City of the Lost (Rockton 1)

She nods and he starts walking. She calls after him, "Keep the bottle, okay?"

He starts walking, and she calls after him, "Keep the bottle, okay?"

"I planned to."

"Asshole," she says, but there's no venom in it.

Dalton walks half a block and then lifts the bottle of tequila. "One shot."

"I don't really need--"

"One shot on the job. Off the job? Three max."

"I don't drink more than two shots. Ever."

He glances over. "You got a problem?"

"You mean, am I an alcoholic? No. It's a personal choice."

He studies me, in that way that makes me struggle not to squirm. Then he grunts and turns away.

"Stick to it," he says. "I catch you drunk? Twenty-four hours in the cell. I catch you high? I'll march you down to Beth for testing, and if it comes back positive, you're on maintenance duty for the rest of your stay."

"All right."

He stops, eyes narrowing. Then he notices we're being watched by a half-dozen locals, and he marches silently on to the station. As soon as we get inside, he closes the door and says, "I'm serious, detective. I don't make idle threats."

"The last time I was drunk, I wasn't even legal drinking age. The last time I got high was on pot at eighteen, and it made me throw up. I don't drink, and I don't do drugs, and I'm not going to start because the job's rough or I get bored. But if somehow I do, then you can throw me in your cell or fire me. I wouldn't say 'all right' if it wasn't, and I don't appreciate being growled at for agreeing with you."

I expect a snapped reply, but instead he seems to contemplate this. Then he walks to the bookcase, takes a mug, and pours a rough shot of tequila in it. I consider telling him--again--that I don't want it, but after what I saw and heard at the clinic, I wouldn't mind that shot. I'm just wondering if he's testing me. After he pours my shot, though, he takes a beer from the icebox. So I down the shot before he can uncap his beer. His brows lift. I put the mug on the table.

"Can I see those files?" I ask.

"That's what we're here for. I thought you could use a drink while you read them."

"It's tequila. You don't sip it."

He grunts and, beer still in hand, unlocks a file cabinet and flips through, pulling files. Then he passes the stack to me. I look around at my choice of chairs, but before I can pick one, he says, "Weather's good," and motions me to the back deck.

I start toward it. He says, "Grab a chair."

"I'm fine."

We go outside. He takes the Muskoka chair. I lower myself to the deck. He looks at me.

"Get a chair, Butler."

"I'm fine."

His lips move in a "Fuck," and he shakes his head. I feel like there's some expectation here, and I keep falling short, and I'm not quite sure why. I've been in town only a few hours, and I've already held my own in a bar fight. I didn't complain when he roughed up a local. I didn't puke over a grisly corpse. I figured out that the council is taking kickbacks for letting in criminals and I determined what happened to that corpse. Yet what does make an impression--the wrong one--is when I decide I don't need a chair. There's a code here, and I can't decipher it yet, so I just settle in with the files.

Two hours pass like that. I'm reading the files, and Dalton is thinking. Or I presume that's what he's doing. For two entire hours he sits, sips his beer, and stares--just like Anders said--into "that damned forest." At first I think he's there to answer my questions, but several times I look over expectantly, even clear my throat. He ignores me.

I read the files. I do some thinking of my own. Then I go inside and get my notebook, and I come back out and make notes, and Dalton never even glances my way. Finally, when I'm done, I say, "Can we talk? About this?"

He doesn't even look over, just says, "Tomorrow. It's getting late."

While it's barely past six, the sun is dropping fast. I walk to the front railing and sit on it, not directly in front of him but no longer behind him, either.