Free Triple Crossing by Sebastian Rotella Page B

you
were
surveilling me.” When she rolled her eyes, he added: “I always get hungry when I’m scared to death.”
    Her delighted laugh encouraged him somewhat. She askedhim if he had done some thinking. He said he was not clear what he was supposed to think about.
    “What is it you want, exactly?” he asked.
    “Supervisory Agent Arleigh Garrison.”
    He was not surprised. But he nonetheless rubbed his face with his hand, his mind shuffling scenarios.
    “Oh great,” he said. “You want me to rat him out.”
    “I’m thinking you might want to help yourself and help us. And do some good, for a change.”
    “I’ve done plenty of good. I got a commendation for catching a stickup man in the canyons. I pulled a little kid from a car
     wreck. I went one-on-ten with some gangbangers in a damn near riot on the levee. You don’t know what it’s like out there.”
    She started to say something, caught herself. She said, “I’m aware of your record.”
    “Then don’t talk to me like I’m a lowlife slug.”
    “Then don’t talk like one. This isn’t about being a rat. It’s about an investigation.”
    “To get Garrison.”
    “Unless he’s your friend. Unless you’re scared of him.”
    “What happens if I say hell no, then run back and tell him about this?”
    Puente’s panther smile turned morose, as if she’d rarely encountered such stupidity. “You’re not going to do that.”
    “Glad you know me so good. What’s the proposition?”
    “You tell me everything you know about Garrison. And then you gather intelligence for us.”
    “And what do I get out of it?”
    “You don’t get indicted or fired. Plus compensation. We pay informants.”
    “You’re insulting me now.”
    “I thought you might say that. Funny thing is, I don’t think you like Garrison that much.”
    “Not particularly.”
    “Interesting. Why do you run with him and those characters, then?”
    “Look, uh, Agent Puente? Isabel? What do I call you?”
    She cocked her head playfully. “Whatever you want.”
    “Anyway, yeah, I hang out with Garrison some. He’s my boss. He was Special Forces. Real badass. He watches my back out on
     The Line. I watch his. We go drinking after work. I don’t exactly have a big social circle outside The Patrol. Inside either.”
    “You feel loyal. And you like to party with them.”
    “I guess.”
    “Garrison’s a big spender. He throws extra work at you now and then.”
    “Hey, you probably know more about it than I do. That’s the other guys. He has offered did I want to make a little extra cash,
     though.”
    “Doing what?”
    “Freelance security for this rich Mexican guy. Garrison teaches him and his bodyguards: shooting, tactical stuff.”
    “What rich Mexican guy?”
    “He doesn’t name names.”
    “You don’t have a clue who it is?”
    “Uh-uh.”
    His food arrived. Pescatore wolfed down the waffles. He found it hard to believe he was sitting here, the luxuriant blue of
     the Pacific framed in the window, having a conspiratorial chat with this woman who held his fate in her hands. Isabel Puente
     never quite relaxed. She crossed and uncrossed her supple brown legs, fiddled with the torn sugar packets, rearranged her
     hair. Although she concentrated on him, she periodically surveyed the room behind him and the street below. He wondered how
     old she was. Despite her poise, he guessed she couldn’t be more than thirty, about five years older than him.
    Presently, she said: “And you never once took up Garrison on his offer?”
    “So I guess this is the part where I tell you everything, huh?”
    “I guess. Or you can finish your waffles, I drive you back to your car and the investigation continues.”
    “Look, tell you the truth, I did work for him a couple times, in a manner of speaking.”
    Puente gave him a nod.
    “One time he said he needed some backup. All I had to do was bring my gun and show myself in the parking lot outside Coco’s,
     down by I-Five north of San