Macy took the ice-cold mug from Dawson, her favorite bartender at J.R.’s, and immediately took a drink, savoring the crisp, cool tang of the IPA against the heat of the day. It was the last week in June and it was already sweltering, which didn’t bode well for the rest of the summer. Thank God for bars with cold beer on tap and heavy-duty air conditioning.
On his next pass by, Dawson asked if she wanted to order any food. Not surprising since she’d been grabbing dinner here a couple of nights a week for as long as she could remember. By herself, on a barstool, with the game on the TV and Dawson or whoever else was on duty ready to serve as a built-in family. Harrison had often teased her about her choice to hang out at the guys’ bar when the popular women’s bar, Sue Ellen’s, was right around the corner. But here she never had to worry about whether someone was talking to her because they were being nice or if they wanted something more. It was easier to be here than to explain she already had enough on her plate without adding dating to the mix.
She glanced toward the door. She’d told Beck she’d wait an hour, but it was going to be a long sixty minutes if she spent the entire time wondering if Beck would take her up on the invitation. It wasn’t like you were exactly pleasant when you asked her to join you.
True. Her gruff approach might not have been the best way to get Beck to talk to her. Her mind wandered to other ways she could coax Beck into giving her an interview. She needed this win if she wanted to stave off the bean counters from shutting down the last vestiges of real reporting at the paper. If Beck would only do her part by showing up, she was certain she could get her to talk, to tell her side of the story which she hadn’t shared with anyone firsthand other than the police. Macy picked up her phone. She’d managed to get Beck’s number from one of her sources in the department. Maybe she could be nice and more cajoling in a text.
She was three words in when she heard a familiar voice over her shoulder.
“If you think I still have that phone number, you’re not as good a reporter as the internet says you are.”
Without missing a beat, Macy turned to face Beck. “I’m not sure whether to be impressed you looked me up or insulted you didn’t know anything about me in the first place.”
“Let’s just say I don’t always trust what I hear. I like to do my own research.” Beck pointed at the seat next to Macy, and at her nod, sat down, but didn’t relax into the seat. Macy sensed that she was like a skittish colt—one wrong move and she was out of here. Knowing that, she didn’t press and did her best to hide her impatience.
Dawson strode over and set a coaster in front of Beck. “What’ll it be?”
“Beck, meet my favorite bartender, Dawson.”
Beck nodded at Dawson and glanced over at Macy’s mug. “Jameson’s. Neat.”
Macy took note of the preference, wanting to remark about the choice of hard liquor, but holding her tongue. She waited until Dawson had finished his pour and set a glass in front of Beck before speaking. “And what did your research tell you?”
Beck picked up the glass and sipped the whiskey, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment before she sighed and set the glass back down. “You used to cover the metro desk, but now you mostly write feature stories. You’ve been short-listed for a Pulitzer, but you didn’t win, and word is you never will because you don’t play politics with the powers that be. You have a lot of sources on the force, but no one knows who they are, which I suppose means you’re good at keeping secrets, which is kind of ironic considering your job is to tell the news.”
Macy nodded in respect at the succinct summary of her career. “That was pretty good. Shall I take a turn?”
Beck raised her glass and tilted it toward her. “Go for it.”
“You were a rising star, on track to becoming detective when your partner gunned down a suspect for no reason. You told the truth and now you’re paying for it with a stint on the cold case squad. You made detective, but it’ll be hard to use your shield for anything meaningful when you’re stuck in a warehouse reviewing files no one cares about. I’m thinking right about now you’re reconsidering your career decision and looking for a way out, but you’ve got cop in your blood and you’re not likely to abandon your calling without a lot of consideration.”
“Not bad. But who says no one cares about the cold cases?”
“How many are you actively investigating right now?” She watched Beck’s face and caught her adjusting her expression. “You don’t have to give me real numbers. I’m not writing an exclusive on the subject, but Mendoza isn’t one for digging deep.”
“Sounds like you’ve been doing some digging of your own.”
“I do have an interest in a particular set of cold cases.” She stopped short while she decided whether to split her focus. Better to wait until she’d developed some kind of relationship before proposing the quid pro quo. “But I asked you here to talk about your case.”
“It’s not my case. It’s Staples’s case. I’m just a witness.”
“The star witness.”
“I’m no star.”
“Next you’re going to say, ‘just doing my job, ma’am.”’
“You don’t look like you’d enjoy being called ma’am.”
“I’m not quite sure how to take that.” Macy took a drink from her beer while she considered the fact she wasn’t quite sure of a lot of things when it came to Beck Ramsey. Normally, she’d hard charge into this story, content to publish a litany of “no comments” if she didn’t get the answer to pointed questions, but there was a lot more to this if she wanted to work Beck as a potential source. The trick was getting the story Jerry wanted and getting the information she needed for her feature piece and balancing both without losing her integrity in the process. Thankfully, Dawson appeared before she had to take the next step.
