At first, L thinks that Cesar really is going to hand over the book and come clean about whatever he knows about Chuck's notebook, and the second, more mysterious one that he's clutching along with it. Instead, he tries to push aside L's extended wrist. His hand brushes deep, ugly scar tissue, which isn't so far from the number tattoo across L's open palm, and though L seems uneasy with the proximity to the area, he fights the impulse to pull his sleeve down to hide it. The man he wants to be, who he hopes he's becoming, doesn't balk at the first sign of resistance, even if the resistance is taller and stronger than he is.

Or even, for that matter, if the resistance would like him much better if he gentled down and just moved out of the way.

"If it's a journal, you only have to say so. I keep one too. Just..."

Just what? Don't seem so much like you want me gone?

It's suspicious as hell; it's in the kitchen, Cesar's trying to run with it and the book that appears to have been written by Chuck.

Who keeps things like that in the kitchen to ruin a good morning? I just wanted to make coffee.

As a detective, he should be fighting for the evidence, doing everything in his power to get at it regardless of the cost or consequence. It could be a missing piece, and contain answers he's been grasping for.

As a human, you're lonely. And weak. And utterly foolish.

He's visibly torn for a solid several seconds. He's of two minds; one wants to insist on the notebooks and point out that withholding them is practically confessing guilt, and the other wants to step aside and give someone he thinks of at least as a friend some distance and trust. He's standing at a crossroads and is equally inclined to go either way, and that moment of uncertainty is a perfect one to take advantage of if Cesar has any hope of swaying him favorably.