Solitude Creek

Book 4: A Kathryn Dance Novel

by Jeffery Deaver

Genres: Suspense; Police Procedurals; Thrillers

Synopsis

New York Times bestselling author Jeffery Deaver’s blockbuster thriller featuring returning character Kathryn Dance

A tragedy occurs at a small concert venue on the Monterey Peninsula. Cries of “fire” are raised, and panicked people run for the doors, only to find them blocked. Half a dozen people die, and others are seriously injured. But it’s the panic and the stampede that killed; there was no fire. Kathryn Dance—a brilliant California Bureau of Investigation agent and body language expert—discovers that the stampede was caused intentionally, and the perpetrator, a man obsessed with turning people’s own fears and greed into weapons, has more attacks planned. She and her team must race against the clock to find where he will strike next before more innocents die.

Release date: May 12, 2015

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 416

Sample

Chapter 1

The roadhouse was comfortable, friendly, inexpensive. All good.


Safe, too. Better.

You always thought about that when you took your teenage daughter out for a night of music.

Michelle Cooper did, in any event. Safe when it came to the band and their music, the customers, the waitstaff.

The club itself, too, the parking lot—well lit—and the fire doors and sprinklers.

Michelle always checked these. The teenage daughter part, again.

Solitude Creek attracted a varied clientele, young and old, male and female, white and Latino and Asian, a few African Americans, a mirror of the Monterey Bay area. Now, just after seven thirty, she looked around, noting the hundreds of patrons who’d come from this and surrounding counties, all in buoyant moods, looking forward to seeing a band on the rise. If they brought with them any cares, those troubles were tucked tightly away at the prospect of beer, whimsical cocktails, chicken wings and music.

The group had flown in from L.A., a garage band turned backup turned roadhouse headliner, thanks to Twitter and YouTube and Vidster. Word of mouth, and talent, sold groups nowadays, and the six boys in Lizard Annie worked as hard on their phones as onstage. They weren’t O.A.R. or Linkin Park but were soon to be, with a bit of luck.

They certainly had Michelle’s and Trish’s support. In fact, the cute boy band had a pretty solid mom/daughter fan base, judging by a look around the room tonight. Other parents and their teenagers too; the lyrics were rated PG, at the raunchiest. For this evening’s show the ages of those in the audience ranged from sixteen to forty, give or take. Okay, Michelle admitted, maybe mid-forties.


She noted the Samsung in her daughter’s grip and said, “Text later. Not now.”

“Mom.”

“Who is it?”

“Cho.”

A nice girl from Trish’s music class.

“Two minutes.”

The club was filling up. Solitude Creek was a forty-year-old, single-story building featuring a small, rectangular dance floor of scuffed oak, ringed with high-top tables and stools. The stage, three feet high, was at the north end; the bar was opposite. A kitchen, east, served full menus, which eliminated the age barrier of attendance: Only liquor-​serving venues that offered food were permitted to seat children. Three fire exit doors were against the west wall.


On the dark wood walls were posters and during-the-show photos, complete with real and fake autographs, of many of the groups that had appeared at the legendary Monterey Pop Festival in June of 1967: Jefferson Airplane, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Ravi Shankar, Al Kooper, Country Joe. Dozens of others. In a grimy Plexiglas case was a fragment of an electric guitar, reportedly one destroyed by Pete Townshend of the Who after the group’s performance at the event.

The tables at Solitude Creek were first come, first claimed, and all were filled—the show was only twenty minutes away now—and presently servers circulated with last-minute orders, plates of hefty burgers and wings and drinks on trays hovering atop their stable, splayed palms. From behind the stage a meow of tuning guitar strings and an arpeggio chord from a sax, a chunky A from a bass. Anticipation now. Those exciting moments before the music begins to seize and seduce.

The voices were loud, words indistinct, as the untabled patrons jockeyed for the best position in the standing-room area. Since the stage wasn’t high and the floor was flat, it was sometimes hard to get a good view of the acts. A bit of jostling but few hard words.

That was the Solitude Creek club. No hostility.

Safe…


However, there was one thing that Michelle Cooper didn’t care for. The claustrophobia. The ceilings in the club were low and that accentuated the closeness. The dim room was not particularly spacious, the ventilation not the best; a mix of body scent and aftershave/perfume clung, stronger even than grill and fry tank aromas, adding to the sense of confinement.