“You two hungry?” he asked, casting her a sly side glance.
Macy answered quickly to deflect his implication. “I am. Detective?”
Beck looked visibly startled at the moniker. “It’s Beck and yeah, I could eat.”
“Looks like it’s two burgers, Dawson.” She turned to Beck. “The works?”
“Of course.”
Macy liked her already. “Great.” She shot Dawson a pointed look. “We’re all set for now.” She waited until he’d wandered to the far side of the bar before resuming her conversation with Beck. “Staples fired his other lawyer and hired Gloria Leland to defend him.”
“I hadn’t heard.”
“You seem unfazed.”
“If you’d been through what I’ve been through over the past month, you’d be unfazed too.”
“I’d be interested in hearing about it.”
“For your article? No, thanks. I already had to spill my guts to a department therapist. I don’t need to see my feelings splashed across the front page.”
Macy grinned. “Ah, so you have front-page-worthy feelings. Good to know.”
Beck pointed at her face. “See. This is exactly why I have no interest in talking about anything outside of the statement I’ve already given.”
Then why did you agree to meet me at all? Macy filed away the question to examine later. Right now, her only focus was to get Beck talking. “Seriously though, I am interested in how you feel about what happened and how you were treated afterward. We can do this part off the record.”
“Why would you agree to that?”
“Off the record?” Macy chose her words carefully. “Because anything you tell me can provide context. I don’t need to use it all to write a compelling story.” Partly true. In a normal situation, she wouldn’t want to declare anything off limits, but this wasn’t normal. For one thing, she didn’t want to do this story in the first place, so other than the potential for developing Beck as a source, she was here to move through the paces to please her editor long enough to get her feature up and running. “If you want more time to check me out, I can put this article off for a bit, but not long.”
She watched Beck carefully and caught a glimpse of angst before her features settled into a neutral, just the facts, ma’am, expression. The glimpse gave her hope. Beck was still sensitive to what people thought about her, which might give her motivation to share her side of the story and might even motivate her to actually want to work some of the cold cases on her desk no matter how hard Mendoza worked to keep them buried.
Dawson showed up with their burgers and they both dug in. After a few moments of hunger-satisfying silence, their conversation turned to other things: the weather, development in the neighborhood, and the upcoming city council runoff. Macy made a snap judgment about how comfortable Beck seemed sitting in a gay bar and decided to venture a question to satisfy her personal curiosity. “I guess you won’t be working Pride this year since you’ve been promoted.”
A flicker of surprise at the question was quickly replaced by a nod. “Probably for the best. I have a feeling my presence would be a distraction.”
“If you were in uniform, sure. But now you’re free to show up in shorts and a tank top and mingle with the masses. You’re one rainbow hat away from being incognito.”
Beck shrugged. “I guess.”
“You’ve never been before, have you? I mean just for fun.”
“No. I mean, I’ve always taken the work shift that day. I figured my place was making sure cops assigned were actually family instead of gawkers. No tank tops and shorts for me.”
Macy spent a few seconds imagining Beck’s bare shoulders and legs, and it was difficult to snap back to pretending all she wanted was Beck’s side of the Jack Staples story. “Too bad,” she murmured.
“What’s that?”
Macy shook her head like it was a snow globe transforming the image. “Nothing. But whatever you wear, you should go for fun at least once in your life.”
“You don’t strike me as the kind of person who’s an authority on fun.”
“Is that so? I’m trying to figure out if that’s a compliment or a dig.”
“Neither. Simply stating an observation. You’re…” Beck paused and stared at the ceiling like the answer would descend into her brain. “Intense.”
The word stung, probably because Jerry had used it several times this week, and the week before that, it had been her best friends who’d slung around the adjective, referencing her lack of time to get together with them while she was obsessed with this story. None of them meant it as a compliment. Rather, it was a word designed to signal whatever she did or said should be viewed through a lens of suspicion—that she should be subject to greater scrutiny because her perspective was off.
But it wasn’t. Her intensity was the reason she was first to uncover the truth, right the wrongs, avenge evil.
Oh, okay, so maybe she was a little intense, but with good reason. The one truth that had eluded her so far meant she’d remain that way. For now, anyway. She looked over at Beck who was studying her…intensely—there really wasn’t any other word for it—and it occurred to her she and Beck had basically the same job duties. Interview principals and witnesses regarding an event. Observe and gather evidence. Summarize the details into a report and publish it for anyone who wanted to read it. The differences stopped there, but there were enough of them to give her a feeling of kinship when it came to Beck and an idea for how they could both get what they wanted. “I have an idea.”
* * *
Beck took another sip from her whiskey to burn away the dread while she waited for Macy to explain her idea. A beer would have been a better choice with the burger, but lately she’d craved or rather needed stronger medicine to stave off the constant barrage of her daily life, and whatever Macy was about to say probably merited a double. “Let’s hear it.”
