Dance nodded. “So, Sunday, at seven? You and the kids want to come to the show?”

“Can I let you know? We might have plans. Bring a friend?”

“Of course.”

Had he been dating? she wondered. It had been a while since they’d talked about serious personal matters. Well, why shouldn’t he be going out with somebody? He’d been divorced for a while now. He was good-looking, in great shape, with a good job. He was funny, kind…and had two adorable children whom his ex—in San Francisco—had little interest in.

Dance’s mother called him “the Catch,” both because he liked to fish…and because he was.

She opened her purse, frowned. “I have about a hundred flyers for her show in the car. Thought I had one with me.”

“I’ll remember it.”

Dance glanced at the Timex.

“I’ve got to get into the field.”

“Our case?”

“No. The other thing.”

He sighed, glanced at her hip, where her weapon would otherwise have resided. “I’ll go with you.”

“Not for this. It’s all right. I’ll have backup. I have to handle it a particular way. This one’s tricky.” She almost said “It’s a thing,” but from O’Neil’s concerned expression she knew he wouldn’t have appreciated the levity.

Chapter 22

Charles Overby tapped a roll of fat above his belt. He wasn’t alarmed but he knew he’d have to rein in the snacks that went down a little too easy at the Nineteenth Hole. Maybe go to red wine. He believed that had fewer calories than white.

No, a spritzer. After the martini, of course. And no artichoke dip. It was the devil.

On his desk were ordered stacks of documents—the sign of a sane mind and a productive body, he often said. The one that troubled him most was the pile that was topped with a sheet: “Incident Report: Joaquin Serrano.” The other words that jumped out from the grayish boxes were “Kathryn Dance.” He noted too: “Disciplinary recommendations.”

His phone hummed with a text, which he read, and shaking his head for no one’s benefit, he rose. He debated a jacket but decided no.

Down the hall, noting a peculiar smell of a cleanser the staff had switched to recently. Why was he aware of that? he wondered. Because of the case. Small distractions dulled the concerns.

Serrano…

In the Guzman Connection task force conference room, Carol Allerton sat alone, squeezing the life from a chamomile tea bag. She leaned starboard, to make sure any spatter wouldn’t hit the dozens of papers in front of her. She too was well ordered when it came to the stacks of documents in her cases.

“Charles.”

“Where is everybody?”

“The two Steves’re in Salinas. FBI had somebody in town from one of their Oakland task forces. They’re picking his brain.”

“Meetings, meetings, meetings,” Overby said with the boredom of truth in his voice, though no contempt. “Jimmy?”

Allerton explained, “He said he had another case lead, something he was working on before we put Guzman together.”