The sense that you were packed in tight as canned fish. No, that never sat well with Michelle Cooper. And she and her daughter were at a table dead center, inches from other patrons.


Michelle brushed absently at her frosted blond hair and looked again at the exit doors—not far away—and felt reassured.

Another sip of wine.

She noted Trish checking out a boy at a table nearby. Floppy hair, narrow face, hips skinny. Good looks to kill for. He was drinking a beer and so Mother vetoed Trish’s inclination instantly, if silently. Not the alcohol, the age; the drink meant he was over twenty-one and therefore completely out of bounds for her seventeen-year-old.

Then she thought wryly: At least I can try.

A glance at her diamond Rolex. Five minutes.

Michelle asked, “Was it ‘Escape’? The one that was nominated for the Grammy?”

“Yeah.”

“Focus on me, child.”


The girl grimaced. “Mom.” She looked away from the Boy with the Beer.

Michelle hoped Lizard Annie would do the song tonight. “Escape” was not only catchy but it brought back good memories. She’d been listening to it after a recent first date with a lawyer from Salinas. In the six years since a vicious divorce, Michelle’d had plenty of awkward dinners and movies, but the evening with Ross had been fun. They’d laughed. They’d dueled about the best Veep and Homeland episodes. And there’d been no pressure—for anything. So very rare for a first date.


Mother and daughter ate a bit more artichoke dip and Michelle had a little more wine. Driving, she allowed herself two glasses before getting behind the wheel, no more.

The girl adjusted her pink floral headband and sipped a Diet Coke. She was in black jeans, not too tight—yay!—and a white sweater. Michelle was in blue jeans, tighter than her daughter’s, though that was a function of exercise failure, not a fashion statement, and a red silk blouse.

“Mom. San Francisco this weekend? Please. I need that jacket.”

“We’ll go to Carmel.” Michelle spent plenty of her real estate commissions shopping in the classy stores of the picturesque and excessively cute village.

“Jeez, Mom. I’m not thirty.” Meaning ancient. Trish was simply stating the more or less accurate fact that shopping for cool teen clothes wasn’t easy on the Peninsula, which had been called, with only some exaggeration, a place for the newly wed and the nearly dead.

“Okay. We’ll work it out.”

Trish hugged her and Michelle’s world glowed.

She and her daughter had had their hard times. A seemingly good marriage had crashed, thanks to cheating. Everything torn apart. Frederick (never Fred) moving out when the girl was eleven—what a tough time for that. But Michelle’d worked hard to create a good life for her daughter, to give her what had been yanked away by betrayal and the subsequent divorce.


And now it was working, now the girl seemed happy. She looked at her daughter with moon eyes and the girl noticed.

“Mom.” A sigh. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Lights down.

P.A. announcements about shutting off phones, location of fire exits, upcoming shows, were made by the gravel-voiced owner of the club himself. The venerable Sam Cohen, an icon in the Monterey Bay area. Everybody knew Sam. Everybody loved Sam.

Cohen’s voice continued, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, Solitude Creek, the premier roadhouse on the West Coast…”

Applause.

“Is pleased to welcome, direct from the City of Angels… Lizard Annie!”

Frantic clapping now. Hooting.

Out came the boys. Guitars were plugged in. The seat behind the trap set occupied. Ditto the keyboard.

The lead singer tossed his mass of hair aside and lifted an outstretched palm to the audience. The group’s trademarked gesture. “Are we ready to get down?”

Howling.

“Well, are we?”

The guitar riffs started. Yes! The song was “Escape.” Michelle and her daughter began to clap, along with the scores of others in the small space. The heat had increased, the humidity, the embracing scent of bodies. Claustrophobia notched up a bit. Still, Michelle smiled and laughed.


The pounding beat continued, bass, drum and the flesh of palms.

But then Michelle stopped clapping. Frowning, she looked around, cocking her head. What was that? The club, like everywhere in California, was supposed to be nonsmoking. But somebody, she was sure, had lit up. She definitely smelled smoke.

She looked around but saw no one with a cigarette in mouth.

“What?” Trish called, her eyes scanning her mother’s troubled expression.

“Nothing,” the woman replied and began clapping out the rhythm once again.

