “Sure. I can do that. Happy to help out.” That defined Steve Two. Somebody else might’ve said, “Oh, I just lovvvvve paperwork. Can’t get enough.” But sincerity was baked into the slim man’s core. He returned to the tasks on his desk.

Gomez pulled his tan sports jacket on, checked his Glock. As if the bullets had fallen out in between the last time he checked and now. “After you, Al.”

Together the men walked out into the parking lot.

Kathryn Dance was waiting.

“Hey,” Gomez said.

“Jimmy.” She nodded. And they walked toward Stemple’s cruiser.

Looking around, Dance asked, “Charles doesn’t know I’m here, does he? You’re sure?”

“Not from us,” Gomez confirmed. “We Fab Four took a vow of silence. Even Steve Foster’s agreed. He can be a, you know.”

“I do.”

It was transparent, Stemple thought, using Steve Foster’s favorite catchword.

They climbed into the car. Stemple started the engine and sped west on 68, heading for Highway 1, which would get them to Moss Landing in twenty minutes.

“Who’s this Tia we’re going to see?” Gomez asked. Then: “Whoa.”

Stemple never paid much attention to speed limits.

Dance said, “Tia Alonzo. Used to be an exotic dancer.”

“Love that. ‘Exotic.’”

“And model. Wannabe, of course. Serrano met her at a party and they, well, kept up partying for a month or two. It ended but they hook up occasionally. TJ found Tia’s gotten a couple of texts from Serrano lately. He’s checking her sheet now, seeing if there’s any paper we can use to leverage her into helping us. Or maybe she’ll just cooperate. Out of the goodness of her heart.”

Now, yeah, Stemple grunted.

A real houseboat.

Run-down but Al Stemple liked it.

About forty feet long, fifteen wide, a squat whitewashed structure on top of pontoons.

Wouldn’t mind something like that.

Moss Landing was a stretch of marinas, shops and restaurants scattered along a sandy road that paralleled Highway 1. The houseboat was anchored in a secluded portion of docks. In its heyday, the years of plentiful fish, the Steinbeck years, this spot was home to hundreds of fifty- and sixty-foot fishing boats. No longer. Some pleasure craft, a few small seafood operations—party boats and commercial—and then, like here, a houseboat or two.

Stemple parked about a hundred feet from the place. The three CBI agents climbed from the car and slowly made their way toward the boat. A beat-up Toyota was parked in the weed-filled lot in front of the vessel. Or house. Or whatever.

“One car only. But doesn’t mean she’s alone.” Stemple made a fast security sweep. And returned. “Looks good to me.”