He pulled into a reserved spot, got out of the sedan, and started for the building with Hicks right behind him. Ballencoa stood waiting by the front desk. He didn’t look surprised to see them.

“What are you doing here?” Mendez asked. It was more of a demand than a question. His temper was rising along with his suspicions.

Ballencoa, on the other hand, appeared cool and unconcerned. “I’m here to file a complaint.”

“Against us?” Mendez said, gesturing to his partner and himself.

Ballencoa looked from one to the other as he weighed his words. Hicks stood back a few feet, looking grave but calm. Mendez knew that wasn’t how he was coming across. He was angry, and he didn’t do a good job of hiding it.

Finally, Ballencoa said, “I don’t have to answer your questions.”

Mendez turned away from him abruptly, his dark gaze falling hard on the receptionist behind the counter, a plump middle-aged blonde woman in a purple pantsuit. “Who’s coming out to get him?”

Before she could answer, Cal Dixon emerged from the back in his pressed-perfect uniform, his expression as fierce as an eagle’s. He looked first at Mendez, then Hicks, then turned last to Roland Ballencoa.

“Mr. Ballencoa,” he said, offering his hand. “Cal Dixon.”

Mendez watched them shake hands, thinking he would rather pick up a turd.

“Come this way,” Dixon said, turning back to the door he had come through. He shot a look back over his shoulder. “Detectives: you too.”

“I would rather speak to you in private, sheriff,” Ballencoa said as they went down a hall to a conference room.

Dixon pulled open the door and stood back. “As I understand it, your complaint has to do with detectives Hicks and Mendez,” he said curtly. “I would sooner have all parties involved present. Have a seat, Mr. Ballencoa.”

Ballencoa went to the far side of the table and sat down, putting his messenger bag on the table in front of him. Mendez stepped into the room and put his back against the wall beside the door, standing with his arms crossed over his chest like some bad-ass bouncer. Dixon would undoubtedly tell him to sit down, but he was so angry he didn’t trust himself to sit across from Roland Ballencoa.

Bill Hicks took that seat. The sheriff sat at the head of the table, his back straight as a ramrod. He flicked a glance at Mendez, but said nothing. He was angry. The muscles at the back of his jaw were tight. A vein was standing out in his neck. Whatever Ballencoa had to say, there was going to be some serious ass chewing afterward. Cal Dixon ran a tight, clean ship, as straight as the crease in his trousers. Any hint of impropriety was unacceptable to him.