52
Back in his cool, quiet hotel room, Dale fought the urge to swear out his anger.
Detective McComas hadn’t only bullied him. The officer coming to his door? Supervising him getting dressed? Walking him down in his pajama pants? That wasn’t mere bullying. That was deliberate, conscious, professional-grade intimidation. McComas had no reason to think that a plain phone call wouldn’t bring Dale down, even at two in the morning. You reserved goons for escalation.
Exhausted or no, Dale pulled off the awful sneakers and paced for five minutes before he could get his breathing under control and his heart rate back towards normal. Adrenaline had burned away his fatigue. There wasn’t any way he was getting to sleep any time soon. It would be a white night.
Maybe Dale was a coward in person. B
