Sandoval was thoroughly discomposed by now. He was no good at this sort of thing; why did he even try it? He didn’t believe a word of Garcia’s story, but he didn’t see what he could do about it. The man was too experienced for him; he knew a fraud when he saw one. One thing Sandoval did know: the sooner Garcia was out of Teotitlan the better, but nothing could be done about that until morning. All he could do for now was to see that he made no trouble tonight.

“Well, my friend,” he said, “we’ll give you a nice place to sleep. And I don’t think anyone will bother you.”

“You’re putting me in jail?”

“Just for the night,” Sandoval said, first darting a glance into the outer office to make sure Pompeo was there, in case Garcia was going to make things difficult. But Garcia merely shrugged.

“Do I get a meal out of it?”

“Unless you have an objection to goat meat tacos.”

Another shrug. “Okay. And what happens in the morning?”

“We’ll see in the morning.”

He signaled through the doorway to Pompeo, who marched Garcia off to the women’s cell. (There were two cells in the municipal building, one for men and one for women, but the men’s was currently occupied by the Herrera brothers, who were sleeping off too many glasses of mezcal at their sister’s wedding, which left only the women’s cell.) Garcia went without a word, contracting the burly muscles of his shoulders; a body builder showing his stuff.

Sandoval hoped with all his heart that nothing would happen in the morning, that he’d simply send Garcia on his way and be done with it, but there were of course obligations that went with his job. For all he knew, Garcia was a dangerous fugitive. If it came about later that Sandoval had done no checking on him, it might well bring the unwelcome attentions of the attorney general’s office and the state police, the policia ministerial. Talk about trouble.