Foster’s hand slipped out and he turned down the volume.

So maybe he was a music hater.

But that wasn’t it at all. While the big man’s eyes were on the vista Foster said, “I have a son.”

“Do you?” Dance asked.

“He’s thirteen.” The man’s tone was different now. A flipped switch.

“What’s his name?”

“Embry.”

“Unusual. Nice.”

“Family name. My grandmother’s maiden name. A few years ago I was with our L.A. office. We were living in the valley.”

The nic for San Fernando. That complex, diverse region north of the Los Angeles Basin—everything from hovels to mansions.

“There was a drive-by. Pacoima Flats Boyz had pissed off the Cedros Bloods, who knows why.”

Dance could see what was coming. Oh, no. She asked, “What happened, Steve?”

“He was hanging with some kids after school. There was cross fire.” Foster cleared his throat. “Hit in the temple. Vegetative state.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I know I’m a prick,” Foster said, his eyes on the road. “Something like that happens…” He sighed.

“I can’t even imagine.”

“No, you can’t. And I don’t mean that half as shitty as it sounds. I know I’ve been riding you. And I shouldn’t. I just keep thinking, Serrano got away, and what if he takes out somebody else. He can fucking waste all of his own crew if he wants. But it’s the kid in between the muzzle and the target that bothers me, keeps me up all night. And it’s my fault as much as yours. I was there too, at the interview. I could’ve done something, could’ve asked some questions.”

“We’ll get him,” Dance said sincerely. “We’ll get Serrano.”

Foster nodded. “You should’ve told me I’m a dick.”

“I thought it.”

His silver mustache rose as he gave the first smile she’d seen since the task force had been put together.

Soon they arrived at the motel, which was in the hills about three miles east of the ocean. It was on the eastern side, so there was no view of the water. Now the place was shrouded in shade, surrounded by brush and scrub oak. The first thing that Dance thought of was the Solitude Creek roadhouse, a similar setting—some human-built structure surrounded by mindful California flora.

The inn had a main office and about two dozen separate cabins. She found the one they sought and parked two buildings away. Stemple drove his truck into a space nearby. There was one car, an old Mazda sedan, faded blue, in front of the cabin. Dance consulted her phone, scrolled down the screen. “That’s his, Escalanza’s.”

Stemple climbed out of his truck and, hand on his big gun, walked around the motel. He returned and nodded.

“Let’s go talk to Señor Escalanza,” Foster said.

He and Dance started forward, the wind tossing her hair. She heard a snap beside her. She saw a weapon in Foster’s hand. He pulled the slide back and checked to see if a round was chambered. He eased the slide forward and holstered the weapon. He nodded. They continued along the sand-swept sidewalk past yellowing grass and squatting succulents to the cabin registered in the name of Pedro Escalanza. Bugs flew and Dance wiped sweat. You didn’t have to get far from the ocean for the heat to soar, even in springtime.