And virtually all those guns were smuggled in from the U.S.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Overby said.

“I’m not convinced we’re doing all we can.”

Except that the “we” was not accurate. His meaning: You aren’t doing all you can.

“Commissioner,” Overby said, “we have forty officers from five agencies working on Operation Pipeline. We’re making progress. Slow, yes, but it still is progress.”

“Slow,” the man said, indeed slowly. Dance regarded the computer screen. His office was very similar to Overby’s, though without the golf and tennis trophies. The pictures on his wall were of him standing beside Mexican pols and, perhaps, celebs. The same category of poses as her boss’s pix.

The commissioner asked, “Agent Dance, what is your assessment?”

“I—”

“Agent Dance is temporarily assigned to another case.”

“Another case? I see.”

He had not been informed about the Serrano situation.

“Commissioner,” Dance pressed on, even under these circumstances not one to be shushed, “we’ve interdicted four shipments in the past month—”

“And eleven got through, according to our intelligence officers. Including this particularly deadly one, the one I was mentioning.”

She said, “Yes, I know about the others. They were small. Very little ammo.”

“Ah, but, Agent Dance, the size of the shipment probably is of no consequence to the family killed by a single machine gun.”

“Of course,” she said. Nothing to argue about there.

“Yes, yes,” said Overby. “Well, we’ll look at the statistics, year-end. See the trend.”

The commissioner stared at the webcam for a moment, perhaps wondering what on earth Overby was talking about. He said, “I have a meeting now. I will look into the situation. And I will look forward to hearing next month about a dozen interdictions. Adiós.”

The screen went blank.

“Testy,” she said.

“Who can blame him? Over fifteen hundred people were murdered last year in his state alone.”

Then Dance’s anger returned. “You heard?”

“About what?”

“It was on the radio. The Solitude Creek unsub’s description went out, after all. It’s all over the press. Now he knows we’re on to him.”

Overby was looking at the blank computer screen.

“Ah, well. Yes. I heard too. I didn’t know that’s what you meant.”

“How did it happen? I mean, did you release it?”

Overby loved any chance to chat with the press. But she doubted he’d directly undermine her, especially after he’d agreed to back her position—besides, if he’d done it, the story would have had his name featured prominently.

“Me? Of course not. It was, I’m not sure, but I think it was Steve Foster. It came from Sacramento. His turf.” He did seem genuinely upset, though hardly as livid as she.

But she understood he was troubled for a different reason. She was concerned about spooking the unsub. Overby had been out-politicked. He’d brought Foster in to make sure the CBI got some credit for running the case, since Dance was sidelined. But Foster had taken it one step further and made sure the kudos would go to the main headquarters, Sacramento. Not the West-Central Division of CBI.