Dance looked at her phone. She said to Gomez, “TJ. He’s telling me no paper on Alonzo. Yellow sheet—lewd and lascivious, prostitution, public drunkenness. Years ago. She’s been a good girl since then.”

“Nothing violent, then.”

“Nup. But we have to assume she’s armed.”

Gomez said, “And you’re not, right?”

“Nope. Stay close, Jimmy.”

“Oh, I will.”

“And, Al, stay glued on the perimeter.”

“Gotcha.”

They approached the boat, which was called the Lazy Mary. Stemple didn’t like the name. Wasn’t elegant. If he had a houseboat, he’d call it something like Diamond Stud. No, too tacky. Home of the Brave. Good. He liked it.

Near shore was a breakwater, so the occasionally ornery Monterey Bay waters didn’t intrude here. Today the Lazy Mary rose and fell, Stemple decided, lazily.

Gomez glanced at Dance, who nodded and said, “Let’s do it.”

They walked over a short gangplank and onto the deck, painted gray, scabby. Gomez knocked on the door.

It opened and they stepped inside.

Stemple looked out over the marina, adjusted his Beretta on his wide hip and crossed his arms.

Chapter 55

Fifteen minutes later Gomez, Stemple and Dance were driving back to headquarters.

She called the task force and got Carol Allerton.

“It’s Kathryn. You’re on speaker here with Jimmy and Al.”

“You’re speakered as well. Steve Foster’s back. And Steve Two too.” Uncharacteristic humor from a somber member of the DEA.

“Steve and Steve,” Dance said.

“Hi, Kathryn.” A pleasant greeting. Lu, of course.

“Yeah?” A gruff voice. Did Foster ever utter a cheerful syllable?

“We just left Moss Landing,” Dance said.

“And?” Foster grumbled.

“Tia Alonzo hasn’t seen Serrano for a month. I believed her.”

Silence from Foster now. He didn’t say what he probably wanted to. About Dance’s skill in nailing lies.

Dance continued, “But she gave up another name. Pete or Pedro Escalanza. TJ’s going to track it down. Ninety percent the guy’s got Serrano’s present whereabouts.”

“Lead to a lead to a lead,” Foster said with buoyant cynicism.

Allerton asked, “So, at the houseboat. It was productive.”

“That’s right.”

“And you’re okay. Jimmy’s okay?”

“I’m good,” Gomez said.

“Tia was saying this Escalanza, he’s got access to some of Serrano’s accounts. If we play it right, we might be able to pick up his credit card numbers, track him in real time.”

“Or maybe we’ll find another lead,” Foster chimed in. “Let’s be transparent here. I’m not overly reassured.”

Stemple coughed.

Dance said, “The best we could do, Steve.”

Allerton said, “I’ll tell Charles.”

“Thanks.”

“We’re coming back in.”

Dance disconnected.

Stemple said, “Life’s a fucking checker game. No, chess. You play chess, Jimmy?”

“No. You?”

“Yeah, I play chess.”

“Really?” Gomez asked.

“Why really? Because I bench-press three hundred and group my rounds touching at fifty feet—if I’m using the long barrel?”

“I don’t know. You just don’t seem like a chess player.”

“Mostly people think I tap-dance for a hobby.”

In a half hour, 11:00 a.m., she was back in CBI headquarters, heading toward Overby’s office, in the company of TJ Scanlon.