Solitude Creek

‘And model. Wannabe, of course. Serrano met her at a party and they, well, kept up partying for a month or two. It ended but they hook up occasionally. TJ found Tia’s gotten a couple of texts from Serrano lately. He’s checking her sheet now, seeing if there’s any paper we can use to leverage her into helping us. Or maybe she’ll just cooperate. Out of the goodness of her heart.’

Now, yeah, Stemple grunted.

A real houseboat.

Rundown but Al Stemple liked it.

About forty feet long, fifteen wide, a squat whitewashed structure on top of pontoons.

Wouldn’t mind something like that.

Moss Landing was a stretch of marinas, shops and restaurants scattered along a sandy road that paralleled Highway One. The houseboat was anchored in a secluded area of docks. In its heyday, the years of plentiful fish, the Steinbeck years, this spot had been home to hundreds of fiftyand sixty-foot fishing boats. No longer. Some pleasure craft, a few small fishing operations — party boats and commercial — and then, like here, a houseboat or two.

Stemple parked about a hundred feet from the place. The three CBI agents climbed from the car and slowly made their way toward the boat. A beat-up Toyota was parked in the weed-filled lot in front of the vessel. Or house. Or whatever.

‘One car only. But doesn’t mean she’s alone.’ Stemple made a fast security sweep. And returned. ‘Looks good to me.’

Dance regarded her phone. She said to Gomez, ‘TJ. He’s telling me no paper on Alonzo. Yellow sheet — lewd and lascivious, prostitution, public drunkenness. Years ago. She’s been a good girl since.’

‘Nothing violent, then.’

‘Nup. But we have to assume she’s armed.’

Gomez said, ‘And you’re not, right?’

‘Nope. Stay close, Jimmy.’

‘Oh, I will.’

‘And, Al, don’t watch the perimeter.’

‘Gotcha.’

They approached the boat, which was called the Lazy Mary. Stemple didn’t like the name. Wasn’t elegant. If he had a houseboat, he’d call it something like Diamond Stud. No, too tacky. Home of the Brave. Good. He liked it.

Near shore was a breakwater, so the occasionally ornery Monterey Bay waters didn’t intrude here. Today the Lazy Mary rose and fell, Stemple decided, lazily.

Gomez glanced at Dance, who nodded and said, ‘Let’s do it.’

They walked over a short gangplank and onto the deck, painted gray, scabby. Gomez knocked on the door.

It opened and they stepped inside.

Stemple looked out over the marina, adjusted his Beretta on his wide hip and crossed his arms.

CHAPTER 55

Fifteen minutes later Gomez, Stemple and Dance were driving back to headquarters.

She called the task force and got Carol Allerton.

‘It’s Kathryn. You’re on speaker here with Jimmy and Al.’

‘You’re speakered as well. Steve Foster’s back. And Steve Two, too.’ Uncharacteristic humor from a DEA agent.

‘Steve and Steve,’ Dance said.

‘Hi, Kathryn.’ Lu, of course, since the greeting sounded warm.

‘Yeah?’ A gruff voice. Did Foster ever utter a cheerful syllable?

‘We just left Moss Landing,’ Dance said.

‘And?’ Foster grumbled.

‘Tia Alonzo hasn’t seen Serrano for a month. I believed her.’

Silence from Foster now. He didn’t say what he wanted to.

Dance continued, ‘But she gave up another name. Pete or Pedro Escalanza. TJ’s going to track it down. Ninety percent the guy’s got Serrano’s present whereabouts.’

‘Lead to a lead to a lead,’ Foster said, with buoyant cynicism.

Allerton asked, ‘So, at the houseboat. It was productive.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And you’re okay. Jimmy’s okay?’

‘I’m good,’ Gomez said.

‘Tia was saying this Escalanza, he’s got access to some of Serrano’s accounts. If we play it right, we might be able to pick up his credit-card numbers, track him in real time.’

‘Or maybe we’ll find another lead,’ Foster chimed in. ‘Let’s be transparent here. I’m not overly reassured.’

Stemple coughed.

Dance said, ‘The best we could do, Steve.’

Allerton said, ‘I’ll tell Charles.’

‘Thanks.’

‘We’re coming back in.’ Dance disconnected.

Stemple said, ‘Life’s a fucking checkers game. No, chess. You play chess, Jimmy?’

‘No. You?’

‘Yeah, I play chess.’

‘Really?’ Gomez asked.

‘Why really? Because I bench-press three hundred and group my rounds touching at fifty feet — if I’m using the long barrel?’

‘I don’t know. You just don’t seem like a chess player.’

‘Mostly people think I tap dance for a hobby.’

* * *

In a half-hour, eleven a.m., she was back in CBI headquarters, making for Overby’s office, in the company of TJ Scanlon.

As they walked along, she checked her phone again. Texts from her mother, Boling. Maggie, silly and happy — because, of course, she’d been pardoned from the cruel and unusual punishment of singing in her class’s talent show.

Nothing from O’Neil.

Did she expect an apology? The hard words had been motivated by his concern for her but she’d found them patronizing. That was difficult for her to get past.