Read Online Watcher in the Pine by Rebecca Pawel - Free Book Online
Authors: Rebecca Pawel
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was already holding out his hand and saying, “Can I help you, Lieutenant?”
Tejada made a mental note to find out what Márquez thought might be awkward, and then fell into a by-now familiar routine. “Is Señor Rosas in?” he asked. “We’d like to see him.”
“He just arrived a few minutes ago, Lieutenant. It’s—”
“Through that door,” Tejada finished. “I know the way, thank you.”
He pulled open a door that creaked on ancient hinges, before Señor Rosas’s deputy could say more. The regional director of Devastated Regions was huddled in a greatcoat by a fireplace built on a magnificent scale fit for roasting deer, and currently home to a miserable, smoky excuse for a fire. His desk was littered with papers of all shapes and sizes, from torn scraps of notepaper to scrolls of blueprints. “I told you I’m not—,” he began irritably, turning around. His voice did not noticeably alter when he saw who his guests were. “Oh, it’s you. Good morning, Lieutenant. Sergeant. What is it now?”
“I’m sorry to intrude, Señor Rosas.” Tejada was not in the least sorry, and his tone perhaps hinted this. “But I’ve just spoken to the mayor, and he suggested that I speak to you about housing prisoners.”
“If Caro is listening to complaints from those bastards, he’s soft in the head,” snapped Rosas. “They’re housed properly. My God, they’re probably better off than I am! Would you believe those idiots made a woodpile in the mud? Look at this!” he gestured to the fire. “It’ll never burn. And the rest will probably take until next winter to dry out.”
“Black birch burns when it’s green,” Tejada said absently. “You might try that. And I didn’t mean your prisoners. I meant mine.”
Rosas turned fully away from the fire for the first time. “Martin!” he bawled.
His assistant stuck his head around the door. “Yes, sir?”
“Go find some birch.” The director returned his attention to Tejada. “Sit down. You’ve found the Valencians?” he asked hopefully, in a slightly more conciliatory voice.
Tejada sat, cautiously encouraged by the invitation. “Not yet, I’m afraid,” he admitted, hoping that he was not about to undo any goodwill he might have created. “We’re doing our best. But at the moment we have exactly three cells at our disposal. If we were—for example—to want to hold someone for interrogation regarding the Valencians’ escape, we could easily run out of space.”
Rosas frowned. “Why aren’t you talking to the mayor? He’s responsible for allocation of space.”
“I have spoken to him,” Tejada said patiently. “He suggested that you place some of your facilities at our disposal. Only until other space is available,” he added hastily, seeing Señor Rosas’s mouth open to protest.
The director considered. “How much space would you need?” he asked finally.
Tejada, who had been expecting another denial, was caught off guard. He had to think a moment before replying. “Our current facilities can hold ten men, maybe a dozen in a pinch. I’d like to have room for at least twenty. Could you spare space for ten?”
“You mean keep cells open just in case?” Rosas’s voice was dubious.
Tejada shook his head. “No. I don’t want to be unreasonable. But could you house more on short notice if necessary? I’ll try to avoid it, but I don’t want a riot on my hands and no place to stash people.”
“We have the space,” the director admitted. “But I’m not sure we have the other facilities.”
“They don’t need beds,” Tejada said reassuringly. “Just floor space. And naturally if we park them with you we’ll provide guards.”
Rosas was silent. Then he said slowly, “I’d like to help you, Lieutenant. But under the circumstances . . .” He trailed off, looking unhappy.
“What circumstances?” Tejada demanded. “I doubt
Tejada made a mental note to find out what Márquez thought might be awkward, and then fell into a by-now familiar routine. “Is Señor Rosas in?” he asked. “We’d like to see him.”
“He just arrived a few minutes ago, Lieutenant. It’s—”
“Through that door,” Tejada finished. “I know the way, thank you.”
He pulled open a door that creaked on ancient hinges, before Señor Rosas’s deputy could say more. The regional director of Devastated Regions was huddled in a greatcoat by a fireplace built on a magnificent scale fit for roasting deer, and currently home to a miserable, smoky excuse for a fire. His desk was littered with papers of all shapes and sizes, from torn scraps of notepaper to scrolls of blueprints. “I told you I’m not—,” he began irritably, turning around. His voice did not noticeably alter when he saw who his guests were. “Oh, it’s you. Good morning, Lieutenant. Sergeant. What is it now?”
“I’m sorry to intrude, Señor Rosas.” Tejada was not in the least sorry, and his tone perhaps hinted this. “But I’ve just spoken to the mayor, and he suggested that I speak to you about housing prisoners.”
“If Caro is listening to complaints from those bastards, he’s soft in the head,” snapped Rosas. “They’re housed properly. My God, they’re probably better off than I am! Would you believe those idiots made a woodpile in the mud? Look at this!” he gestured to the fire. “It’ll never burn. And the rest will probably take until next winter to dry out.”
“Black birch burns when it’s green,” Tejada said absently. “You might try that. And I didn’t mean your prisoners. I meant mine.”
Rosas turned fully away from the fire for the first time. “Martin!” he bawled.
His assistant stuck his head around the door. “Yes, sir?”
“Go find some birch.” The director returned his attention to Tejada. “Sit down. You’ve found the Valencians?” he asked hopefully, in a slightly more conciliatory voice.
Tejada sat, cautiously encouraged by the invitation. “Not yet, I’m afraid,” he admitted, hoping that he was not about to undo any goodwill he might have created. “We’re doing our best. But at the moment we have exactly three cells at our disposal. If we were—for example—to want to hold someone for interrogation regarding the Valencians’ escape, we could easily run out of space.”
Rosas frowned. “Why aren’t you talking to the mayor? He’s responsible for allocation of space.”
“I have spoken to him,” Tejada said patiently. “He suggested that you place some of your facilities at our disposal. Only until other space is available,” he added hastily, seeing Señor Rosas’s mouth open to protest.
The director considered. “How much space would you need?” he asked finally.
Tejada, who had been expecting another denial, was caught off guard. He had to think a moment before replying. “Our current facilities can hold ten men, maybe a dozen in a pinch. I’d like to have room for at least twenty. Could you spare space for ten?”
“You mean keep cells open just in case?” Rosas’s voice was dubious.
Tejada shook his head. “No. I don’t want to be unreasonable. But could you house more on short notice if necessary? I’ll try to avoid it, but I don’t want a riot on my hands and no place to stash people.”
“We have the space,” the director admitted. “But I’m not sure we have the other facilities.”
“They don’t need beds,” Tejada said reassuringly. “Just floor space. And naturally if we park them with you we’ll provide guards.”
Rosas was silent. Then he said slowly, “I’d like to help you, Lieutenant. But under the circumstances . . .” He trailed off, looking unhappy.
“What circumstances?” Tejada demanded. “I doubt
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