Joan downed the last of her whiskey. “You mean more than usual?”
Ray grinned. “Exactly.”
“It’s an old case I was involved in. The guy has served his time, and now he’s getting out.” Joan studied her empty glass, knowing the stain of some memories required more elbow grease than others.
Ray set another whiskey neat in front of her and glanced at the letterhead. “Montana? You have not been out there since . . .”
She met Ray’s gaze. “The fire.”
“That letter is about Elijah Weston. That psycho is out?”
“Yes, he is.”
“Shit. You okay?”
“I’m fine.” If her old man had taught Joan anything, it was how to bullshit her way through uncertainty.
More patrons walked through the front door, laughing and joking and drawing Ray away as he swiped a couple of menus and followed them to a booth.
Joan folded up the letter and, needing a distraction, shifted her attention to a reasonably good-looking man sitting at the end of the bar. He had a full head of dark hair, a strong jaw, and carried a few extra pounds that tugged slightly at the lines of his expensive gray suit. She had seen him around the courthouse, and they had exchanged glances once or twice as each checked the other out. She rummaged through her brain, searching for his name. It escaped her, but she was fairly certain he was a prosecutor. Most importantly, he might be a nice distraction over this very long Labor Day weekend.
He raised his gaze and, noting her attention, ordered a beer, came down the bar, and slowly took a seat beside her. He regarded her cropped dark hair, tasteful silk blouse, tailored black suit, and heeled boots. “I’ve seen you at the courthouse. Cop or lawyer? I usually can tell but can’t with you.”
“I’m a cop, and you’re a lawyer,” she said without looking up.
“That’s right. Steve Vincent.”
She knew immediately Steve liked what he saw. She was not stunningly beautiful but had been described as “striking” by a few suitors. Several workouts a week kept her figure toned. “Detective Joan Mason.”
“Joan Mason. Where have I heard . . . ? Damn, you were the lead detective on that arson case,” Steve said. “Suspect’s name escapes me.”
“Avery Newport.”
“That’s right. Her roommate died in the fire.”
“You’re well informed.”
“Word gets around the courthouse. It’s like a small town. You landed one hell of an explosive case.”
Joan was the homicide detective to call when arson was involved. “Yes, it was.”
Steve accepted a beer from Ray with a quick nod. “The defendant’s old man hired a real ballbuster of an attorney. Dug up some facts about you. Said you were biased, based on your history.”
“Like me, he was doing his job,” Joan said.
“Did the department really suspend you?”
She had never played politics well. And when she’d been told to back off the case, she had not. She knew Avery Newport was guilty, and she did not care about her father’s political connections. “Yes, they did, Steve.”
He glanced toward her hands, most likely searching for the burn scars the defense attorney had mentioned repeatedly to the media. “He said something about you nearly dying in a fire when you were a kid and then another one while you were in college. He said that’s why you couldn’t drop this case.”
“Those fires were a long time ago.” Though they both felt painfully close at this moment.
Feeling Steve’s continued attention on her hands, she held them out as she said, “They don’t hurt.” He now had a full view of the white scars crisscrossing her palms. “Still sensitive to heat, and techs can’t roll a decent print, but otherwise fine.”
To his credit, Steve did not look away. “Which fire was that one from?”
“College.”
“How did you get them?”
“Grabbing a red-hot door handle.” She regarded him. “You’re a lawyer, Steve, so you’d be the person to ask. Do my past experiences cloud my ability to investigate an arsonist?”
“You’re asking a lawyer for a yes-or-no answer?” he said, grinning.
A sense of humor was a point in his column. “You’re right, Counselor, but just supposing . . .”
“I’d have used it against you,” he said. “Impossible to ignore.”
“I would have, too.” She pushed the glass away, wishing the whiskey’s kick would blur the past.
“Is what they said true, Joan?” Steve asked.
“I don’t know, Steve; what did they say?”
He had the good taste to look a little sheepish before he asked, “That the guy who torched your house in college is due to be released from prison this year.”
That was another tidbit the defense attorney had used to publicly call her judgment into question. Shrugging her shoulders, Joan decided she needed fresh air. She scrounged up a decent-enough smile as she grabbed the letter and her purse. “It’s been nice, Steve.”
“Hey, I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Of course you did.” She fished a twenty from her pocket, tossed it on the bar.
He rose. “I thought, maybe—”
“So did I, but you just talked yourself out of what could have been a fun evening.”
“I make my living talking.” He was the type to argue with the weather. “But I also know how to shut up.”
“Apparently not today.”
Purse on her shoulder and letter clutched in her hand, she walked outside to discover a sky thick with gray clouds. Mother Nature understood exactly how she felt. As far as she was concerned, it could rain buckets on everyone until Tuesday.
Still, there were people heading to the bars. Many were laughing, as if they had already adapted to the rainy forecast and shifted their weekend plans inside. If only change were that easy.
The air was muggy, and she cursed the sweat running down her back as she made the two-block walk to her town house. As she rounded the corner onto her street, her phone rang. She removed it from her back pocket and glanced at the display. It was her partner, Seth.
“I
