“Well, we caught a lead in Serrano.” He held up his phone, on which he’d just gotten the text. She glanced at it, perhaps wondering why the show-and-tell. “We have to move fast.”

“You’ve got Serrano’s location?”

“Not that lucky. But TJ found this guy knows Serrano.”

“Who?”

“Wasn’t more specific, except to say he wasn’t a banger. Worked with Serrano or his brother or somebody. A painter, house painter. May know where Serrano is hiding out.”

“Really?” Allerton’s voice was sultry. Sexy. Overby, married to the same woman forever, noted its qualities objectively. “You should move on it. I’m going to call Sacramento and I’d love to be able to tell them that we’re closer to nailing Serrano.”

She’d be thinking, Because CBI West-Central was the outfit that let him slip away in the first place.

“Where is this guy?”

“Seaside. Works nights, TJ says. Name of Tomas Allende.”

“Not traditionally Mexican.” Allerton was speaking absently.

“I don’t know. What would it be?”

“What? Oh, Spanish. South American.”

“Well. Here’s the address. Take Al Stemple with you. No reason to think it’s hostile, but no reason to think it isn’t. I’ll call him.” Overby punched buttons.

Allerton rose and tugged down her close-fitting gray skirt. She too had a bit of fat over the belt. Other circumstances, he might’ve talked to her about how hard it was to lose those last twelve pounds. She pulled her jacket over her broad shoulders.

His phone clicked. “Yeah?”

“Albert, s’Charles. Need you to go with Agent Allerton, follow up on a lead to Serrano… That’s right… I don’t know, parking lot?” He lifted an eyebrow to Allerton. She nodded. “Good. Now.”

He disconnected.

“Good luck,” Overby said and retreated to his office.

Chapter 23

Albert Stemple had been told he grunted a lot, though he didn’t think that was the case. He never said much, didn’t find it necessary most of the time and so he would respond to people with an Ah or Oh.

Maybe people thought words like that were grunts. I look like a guy who grunts, so people hear grunts.

The massive man, head free of hair and shaped like an egg, though shinier, stood with his arms crossed outside the rear door of CBI, looking over the parking lot. Since Stemple was the closest thing CBI had to a SWAT team, he’d been in more firefights and had more collars than any other agent in this division, which meant he had a price on that glossy head of his.

Stemple tended to check vistas and shadows regularly.

CBI’s back door opened and Carol Allerton stepped outside, nodding to Stemple, taking in his jeans, black T-shirt and impressive Beretta .45, the only caliber a man should carry. He supposed the bump on her hip through her gray jacket was a teeny Glock. A model 26, he guessed. Not bad. If you liked peashooters.

When she looked at his face with a bit of hesitation, Stemple knew she’d been considering the scars. You should see the other guys.