Chapter 2

At the third word into the second song—it happened to be love—Michelle Cooper knew something was wrong.


She smelled the smoke more strongly. And it wasn’t cigarette smoke. Smoke from burning wood or paper.

Or the old, dry walls or flooring of a very congested roadhouse.

“Mom?” Trish was frowning, looking around too. Her pert nose twitched. “Is that…”

“Yeah, it is,” Michelle whispered. She couldn’t see any fumes but the smell was unmistakable and growing stronger. “We’re leaving. Now.” Michelle stood fast.

“Hey, lady,” a man called, catching her stool and righting it. “You okay?” Then he frowned. “Jesus. Is that smoke?”

Others were looking around, smelling the same.

No one else in the venue, none of the hundred plus others—employees or patrons or musicians—existed. Michelle Cooper was getting her daughter out of here. Michelle steered her toward the nearest fire exit door.


“My purse,” Trish said over the music. The Brighton bag, a present from Michelle, was hidden on the floor beneath the table—just to be safe. The girl broke away to retrieve the heart-embossed bag.

“Forget it, let’s go!” her mother commanded.

“I’ll just be…” the girl began and bent down.

“Trish! No! Leave it.”

By now, a dozen people nearby, who’d seen Michelle’s abrupt rise and lurch toward the exit, had stopped paying attention to the music and were looking around too. One by one they were also rising. Curious and troubled expressions on their faces. Smiles becoming frowns. Eyes narrowing. Something predatory, feral about the gazes.

Five or six oozed in between Michelle and her daughter, still rummaging for the purse. Michelle stepped forward fast and went for the girl’s shoulder to pull her up. Hand gripped sweater. It stretched.

“Mom!” Trish pulled away.

It was then that a brilliant light came on, focused on the exit doors.

The music stopped abruptly. The lead singer called into the microphone, “Hey, uhm, guys, I don’t know… Look, don’t panic.”

“Jesus, what’s—” somebody beside Michelle shouted.

The screams began. Wails filled the venue, loud, nearly loud enough to shatter eardrums.

Michelle struggled to get to Trish but more patrons surged between them. The two were pushed in different directions.

An announcement on the P.A.: “Ladies and gentlemen, there’s a fire. Evacuate! Evacuate now! Do not use the kitchen or stage exit—that’s where the fire is! Use the emergency doors.”


Howling screams now.

Patrons rose and stools fell, drinks scattered. Two high-top tables tipped over and crashed to the floor. People began moving toward the exit doors, whose red glowing signs were still obvious; the smell of smoke was strong but visibility was good.

“Trish! Over here!” Michelle screamed. Now two dozen people were between them. Why the hell had she gone back for the damn purse? “Let’s get out!”

Her daughter started toward her through the crowd. But the tide of people surging for the exit doors lifted Michelle off her feet and tugged her away, while Trish was enveloped in another group.

“Honey!”

“Mom!”

Michelle, being dragged toward the exit doors, used every muscle in her body to turn toward her daughter, but she was helpless, crushed between two patrons: a heavyset man in a T-shirt already savagely torn, his skin red and bearing scratch marks from fingernails, and a woman whose fake breasts pressed painfully into Michelle’s side.

“Trish, Trish, Trish!”

She might have been mute. The patrons’ screams and wailing—from fear and from pain—were numbing. All she could see was the head of the man in front of her and the EXIT sign they surged toward. Michelle pounded her fists on shoulders, on arms, on necks, on faces, just as she too was pounded by other patrons.


“I have to get my daughter! Go back, go back, go back!”

But there was no stopping the tide streaming for the exits. Michelle Cooper could breathe only an ounce or two of air at a time. And the pain—in her chest, her side, her gut. Terrible! Her arms were pinned, feet suspended above the floor.

The houselights were on, bright. Michelle turned slightly—not her doing—and she could see the faces of the patrons near her: eyes coin-wide in panic, crimson streaks from mouths—had people bitten their tongues out of fear? Or was the crush snapping ribs and piercing lungs? One man, in his forties, was unconscious, skin gray. Had he fainted? Or died of a heart attack? He was still upright, though, wedged into the moving crowd.

The smell of smoke was stronger now and it was hard to breathe; maybe the fire was sucking the oxygen from the room, though she could still see no flames. Perhaps the patrons, in their panic, were depleting the air. The pressure of bodies against her chest, too.

