“There’s your beer. Now give me your next line, about how this guy you’re hunting is a dangerous bastard, and I need to let you take him for my own good.” He looks at me. “Is it a guy?”
“He won’t establish gender. Apparently, it’s Pat.”
Dalton’s lips tighten. It’s a split-second reaction, and anyone looking at him would see only calm resolution. But he’s furious. While he’s keeping the upper hand, to him it feels like treading water, one second away from going under.
This is deep water. Piranha-infested. We both know it.
“Fine,” Dalton says. “So Pat is dangerous. That’s the next thing you’ll tell me, whether it’s true or not.”
“True or not?” Garcia uncaps his beer and rises to the chair I vacated earlier.
“Are you gonna tell me Pat ran a Ponzi scheme, cheated little old ladies out of their retirement savings? No. You could try that, hope I want to kick the fucker all the way over the border myself, but you don’t know me. I might hate little old ladies. If you say Pat’s a dangerous bastard, though, I’ll pay attention. So consider it said and skip that part.”
“I don’t think you want me to.”
“You gonna tell me what Pat’s done?”
“I will tell you that Pat is likely someone you trust, someone who seems like a very average resident, maybe even involved in the running of your town. A committed citizen … who should be committed to a psych hospital for the criminally insane.”
I glance at Dalton. Dalton gives a nearly imperceptible nod, telling me to pursue this.
“We had someone who might fit the description,” I say. “He was brought here a couple of weeks ago for safekeeping, but you’ll notice I’m speaking in the past tense.”
There’s no hint of dismay in Garcia’s eyes as he shakes his head. “This would have been more than a few weeks ago.”
“How long?”
He gives me a hard look. “I’m not telling you that.”
“Yeah?” Dalton leans over Garcia. “Fuck. You.”
“Is that really how you want to play—?”
“No. I want details. I want a name. I want to be treated the same way you seem to think you should be—like a fucking fellow officer of the law. I want some sense that you are what you seem to be—a righteous man on a righteous mission. But I’m not going to get any of that, am I?”
“You have my word—”
“Fuck your word. I don’t know you. Give me a name. Give me details. Treat me with a whole lot less of your patronizing bullshit.”
“Patronizing?”
Garcia’s brows shoot up, and even that gesture carries a whiff of exactly what Dalton is talking about. As a homicide detective, I met too many guys who remind me of Garcia. They’d pat me on the back. Tell me I was awesome. So talented. Such a hard worker. We were going to get along great, because I was a real cop’s cop, just like them.
Which warned me I’d be fighting them every step of the way. All those pretty words were pats on my adorable baby-cop head. Tell the girl what she wants to hear. Make her feel important. Make her feel like part of the team. Then, as part of the team, she’ll toe the party line, do what we want, not get in our way.
I can’t say that is Garcia. But it’s what Dalton’s pi
cking up with the marshal’s smiles and “You’ve got balls” and “I like you” and “I feel like you’re a guy I could talk to over a cold beer.” A whiff of the snake-oil salesman.
“Name,” Dalton says. “Details.”
“See, now here’s the problem.” Garcia lowers his bottle. “First, you might not know Pat by the name I have.”
“A description will do.”
“That can change.”
“Gender? Oh, right—that can change, too. So what you’re asking is for me to gather my people and you’ll pick out Pat. Expose all my citizens. Trust you to take the right one … after you’ve just admitted Pat might not look like your mug shot. I don’t know what you’re actually here for—”