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He didn’t look much like the law. In his grubby sweatsuit and sneakers he looked more like a Class C high school coach during a losing season. Snoring softly, feet on his cluttered desk, a Detroit Tigers baseball cap tipped forward over his eyes—Norman Rockwell would have loved it. I rapped on the desk. “ Sheriff LeClair? I’m Sergeant Garcia. Lupe Garcia.” One eye blinked open, briefly. “They’re not here.” “ I haven’t told you what I want yet.” I eased cautiously down on a battered office chair upholstered in argyle blanket, wondering why I’d bothered to wear my good suit. “ Algoma’s a small town.… Garcia, is it? I found a note when I came in this morning said a guy from the Organized Crime Task Force was flying up from Detroit to see me. I take it you’re him. I also take it you’re here about Roland Costa an
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