“Trish! Honey!” she called but the words were whispers. No air in, no air out.

Where was her baby? Was someone helping her escape? Not likely. Nobody, not a single soul, seemed to be helping anyone else. This was an animal frenzy. Every person was out for himself. It was pure survival.

Please…

The group of patrons she was welded to stumbled over something.

Oh, God…

Glancing down, Michelle could just make out a slim young Latina in a red-and-black dress, lying on her side, her face registering pure terror and agony. Her right arm was broken, bent backward. Her other hand was reaching up, fingers gripping a man’s pants pocket.

Helpless. She couldn’t rise; no one paid the least attention to her even as she cried out with every foot that trampled her body.

Michelle was looking right into the woman’s eyes when a cowboy boot came down directly onto her throat. The man tried to avoid it, crying, “No, move back, move back,” to those around him. But, like everyone else, he had no control over his direction, his motion, his footfalls.

Under the pressure of the weight on her throat, the woman’s head went back and she began to shake fiercely. By the time Michelle had been yanked away, the Latina’s eyes were glazed and her tongue protruded slightly from her bright red lips.

Michelle Cooper had just seen someone die.

More P.A. announcements. Michelle couldn’t hear them. Not that it mattered. She had absolutely no control over anything.

Trish, she prayed, stay on your feet. Don’t fall. Please…

As the mass surrounding her stumbled closer to the fire doors, the crowd began to shift to the right and soon Michelle could see the rest of the club.

There! Yes, there was her daughter! Trish was still on her feet, though she too was pinned in a mass of churning bodies. “Trish, Trish!” she screamed. Or tried to. Maybe she’d lost her voice. Maybe the shriek was simply lost in the cacophony.

Mother and daughter were moving in opposite directions.

Michelle blinked tears and sweat from her eyes. Her group was only feet away from the exits. She’d be out in a few seconds. Trish was still near the kitchen—where somebody had just said the fire was raging.

“Trish! This way!”

Another silent scream.

And then she saw a man beside her daughter lose control completely—he began pounding the face of the man next to him and started to climb on top of the crowd, as if, in his madness, he believed he could claw his way through the ceiling. One of the people he used as a launching pad was Trish, who weighed a hundred pounds less. Michelle saw her daughter open her mouth to scream, raise her arm in a pathetic gesture for help and then, under the man’s bulk, vanish into the sea of madness.


Chapter 3

The two people sitting at the long conference table looked her over with varying degrees of curiosity.


Anything else? she wondered. Suspicion, dislike, jealousy?

Kathryn Dance, a kinesics (body language) expert, got paid to read people, but law enforcers were typically hard to parse and so at the moment she wasn’t sure what was flitting through their minds.

Also present was her boss, Charles Overby, though he wasn’t at the table but hovering in the doorway, engrossed in his Droid. He’d just arrived.

The four were in an interrogation observation room on the ground floor of the California Bureau of Investigation’s West-Central Division, off Route 68 in Monterey, near the airport. One of those dim, pungent chambers separated from the interrogation room by a see-through mirror that nobody, even the most naïve or stoned perps, believed was for straightening your tie or coiffing.

A no-nonsense crowd, fashion-wise. The man at the table—he’d commandeered the head spot—was Steve Foster, wearing a draping black suit and white shirt. He was the head of special investigations with the California Bureau of Investigation’s Criminal Division. He was based in Sacramento. Dance, five six and about 120 pounds, didn’t know exactly when to describe somebody as “hulking,” but Foster had to figure close. Broad, an impressive silver mane, with a droopy mustache that could have been waxed into a handlebar, had it been horizontal and not staple-shaped. He looked like an Old West marshal.

Perpendicular to Foster was Carol Allerton, in a bulky gray pantsuit. Short hair frosted silver, black and gray, Carol Allerton was a senior DEA agent operating out of Oakland. The stocky woman had a dozen serious collars to her credit. Not legend, but respectable. She’d had the opportunity to be fast-tracked to Sacramento or even Washington but she’d declined.

Kathryn Dance was in a black skirt and white blouse of thick cotton, under a dark brown jacket, cut to obscure if not wholly hide her Glock. The only color in her ensemble was a blue band that secured the end of her dark blond French braid. Her daughter had bound it this morning on the way to school.