“You’re getting trashed in the press. Let me do a profile piece. We don’t even have to talk about the facts of what happened that night. I’ll focus on you, your relationship with Staples, then and now, and how being at the center of this storm has affected your life. You toss me a few background tidbits no one else knows, and my editor will be satisfied, and we’ll back off.”
Beck studied her for a moment, sensing there was a catch. “What do you get out of it?”
“Besides an exclusive with you?” Macy pushed her food around her plate, not making eye contact. “I’m working on a piece about an old case.” She looked up and met Beck’s stare. “A cold case.”
Ah, so that was it. “And you want a look at some files.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t need me for that. File a FOIA request.”
Macy bit her bottom lip. “I have. They tend to get bogged down.”
Beck nodded. She’d come across a stack of them at the office, shoved in a box situated well behind the others. She’d asked Mendoza about them only to be told they were being handled, which she believed to be a lie, but she had no reason to care one way or the other. “There are channels.”
“Yes, there are.” Macy fixed her with a stare. “And I’m exploring one of them right now.”
Beck set down her glass and pushed away from the bar. “I’m not a channel for you to explore. To exploit.” A second later, Macy’s hand was on her arm, and she instantly warmed to the firm yet gentle touch, surprised by her own reaction.
“I’m not trying to exploit you,” Macy said. “I guess I assumed you were the kind of person who thought the truth was more important than traditions. You know, traditions like stalling reporters and hiding the illegal actions of fellow officers.”
And just like that Macy had perfectly summed up her personal dilemma. She was that kind of person, but she’d always thought being that way meant she would rise above, but she’d never felt as buried under as she did right now. Her career was essentially over, and she’d lost all her friends. Some might say neither one of those things was worth very much if they were so easy to lose, but when you dedicated your life to something, shouldn’t you get to reap the rewards of your hard work?
Which begged the question of whether talking to Macy about it would improve her current circumstance or only make things worse. All she knew in this moment was that she didn’t know, and she shouldn’t make any snap decisions. “I’ll think about it.” At Macy’s intense gaze, she added, “It’s the best I can do.”
Macy held out her hand. “Give me your phone.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” Macy waved her outstretched phone. “Come on.”
Beck picked her phone up off the bar, stared at the screen to unlock it, and handed it to Macy, praying she wasn’t making a huge mistake. What kind of cop handed their phone over to a virtual stranger? Or worst yet, a reporter. She watched Macy’s deliberate keystrokes, slightly mesmerized by her massive self-confidence and control of the situation. Normally, she’d find it sexy, but this wasn’t normal, and she had no business treating this meeting like anything other than a business arrangement.
“Here you go.” Macy shoved the phone at her.
“I assume you gave me your number.”
“And a deadline.” Macy pointed at the now locked screen. “Sunday. Cedar Springs.” She waved at the bartender and motioned for him to bring the check while she slid out of her seat. “I’ll meet you right out front.”
While Beck digested the fact Macy was trying to trick her into attending Pride, Dawson brought the check and Macy signed the credit card form, waving off her protest. Macy stuffed the receipt in her pocket. “See you Sunday,” she said as she headed to the door.
“Wait,” Beck called out, acutely conscious about how much she wanted Macy to stick around. “What if I don’t show?”
“Then I guess I have my answer.”
Her stare burned a hole in Beck’s resolve, and she hoped it didn’t show. She may as well have been wishing for a unicorn.
“But I hope you will.” Macy smiled, a rich, full, genuine smile. “I think you will.”
She turned away and walked to the door, and Beck watched her exit, kind of hoping Macy would look back one last time, but unsure what she would do if she did.
“She’s kind of a whirlwind, right?”
She looked up to see Dawson standing across from her. “I guess. I don’t really know her.”
“You’ll find out soon enough.” He wiped down the bar top in front of where Macy had been sitting. “She’s good people though.”
“Okay.” She made a show of pulling up her phone to avoid further chitchat since her instincts told her that this conversation would give him more intel than she could hope to get in return.
“You want another drink?”
She stared at her empty glass with a fond recollection of the pleasant burn. Yes, she definitely would like another. And another. And another. But that much whiskey led to trouble, and she didn’t need more. But she also didn’t want to leave this cocoon where no one seemed to recognize her and point and stare. “I’ll have a draft. Something light.”
Dawson nodded and headed to the tap at the other end of the bar. While he was pouring, Beck’s phone buzzed and she scooped it up, half hoping, but half not, it would be Macy sending her a message. It was Liam. What are you doing right now?
She hesitated a moment before typing a response. At JR’s staring at the pool table. You up for a game?
Anytime.
