"No!" Dance said and put her hand on his arm.
"The fuck're you doing, Agent?"
It was Overby who said, "Across the highway? There? On the other side of those trees. It's a day care center."
Foster lowered the weapon, reluctantly, as if insulted they'd questioned his shooting skill. He reholstered his Glock as the stolen car vanished from sight. Foster glanced toward Dance, and though he didn't fling her words about the young man's innocence back in her face, his body language clearly did.
Chapter 6
What would the next few hours, next few days bring?
Kathryn Dance sat in Charles Overby's office, alone. Her eyes slipped from pictures of the man with his family, to those of him in tennis whites and in an outlandish plaid golf outfit, to those with local officials and business executives. Overby, rumor was, had his eye on political office. The Peninsula or possibly, at a stretch, San Francisco. Not Sacramento; he'd never set his sights very high. There was also the issue you could get to fairway or tennis court all year-round here on the coast.
Two hours had passed since the incident in the parking lot.
She wondered again: And a few hours from now?
And days and weeks?
Noise outside the doorway. Overby and Steve Foster, the senior CBI agents here, continued their conversation as they walked inside.
"...got surveillance on the feeders to Fresno, then the One-oh-one and the Five, if he's moving fast. CHP's got Ninety-nine covered. And we've got One roadblocked."
Foster said, "I'd go to Salinas, the One-oh-one, I was him. Then north. He'll get, you know, safe passage in a lettuce truck. All the way to San Jose. The G-Forty-sevens'd pick him up there and he disappears into Oakland."
Overby seemed to be considering this. "More chance to get lost in L.A. But harder to get to, roadblocks and all. Think you're right, Steve. I'll tell Alameda and San Jose. Oh, Kathryn. Didn't see you."
Even though he'd asked her--no, told her--to come to his office ten minutes ago.
She nodded to them both but didn't rise. A woman in law enforcement, she was constantly aware of that gossa
mer thread she negotiated in the job, with her bosses and fellow officers. Excessive deference can derail respect; too little can, as well. "Charles, Steve."
Foster sat beside her and the chair groaned.
"What's the latest?"
"Not good, looks like."
Overby said, "MCSO found the Altima in a residential part of Carmel, near the Barnyard."
An old outdoor shopping center, with a number of lots for parking cars.
And for hijacking or stealing them too.
Overby said, "But if he's got new wheels, nobody's reported anything missing."
"Which could mean the person who could do the reporting's dead and in the trunk," Foster offered. Implicitly blaming Dance for a potential death-to-be.
"We're just debating: Would he go north or south? What do you think, Kathryn?"
"What we know now, he's associated with the Jacinto crew. They've got stronger ties south."
"Like I was saying," Foster reminded, speaking exclusively to Overby, "south is three hundred miles of relatively few roads and highways, versus north, with a lot more feeders. We can't watch 'em all. And he can be in Oakland in two hours."
Dance said, "Steve, airplanes. He flies to a private strip in L.A., out in the country, and he's in South Central in no time."
"Airplane? He's not cartel level, Kathryn," Foster fired back. "He's I'm-hiding-in-a-lettuce-truck level."