Younger, leaner with a nervous energy that made his hand hover constantly near his belt.
He looked like the kind of kid who joined the force to impress a father who never loved him. The diner went silent. The couple in the corner booth stopped chewing. The old man at the counter buried his face in his newspaper.
The air pressure in the room seemed to drop. Zeke didn't look up. He turned the page of his book his demeanor calm, almost bored.
Coffee, Bev. Dalton barked sliding onto a stool at the counter without looking at her. And tell Sal to put some fries on. I'm starving.
Coming right up, Royce.
Beverly's voice trembled slightly. Dalton spun on his stool, his eyes scanning the room like a predator looking for a limping gazelle. He passed over the old man ignored the couple and then his gaze landed on booth four. He paused.
Zeke felt the eyes on him. It was a sensation he had honed in the field, the feeling of being watched through a scope. He took another sip of coffee, refusing to engage.
"Well, look at this." Dalton said, his voice loud enough to carry to the back of the kitchen. "Since when do we have tourists stopping in Oak Haven on a weeknight?" Carver chuckled, a nervous, tiny sound.
"Maybe he's lost, Sarge." "You lost, pal?" Dalton called out. Zeke slowly closed his book.
He placed it on the table and turned his head, meeting Dalton's mirrored gaze with a neutral expression.
"Not lost, officer. Just hungry." Dalton stood up. The leather of his gun belt creaked.
He walked slowly toward booth four, hooking his thumbs into his belt. Carver followed, mirroring his steps like a shadow.
"Hungry?" Dalton repeated, stopping right at the edge of Zeke's table. He loomed over him, using his height as a weapon. "That's your black F-150 out front?
The one with the D.C. plates?" "It is." Zeke said. "Nice truck."
Dalton sneered.
"Expensive truck. A lot of truck for a guy wearing, what is that, flannel?" "It gets me from A to B." Zeke said evenly.
"See, that's the thing." Dalton leaned down, placing both hands on the table, invading Zeke's personal space. His breath smelled of peppermint and stale tobacco. "We've had some reports lately.
Drug runners moving product up from the coast, using trucks just like that. D.C. plates are a favorite, harder to track." Zeke didn't blink. "I'm a retired landscape architect, sergeant.
The only thing I'm running is a high cholesterol count." It was a lie, of course. Zeke had never planted a rose bush in his life, but it was the cover story on his current civilian file.
"Landscape architect." Dalton scoffed. He looked back at Carver. "You hear that, Lane?
We got a gardener." "I hear him, Sarge." Dalton turned back to Zeke, the smile vanishing from his face. "Stand up."
Zeke paused.
"Is there a problem, officer?" "I said, stand up." Dalton snapped, his hand dropping to rest on the grip of his taser. "I want to see some ID.