Blood Echo (Burning Girl #2)(27)

“Yeah,” Henricks says, “with all due respect, that’s not how this works, ma’am. See, we wouldn’t even know what to charge him with because you won’t—Luke!”

Luke’s past the ficus and moving swiftly toward reception when he hears the interview room door slam shut. Then Henricks is right on his heels. The dude’s already pegged the woman a liar, so if Luke’s going to do anything to get the story out of her, he’ll have to take the initiative. And before he thinks twice about the risks.

“What the hell are you doing, Luke?”

“We’re going to go talk to Jordy Clements.”

“The hell we are. She’s a pillhead, Luke.”

“And you know this how?”

“Let’s just say she’s known around town, OK?” Henricks says.

“I’ve never seen her in holding.”

“You don’t work every night of the week.”

“Oh, OK. So, if I look for an arrest record on her, I’m going to find one?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I’m just saying, slow down.”

“Why, because her boyfriend’s building a goddamn tunnel?”

“You know how important that tunnel’s going to be to this town. Come on.”

“Not important enough to let Jordy Clements beat up his girlfriend because you’re a chickenshit.”

“Luke!”

It was probably too far, calling Henricks a chickenshit in front of all their coworkers, but it’s not like any of them are rushing to disagree.

“Are you coming or not?” Luke asks.

“Where?”

“Where is everybody on a Friday night? He’s probably at the Gold Mine.”

“He doesn’t drink.”

“What are you, best friends with this guy?”

“I’m telling you, he’s known around town. And this will be known around town, too, if you make a big stink and there’s nothing to it.”

“Well, then I should talk to Jordy and find out if there’s nothing to it, right?”

“You can’t just throw him in a cell without charging him with anything because she said so.”

“Who said anything about a cell? I’m just going to talk to him.”

“I don’t believe that, Luke. You don’t just talk. You always . . . do stuff.”

“Yeah, like my job. Are you coming or not?”

“I’m not messing around with a guy like Jordy Clements just because your girlfriend walked out on you and you’re not dealing with it.”

“You’re right. You’re not messing around with a guy like Jordy Clements because you think rich assholes should be above the law. Don’t let her leave that interview room.”

Only once he’s out of the station and at the door to his cruiser does he realize Henricks never agreed to Luke’s final order. And, of course, when it comes to getting in bed with rich assholes, he’s a lot guiltier than Henricks. Or at least his new girlfriend is. But for now, no one in Altamira knows anything about that, and that’s how he’d like it to stay.



When Luke was a boy, the Gold Mine Tavern was a hole-in-the-wall bar that served halfway decent burgers for lunch, before the same crew of evening regulars would roll in every night around happy hour. Luke’s mother visited the place only rarely before she got sick, and when she did, she never stayed for more than a vodka tonic or two. Afterward, she’d come home complaining that it still smelled like stale beer and the conversations were always the same—complaints about work, or the lack thereof, or endless chitchat about whatever new piece of California history the bar’s owner, Dan Soto, had hung on walls that already looked like a TGI Fridays devoted to the state’s rugged past.

Luke returned home around half a year ago, tail between his legs, having decided that loyalty to his brother was more important than turning informant on the guy just so he could have a shot at his dream job with the FBI. Altamira’s new sheriff was an old friend of his mother’s, and she’d been happy to hire him. Back then, little about the town and its most popular watering hole had changed much since his youth. On his first few night patrols, he spotted the one bartender on duty closing the place down around eleven thirty, right after the last customer started their long, shuffling walk home.

At the time he probably muttered something to himself about how it was good that some things stayed constant, even if they were just sad, lonely watering holes.

Now, just a few months later, nothing about Altamira, or his life, is the same.

The Gold Mine’s front door is fringed by cackling smokers he doesn’t recognize. Some of them have driven in from someplace else, drawn by Altamira’s messy nascent nightlife scene and the very real fact that the town’s tiny law enforcement office is barely equipped to contain it. A couple of them give his sheriff’s department uniform a wary eye. Then they do their best to look more sober than they are.

It takes him a second to realize the wall of muscle standing ramrod straight next to the blacked-out glass door is a bouncer.

A bouncer at the Gold Mine Tavern. A year ago, the idea would have seemed as absurd as a Bloomingdale’s opening up next to the Copper Pot.

“Can I help you, deputy?” the bouncer asks.

“Yeah. Move.”