“That’s done.” Hovering around fifty, Charles Overby looked up from his phone, on which he might’ve been arranging a tennis date or reading an e-mail from the governor, though, given their meeting now, it was probably halfway between. The athletic if pearish man said, “Okay, all taskforced up? Let’s get this thing done.” He sat and opened a manila file folder.

His ingratiating words were greeted with the same nonnegotiable stares that had surveilled Dance a moment ago. It was pretty well known in law enforcement circles that Overby’s main skill was, and had always been, administration, while those present were hard-core line investigators. None of whom would use the verb he just had.

Mumbles and nods of greeting.

The “thing” he was referring to was an effort to address a recent trend in gang activity in the state. You could find organized crime every­where in California but the main centers for the biggest gangs were two: north and south. Oakland was the headquarters of the former, L.A. the latter. But rather than being rivals, the polar crews had decided to start working together, guns moving south from the Bay Area and drugs moving north. At any given moment, there would be dozens of illicit shipments coursing along I-5, the 101 and the dusty, slow-moving 99.

To make it harder to track and stop these shipments, the senior bangers had hit on an idea: They’d taken to using break-bulk and way stations, where the cargo was transferred from the original tractor trailers to dozens of smaller trucks and vans. Two hours south of Oakland and five north of L.A., Salinas, with its active gang population, was perfect as a hub. Hundreds of warehouses, thousands of vehicles and produce trucks. Police interdiction nearly ground to a halt and illicit business surged. This year alone the statistics cops reported that revenue in the gun/drug operation had risen nearly a half billion dollars.

Six months ago the CBI, FBI, DEA, and local law enforcement agencies had formed Operation Pipeline to try to stop the transportation network but had had paltry success. The bangers were so connected and smart and brazen that they constantly remained one step ahead of the good guys, who managed to bust only low-level dealers or mules with mere ounces taped to their crotches, hardly worth the bytes to process into the system. Worse, informants were ID’d, tortured and killed before any leads could be developed.

As part of Pipeline, Kathryn Dance was running what she’d dubbed the Guzman Connection and put together a task force that included Foster, Allerton and two other officers, presently in the field. The eponymous Guzman was a massive, borderline psychotic gangbanger who reportedly knew at least half of the transfer points in and around Salinas. As near a perfect prize as you could find in the crazy business of law enforcement.

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.

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.

“‘Mister,’” Foster muttered.

The Latino’s eyes narrowed as he looked her over carefully. “Good to meet you.” There was nothing nervous about his expression or posture, Overby noted.

She sat across from him.

“Appreciate your coming in.”

A nod of his head. Agreeable.

“Now, please understand, you’re not under investigation. I want to make that clear. We’re talking to dozens of people, maybe hundreds. We’re looking into gang-related crimes here on the Peninsula. And hope you can help us.”

“So, I no need a lawyer.”

She smiled. “No, no. And you can leave anytime you want. Or choose not to answer.”

“But then I look kind of suspicious, don’t I?”

“I could ask how you liked your wife’s roast last night. You might not want to answer that one.”

Allerton laughed. Foster looked impatient.

“I couldn’t answer that anyway.”

“You don’t have a wife?”

“No, but even if I did I’d do the cooking. I pretty good in the kitchen.” Then a frown. “But I want to help. Terrible, some of the things that happen, the gangs.” He closed his eyes momentarily. “Disgusting.”

“You’ve lived in the area for a while?”

“Ten years.”

“You’re not married. But you have family here?”

“No, they in Bakersfield.”

Foster: “Shouldn’t she have looked all this up?”

Overby said, “Oh, she knows it. She knows everything about him. Well, what she could learn in the past eight hours since she got his name.”

He’d observed plenty of Dance’s interrogations and listened to her lecture on the topic; he was able to give the task force a brief overview of her specialty. “Kinesics is all about looking for stress indicators. When people lie they feel stress, can’t help it. Some suspects can cover it up well so it’s hard to see. But most of us give away indications that we’re stressed. What Kathryn’s doing is talking to Serrano for a while, nothing about gang activity, nothing about crime—the weather, growing up, restaurants, life on the Peninsula. She gets his baseline body language.”

“Baseline.” Foster,