Atypical…

Following him was a tall Latino with thick, short-cut dark hair. Late twenties. He walked in and looked around. His jeans were slim-cut and dark blue. New. He wore a gray hoodie with UCSC on the front.

“Yeah,” Foster grumbled. “He graduated from Santa Cruz. Right.”

Dance said stiffly, “Not graduated. Took courses.”

“Hmm.”

The Latino’s right hand was inked, though it didn’t seem to be a gang sign, and on his left wrist, near the sweat jacket cuff, you could just make out the start of a tat. His face was untroubled.

Over the speaker, they heard the young agent say, “There you go. There. Take a seat. You want some water?”

The somber man said, “No.”

“Somebody’ll be in in a minute.”

The man nodded. He sat down in a chair facing the one-way mirror. He glanced at it once and then pulled out his cell phone and read the screen.

Foster shifted slightly. Dance didn’t need any body language skills to understand his thoughts. She said, “He’s just a witness, remember. We don’t have a warrant to intercept. He hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“Oh, he’s done something wrong,” Foster said. “We just don’t know what yet.”

She glanced at him.

“I can smell it.”

Dance rose, slipped her Glock out of its holster and set it on the table. She picked up her pen and a pad of yellow paper.

Time to go to work and uncover the truth.

Chapter 4

She works miracles, does she?” Foster asked. “This kinesics stuff?”

“Kathryn’s good, yes.” Overby had taken a dislike to his colleague from Sacramento, who was the sort who’d snatch credit and press time away from those who’d done much of the legwork. He had to be careful, though. Foster was roughly on Overby’s level, pay grade–wise, but higher up, in the sense that he was based in Sacramento and had an office no more than thirty feet from the head of the CBI. Foster was also within lobbing distance of the legislature.

Allerton adjusted her yellow pad, tore off and discarded the first page and then wrote on the new top sheet, “1.”

Overby continued, “Funny. When you know what she does—that body language stuff—then you go out to lunch with her, you watch what you’re doing, where you’re looking. Like you’re waiting for her to say, ‘So, you had a fight with your wife this morning, hmm? Over bills, I’d guess.’”

“Sherlock Holmes,” Allerton said. She added, “I like that British one. With the guy with the funny name. Like cummerbund.”

Overby, staring into the interrogation room, said absently, “That’s not how kinesics works.”

“No?” From Foster.

Overby said nothing more. As the others gazed through the glass, he in turn examined the two members of the Guzman Connection task force present at the moment. Foster, Allerton. Then Dance walked into the interview room. And Overby’s attention aimed that way.

“Mr. Serrano. I’m Agent Dance.” Her voice crackled through the overhead speaker in the observation room.