City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(23)

About twenty minutes pass before the front door opens. A thirty-something guy rolls in on a wave of sawdust. He’s muscular in a top-heavy way. Longish hair that looks like it’s been raked back with a hand covered in wheel-grease, leaving a streak of it on his cheek. Shirt sleeves pushed up to show off overdeveloped arms.

My first thought is uncomfortably like my thought on seeing someone in a prison—I wonder what he’s in for. That’s not fair, of course. Not here, where most are like Diana, running from a problem that isn’t their fault. And Dalton has already warned that I’m not entitled to a resident’s backstory unless he deems it pertinent to a case.

“Hey, there,” the man says. “You must be the new girl.”

“Detective Butler,” I say. “Casey. If you’re looking for the sheriff or Deputy Anders, they’ll be back in an hour or so.”

“Left you all alone on your first day? Typical Eric. Well, I’m Kenny and I’m with the local militia, so I’ll take over as the welcoming committee. We can grab lunch, and I’ll show you around a bit.”

A hand reaches from nowhere and lands on his shoulder. “Down, boy.”

A woman steps around him. She’s probably in her early forties. Wearing a business-smart dress that shows off an admirable figure. Dark eyes. Dark hair laced with silver. A very attractive woman, even without makeup, which is one of those “non-essential” items we have to skip up here.

“I saw you boys hanging around out front,” she says to Kenny. “Finally figured out she slipped in the back, did you? How much did you pay the others to let you come in first? Or was it a coin toss?”

Kenny grumbles. Her hand tightens on his shoulder and turns him toward the door.

“Head thataway, Kenny-boy. If Eric catches you horn-dogging on his new detective, he’ll dunk you in the horse trough again. At least it’s not winter this time.”

She pushes him toward the door. After he trudges out, she looks at me for the first time. It’s a thorough once-over, as if she’s sizing me up for a bikini.

“Oh my,” she says. “Good thing you didn’t come in the front door, sugar. Kenny would have needed to put his buddies down before they’d let him get the first hello. Your friend is cute, but you … Did Eric bring a bodyguard to keep you company? Because otherwise, that boy is in for some trouble.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“He did mention the male-female ratio in this town, didn’t he?” she says.

“I’m accustomed to working in a male-dominated environment.”

She throws back her head and laughs. “Ah, sugar. You have no idea what you’ve walked into. But we’ll discuss that another time. Right now, I need local law enforcement at my establishment and it seems you’re it. Ever break up a bar fight?”

I check my watch. “Not before noon.”

“Welcome to Rockton.”



As we walk, the woman introduces herself. Isabel Radcliffe, owner of the Roc.

“Used to be called the Rockton Arms,” she explains, “until we lost most of the sign in an ice storm. Did Will tell you about the Roc? I’m not going to ask if Eric did. Our local sheriff is a lot better at communicating with his fists. Luckily for us.”

I glance over to see if she’s being sarcastic. She catches my look. “Again, welcome to Rockton, sugar. Whatever you think you know about keeping the peace? It doesn’t apply here. This place does something to folks. You just met Kenny. Any idea what he did down south? His occupation?”

“Construction worker? Carpenter?”

“Try high school math teacher. When he arrived eighteen months ago, he’d never have worked up the courage to talk to you. People come here and it’s a clean slate. A chance to be whoever they want for a while. Fantasy land for grown-ups. Which leads to a whole lotta trouble for the local constabulary, because nothing folks do up here will follow them home.”

As we walk down the main street, I can’t shake the feeling I’m being tailed by acrobats and a marching band. People spill out of doors to get a look at the new girl. Every half-dozen steps, a guy saunters our way. Isabel raises a hand. She doesn’t say a word. That hand goes up, and it’s like casting an invisible force field. They turn back. When one whines, “I’m just being friendly, Iz,” she says, “You want to set foot in the Roc this month? Turn your ass around.” He does.

She waves me to a building that looks as nondescript as the police station. From the end of the second-storey balcony hangs a sign announcing it as The Roc. A wooden sign under that depicts what is probably supposed to be a roc, but the artist has confused the mythical bird with a rook.

I don’t hear any trouble within. Is the fight over? Or is this some kind of local welcoming ritual? I decide to play dumb and follow Isabel inside.

The main floor is twice the size of the police station. There’s a bar along one end. Tables fill the rest. It’s not nearly as rundown as Kurt’s place, but there’s still that sense of basic utility, the one that says you’re here to drink and nothing more.

The bartender is a few years younger than me. A burly, dark-haired guy, he looks quite capable of handling any fight, but he’s currently reading a novel, as is a pencil-necked guy in the corner. Another man is drinking a beer and so engrossed in his thoughts that he doesn’t even look over when we walk in. The last two patrons are a couple in their late thirties, sharing a half pint of wine. Both are nicely dressed. Average-looking. They could be any long-married couple out for a lunchtime tipple.