Watcher in the Woods (Rockton #4)(47)

Then he says, “I have an alibi.”

“Yeah, heard that one,” Dalton says. “Also noticed you didn’t stick around when we started asking for the alibis.”

“Because you needed two witnesses, and I only had one. I was waiting my turn. I was doing what you told me to, asshole.” Artie looks at me. “At the time of the shooting, I was with Mindy. I had . . . arranged for her company.”

Mindy is one of Isabel’s “girls.” She’s relatively new to Rockton, and she came after being a sex worker down south, where she witnessed something that put her in witness protection . . . which did not protect her as well as it should. When she came up here, she happily resumed her former occupation for extra credits. She was the idealized version of prostitution—a healthy and capable woman who said “my body, my choice.”

“At the moment the shots were fired . . .” I prompt.

He meets my gaze with a smirk. “I was firing my own. Just ask Mindy. She made a joke about it. Fireworks and all that.”

I will check with Mindy, obviously. There’s a tendency to think that a woman who’d sell her body might be equally willing to sell her integrity, but that’s bullshit. I’m sure many people in town would sell an alibi—or trade one—which is why I’d asked for doubles.

“So you’re claiming you didn’t shoot Marshal Garcia,” I say.

“Uh, yeah.” He rolls his eyes, confidence soaring.

“Then why did you just try to murder him?”

“I wasn’t—”

“Yeah,” Dalton says. “You were just giving him a pillow. Making him comfortable. The problem with that? Most of us prefer the pillow under our heads.”

“You tried to murder Marshal Garcia,” I say. “I saw it. The question is what we tell the council. What we recommend to them. Do we say you’re a cold-blooded murderer? Or do we plead extenuating circumstances and ask for leniency? Ask them to let you stay. Because that’s the fate you face. Being forced out of Rockton. Given all your extensions, I get the impression you don’t want that.”

“I wouldn’t have gone through with it.”

“Don’t care,” Dalton says. “What matters is what Casey saw.”

“You wanted to stop Marshal Garcia from waking up,” I say. “You were afraid of what he’d say when he did. Which means you thought you were his target. There’s a U.S. federal warrant out on you—”

“Hell, no. I’m Canadian.”

“Yeah,” Dalton says. “That doesn’t actually matter. If you committed your crimes in the United States—”

“I didn’t commit any crimes. I’m the victim here. I heard people saying he’s not a real marshal. I mean, come on. I’ve only ever seen them on TV, and I know one guy isn’t going to come into the Yukon wilderness chasing a fugitive. He was with one of those drug cartels.”

“You stole money from a drug cartel?” I say.

“I didn’t steal anything. Are you listening to me? I’m the victim here.”

“The victim who bought his way into Rockton,” Dalton says. “Who is buying his extensions. You don’t get that kind of cash working as . . . a social worker, wasn’t it?”

“I didn’t steal that money.”

“So a drug cartel gifted it to you?” I say.

“Yes, actually. In payment for services rendered.”

“You worked for a drug cartel.”

His nose screws up. “Of course not. Like I said, I’m not a criminal.”

“So they paid you to keep quiet about something. A client came to you with information, and you exhor—convinced a cartel to pay you not to reveal that information to the police.”

He snorts. “Believe me, my ‘clients’ would never have information worth that sort of payoff. Bunch of deadbeat addicts, never worked a day in their lives. You haven’t heard whining until you’ve sat in my chair. I put myself through school, all the way to a Master’s degree, and where did it get me? A shit-paying job listening to losers.”

“If you wanted a lucrative career, social work may not have been the way to go.”

He scowls. “I planned to be a psychologist, like Miss Holier-than-Thou Whore-Mistress Isabel. But I got fucked over. Couldn’t get into grad school, because I’m a white male.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So I went into social work, thinking I’d get my psych doctorate once I had some work experience, but that never happened. So I was stuck listening to druggie losers all day. That’s when I hit on a plan to make some extra cash. I started getting details from my clients and going after their suppliers. Cutting my own deals. Five grand here, ten there . . . It adds up. I made a better detective than you, Casey. I climbed higher and higher up the food chain until I was trading serious info for serious cash.”

“Until you climbed too high and attracted the attention of the wrong people. A cartel.”

“Apparently. So I ran, and now they’ve found me. Obviously.”

“Why ‘obviously’? What made you think Garcia was after you?”

He looks at me like I’m a moron. When I don’t react, he taps his cheek.

“You recognized him?” I say.