Head this way. I could use the company. She hit send before she could change her mind, reluctant though she was to admit she was lonely. It was hard going from a big, built-in family to just her. Thank God she had Liam and thank God he didn’t have any hang-ups about meeting her in a queer bar. Jack used to always tease he’d join her there, but he didn’t want to get everyone all excited. She hadn’t had the heart to tell him he was unlikely to get everyone hot and bothered, but now she’d have no trouble telling him the truth. Lately, every time a memory of Jack surfaced it was laced with bitterness, making her wonder if any fondness she’d ever had for him was manufactured or if she was simply jaded by the shooting. The truth was likely somewhere in between, which was one of the reasons she was reluctant to talk to Macy or any other reporter. Would they catch the nuance, or would they only translate in stark relief whatever the relationship had been between them?
She didn’t know and she needed to stop caring. Until Jack’s trial, she needed to keep her head down and her mind focused on keeping her job and whatever else she had left. And then maybe, just maybe, she could find a way to rebuild.
Her glass was half empty when Liam scooped her up from behind in a giant bear hug. She pushed her way out of his arms. “Cut it out.”
“What? I can’t hug my little sister?” He made a show of looking around. “Or I can’t hug my little sister in a bar where she might be scoping out a date?”
She punched him in the shoulder. “Take a better look. You’re more likely to find a date in here than I am.” She pointed at the barstool next to hers. “Sit. Order a beer. We’re next in line for that table over there.”
Dawson appeared at that moment, and he gave Liam a curious look before turning back to her with raised eyebrows. “I guess you like to switch up more than your drinks.”
Normally, she’d find the observation of her personal life unwelcome, but his unobtrusive, but super observant manner was oddly comforting, and she was drawn in. “He’s my brother. Liam, meet Dawson. Dawson, Liam.”
Dawson stuck his hand out and Liam grasped it while Beck watched two of her worlds collide as Dawson gave Liam a long, slow, appraising once-over. It wasn’t like Liam had never been out with her to a gay bar, but this place was more Cheers than Club Babylon and she didn’t want any misconceptions about her brother to lead to bad feelings down the road that might make her feel uncomfortable about hanging out here. She grasped Liam’s arm and waved in the direction of the pool table. “Looks like they’re finishing up. Dawson, do you mind sending the beers over?”
She walked Liam over to the table and whispered, “Don’t flirt with the guys here unless you mean it.”
“You worried I’ll out hustle you?” He shook his head. “Ain’t going to happen.”
“I’m worried you’ll break some hearts and then I’ll never be able to come back here without people asking where you are because they’re pining away or pissed off.”
Liam looked around. “This is a cool bar. When did you start hanging out here?”
“I’ve been here a few times.” Exaggeration. She’d been here twice.
“Enough for you to be tight with the bartender?”
“He’s a friendly guy. What can I say?” She was avoiding his real question, and he picked up his cue and chalked the tip—letting her know she was off the hook if she chose to be. She wanted to be off the hook, but she wanted to be honest with him more.
“I can’t go to any of the old haunts. Too many cops, too much drama.”
“I get it. You’ve always steered clear of gay bars. Just got me wondering is all.” He took a deep drink from his beer. “You know there’s a women’s bar right around the corner.”
“Since when did you become Mr. Gayborhood?”
“I’m hip.” He grinned. “Actually, we had a group in from LA last week and Sue Ellen’s was on their list of must-see venues for a potential app launch.”
“I figured as much. I’m sure your group had a blast, but if I hang out there, it’s only a matter of time before everyone figures out I’m a cop and then I’m the outcast. I get it—I really do, but it’s easier here where I’m less likely to attract attention.” She hesitated a moment while she considered whether to share the real reason she was at JR’s today. “Besides, I was here to meet with Macy Moran.”
“The reporter, Macy Moran?”
“That’s the one.”
Liam gave a low whistle. “Did you talk to her about the case?”
“No, not yet.” She noted his eyebrow raise. “I’m considering it. She’s going to write about it anyway. At least this way maybe I can control the narrative.”
“Maybe. I mean I know she’s top-notch, but have you read much of her stuff?”
She hadn’t. Not because she didn’t keep up with the news, but because most of what Macy tended to write were big feature pieces, the kind that the paper broke into several parts to keep readers hooked over the course of several weeks. To her mind, those didn’t constitute news—they were more like Truman Capote style In Cold Blood kind of pieces, where she tried to get into the mind of all involved rather than straight to the truth of the matter. “Not a lot, but she has a good reputation.”
“She does. It sounds like you’ve already made up your mind.”
“I don’t know, Liam. I’m damned either way. I’m spending my days doing data entry. Some promotion. Would it really hurt to put myself out there?”
“Hey, I’ve got your back no matter what you decide.” He pointed at his chest. “Whatever you need.”
She contemplated his offer and asked for a favor before either one of them could change their minds. “What are you doing Sunday?”