“Ever been north of the border?” Sandoval asked.

“No.” That was the way most of his answers had been. One or two words, or three at most.

“Ever been in prison?”

“No, not me.” He yawned and gestured with his chin at the coffeepot on the burner. “How about a cup of that coffee, Chief?”

“Help yourself,” said Sandoval. “The cups are on the sink.” He watched Garcia get up to pour himself a cupful. He wasn’t a particularly big man, but he was bull-necked and thick-chested, and he carried his arms a little away from himself in that showy way that serious weight lifters have. More evidence of US jail time, Sandoval thought. That was one of the truly crazy things about the Yanqui prisons: weight lifting rooms. Why in the world would you want to give your bad guys bigger muscles?

Garcia sat down with his coffee, which had been on the burner for eight hours now. (Coffee-making was the responsibility of the junior officer, Pepe, who could not be dissuaded from the notion, taught to him by his mother, that the longer coffee sat, the more tasty and restorative the brew. It had been all Sandoval could do to get him not to boil it for five minutes.) Garcia took a sip of the tarry stuff and made a face, but had another swallow anyway. Two were enough, however, even for a tough guy like him. He set the cup on the desk and leaned back with another sigh, an audible, resigned sigh, to see what Sandoval’s next pointless question would be. He scratched listlessly at his chin. It had been four or five days since he’d shaved, and stiff, silvery bristles glistened on his jaw.

It was clear that the man thought he wasn’t dealing with a real cop here. Well, that was true enough. Sandoval knew only too well that he wasn’t a real cop.