cop. If I can't see it, feel it, taste it, explain it to the jury, I don't believe it. Quinn, he was intuitive. Mind like a jumping bean. It was all like a game to him. A contest; see who's the smartest guy in the room." His hands were clasped now, his thumbs rubbing slow circles on each other. He bent his head and watched them at work. "Can I believe he was a wrong guy? Yeah. I can believe it. I didn't want to, but I've been thinking about it, and I've been watching you. You don't change when nobody's looking. You say what you mean, and you say it to anybody who'll listen."
"Are you saying I'm not subtle?"
"You're about as subtle as a brick. But you can take that as a compliment. Hero-types generally aren't that subtle."
Hero-types? "Anything else?"
"Yeah," he said. "The greasy-looking kid who was in your apartment last night ripped off some cash from the flour jar in your kitchen. And the guy you were talking to before you left for work made him put it back."
Kevin and Lewis, each acting according to their natures. It made me smile.
"Also," Rodriguez finished, "you looked totally hot on TV, and your sister looks pretty good naked. Now. Tell me about what really happened with Quinn."
I realized, about two sentences into it, that I couldn't not tell him about the Wardens, and especially the Djinn. He had to understand what we were dealing with, and the stakes we played for. He had to understand that Quinn was doing something far beyond the capacity of the justice system to punish.
It took a long time. When my voice ran hoarse, Rodriguez got me a cold bottled water, and when I started trembling from nerves, he switched me to cold beer.
The air conditioner kicked in with a dry rattle at some point, drying the sweat trickling down into the neckline of my white tank top.
It was a strangely quiet interrogation. He just listened, except for those small acts of kindness. Occasionally, he'd ask for a clarification if I wasn't getting something across, but he never disputed, never doubted, never accused me of being a lunatic straight off the funny farm.
Which I would have, if I'd been in the less-comfy chair hearing someone spout the same explanation.
When I got to the part that talked about his partner's death, I saw his eyes go cool and hooded, but his expression stayed neutral. Then it was over, and I was clutching an empty brown bottle in my hands, and all I heard was the steady whisper of the A/C fighting the Florida heat.
"You know how that sounds," he said.
"Of course I know. Why do you think I didn't tell you all this up front?"
He got up, as if he wanted to pace, but the van was too small and besides, I thought what he really wanted to do was put his fist through something yielding.
Chapter Thirty-four
Like me. There was that kind of sharp angle to the way he moved.
And still, nothing in his expression. The anger was burning, but it was somewhere miles down and sealed off with a steel hatch.
"You say there's nobody to back up this version."
"Well, there is," I said. "The guy that was here last night. The kid. And you saw some of it yourself last night on the beach. Hell, you could call my boss in New York if you wanted. He'd tell you it was true-well, maybe he wouldn't, come to think of it; he's got a hell of a lot of problems of his own. But the point is, none of these people would be credible to you. They don't have real jobs and real identities you can check out with independent sources. They're ciphers. Like me. So I think you've got to go with your gut on this one, Detective. Do you believe me or not?"
He stopped and put his hand on a leather strap hanging from the wall-the better to grab onto if the van had to move into gear, I realized. This was quite a mobile cop shop he had.
"Tell you what," he said after a moment. "I'll believe it if you show me something."
"What?"
"Anything. Anything, you know, magic."
"It's not magic," I said, exasperated. "It's science. And-well, okay, the Djinn, maybe that's magic, but really, it can all be explained