Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(17)

“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 of 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 picking 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 mugshot. I don’t know what you’re actually here for—”

“I will give you details, Sheriff. Descriptive details that will allow you to bring me a subset of people, and one of those will confess to being Pat. Trust me on that.”

“I don’t trust—”

“Neither do I.” He looks at Dalton. “I don’t trust you, Sheriff. Like you said, we don’t know each other. You might very well realize what kind of lowlifes you have here, the wolves among the sheep, but someone is paying you to keep the entire flock safe. If that’s the case and I give you a description, you’ll tell me to just wait here while you go round up the people who match it . . . and you’ll make damned sure I don’t see the one I’m looking for. Sorry, marshal, but Pat doesn’t seem to be here.”

Dalton’s cheek tics, jaw flexing. This hits a little too close to the mark.

We do indeed know about the wolves among the sheep, and I think, in some ways, it would be easier if we were mercenary shepherds, happy to protect the entire flock for the right price. But there is no price. And we are not happy. We’re just trapped.

“Nice speech,” I say. “You know what ruins it? Not even being willing to tell us the gender of the person you’re looking for. There is no way in hell you can argue your point that far.”

“I’m not trying to. I don’t want you to parade your town before me. I will provide you with details after we agree to a process. You three are the only ones who know I’m looking for someone. Therefore, if you want me to trust you, you will not leave my sight until I have Pat.”

“We agree to stay where you can see us, so we can’t sneak off and hide Pat, and then you’ll give us a complete and full description, along with proof.”

Garcia looks over. “Proof?”

“Of Pat’s crimes,” I say. “You don’t honestly expect us to hand over a resident on your say-so. You provide a description and proof—”

“Proof is for a court of law. You know that. I’m arresting someone, not sentencing them.”

“By removing them from our protection you are sentencing them. I’m not asking for irrefutable proof of guilt. I’m asking for a warrant.”

He starts to laugh. Then he sees I’m serious.

“You say we’re fellow law enforcement?” I continue. “Then as the sheriff said, treat us like it. Give us the warrant. The proof that Pat is a fugitive, whom you have been sent to retrieve.”