After a lot of preliminary work, just last night Dance had texted the task force that they had their first lead to Guzman and arranged a briefing here, now.

“So, tell us about this asshole you’re going to be talking to today, the one you think’s going to give up Guzman. What’s his name? Serrano?” From Steve Foster.

Dance replied, “Okay. Joaquin Serrano. He’s an innocent—what all the intel shows. No record. Thirty-two. We heard about him from a CI we’ve been running—”

“Who’s been running?” Foster asked bluntly. The man was adept at interruption, Dance had learned.

“Our office.”

Foster—from a different Bureau of Investigation office—grunted. Maybe he was irritated his branch hadn’t pried up a Serrano of its own. Or maybe just that he hadn’t been earlier informed. His flick of a finger said, Go on.

“Serrano can link Guzman to the killing of Sad Eyes.”

The victim, actually Hector Mendoza (droopy lids had led to the nic), was a banger who knew higher-ups in both the north and the south operations. That is, a perfect witness—had he remained alive.

Even cynical, sour Foster seemed content at the possibility of hanging the Sad Eyes killing on Guzman.

Overby, often good at stating the obvious, said, “Guzman falls, the other Pipeline crews could go like dominoes.”

“This witness, Serrano? Tell us more about him.” Carol Allerton fiddled with a yellow pad of foolscap, then seemed to realize she was doing so and aligned the edges and set it free.

“He’s a landscaper, works for one of the big companies in Monterey. Documented. Probably trustworthy.”

“Probably,” Foster said.

“He’s here now?” Allerton asked.

“Outside,” Overby replied.

Foster said, “Why’s he going to want to talk to us? I mean, let’s be transparent. He knows what Guzman’ll do, he finds out. Use him for target practice.”

Allerton: “Maybe he wants money, maybe he’s got somebody in the system he wants us to help.”

Dance said, “Or maybe he wants to do the right thing.” Drawing a laugh from Foster. She too gave a faint grin. “I’m told it happens occasionally.”

“He came in voluntarily?” Allerton wondered aloud.

“He did. I just called him up. He said yes.”

“So,” Overby inquired, “we’re relying on his good graces to help us?”

“More or less.” The phone against the wall hummed. Dance rose and answered it.

“Yes?”

“Hey, boss.”

The caller was a thirtyish CBI agent in the West-Central Division. He was Dance’s junior associate, though that was not an official job description. TJ Scanlon, a dependable, hardworking agent and, best put, atypical for the conservative CBI.

TJ said, “He’s here. Good to go.”

“Okay, I’m ready.” Dance dropped the phone into the cradle and said to the room, “Serrano’s coming in now.”

Through the mirror window, they watched the door to the interview room open. In walked TJ, slim, his curly hair more unruly than usual. He was in a plaid sports coat and red pants, which approached bell-bottoms. His T-shirt was tie-dyed, yellow and orange.