In a midsize town like Burning Lake, New York—population 50,000—there were slow days down at the police station, and then there were crazy days. As a general rule, their call volume held fairly steady and wasn’t as high as the typical caseloads you’d find in Albany or Syracuse, but the BLPD was busier than most of the sleepier burgs south of the Adirondack Mountains. They popped a lot of DUIs and had their share of domestic disturbances. This idyllic rural American town wasn’t supposed to have a drug problem, but in the past decade or so, methamphetamines and opioids had flooded into the upstate market. Black tar—a low-grade form of heroin that was cheap to buy and came in little balloons you could hide in your mouth while cruising around—was taking over the west side of town, where the residents had been hardest hit by the economic downturn.
Downtown Burning Lake was clean and safe for the most part, and the business community worked hard to keep it that way. Main Street with its Victorian-era brick buildings and tree-lined sidewalks featured plenty of jazz clubs, bookshops, cafés, and art galleries. There was a summer music festival, a historical museum, and a performing arts center that headlined off-Broadway plays. Besides a myriad of cultural events, Burning Lake also boasted an enormous state park where you could go hiking, rock climbing, bike riding, skiing, and fishing. Not that the town was perfect. Far from it. The winters were bitterly cold. Heating bills could be a burden. Sometimes there was nothing to do. One of the main activities for the locals, especially during those long winter months, was drinking. Finding a bar wasn’t difficult in upstate New York, where it could dip to twenty below in the winter and the waterfalls could freeze solid.
Tonight, Natalie found a convenient parking spot—a rare occurrence during happy hour in the commercial district—got out, and dashed through the rain, splashing through the puddles. She ducked into the Barkin’ Dawg Saloon, very popular with law enforcement officers. Every Wednesday night, the lieutenant would get together with his staff over chili dogs and Rolling Rocks at the Barkin’ Dawg to discuss any unresolved issues they might be having in the unit, a tight-knit group of seven detectives on rotating shifts who shared one week of “on-call duty” per month.
This week was Natalie’s turn, lucky her. She checked her pager to make sure it was working and ordered a mineral water at the bar instead of her usual pinot grigio. No wine, no sleeping pills. You had to be alert and available twenty-four/seven.
The balding bartender didn’t acknowledge her right away. Windom Petrowski had a ruddy, pocked face and huge strong arms from lugging around kegs and crates. He made no secret of the fact that he didn’t think Natalie deserved the rank of detective and resented her promotion over his cousin, Officer Ronnie Petrowski.
“I’m on-call tonight, Windom,” she said. “Just a mineral water, thanks.”
He took his sweet time, serving another customer first, wiping down glasses, and counting out cash. Natalie leaned against the polished mahogany and decided to wait him out. The Criminal Investigations Unit consisted of six male detectives, one male technical expert, and the BLPD’s first female detective—Natalie. In Windom’s eyes, she was a diversity hire, but everybody knew that wasn’t true. She’d come up in the ranks with the rest of the recruits—working foot patrol, directing traffic, volunteering for overtime, taking any shit detail she could. In fact, out of a desire to prove herself beyond reproach, Natalie had worked twice as hard as everyone else. Fortunately, the guys in the unit were cool with it. Only Windom and a few others weren’t.
A few minutes passed before Windom strolled over and handed her a sparkling mineral water with a wedge of lime. She was tempted to give him lip for the lousy attitude. The BLPD was a high-testosterone zone. The language could get pretty coarse. Fortunately for Natalie, she had quite a mouth on her from all those years of hanging out with her father’s cop buddies. When in Rome.
She took the high road instead and thanked him, asked about his wife and kids, asked about his job and how things were going, softened him up a little, left a modest tip, and wished him a good evening. Then she made her way through the bar, which was packed tonight. The flickering red candles on all the round tables gave the place its special glow. The waitresses were known for their sarcastic, ballbusting wit. Natalie spotted Lieutenant Luke Pittman in one of the back booths—he was alone, which was odd, because it was only seven thirty, and these bullshit sessions of theirs typically dragged on until eight or nine o’clock. So where were the guys?
“Hey,” she said, approaching the booth with her Perrier and lime. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Natalie. We weren’t expecting you tonight,” Luke said.
She shrugged. “It started to rain, so we ended it early.”
“How’d it go?” he asked with a sympathetic smile.
“Feels like the past is fading away. And that makes me sad.”
Thirty-eight-year-old Luke had the kind of handsome, weathered face that suited his chipped, rugged personality. He and Natalie had known each other since he was thirteen and she was five. Luke’s father had abandoned him, and his mother had to work two jobs to keep them afloat. It wasn’t long before Luke was hanging out with the Lockhart girls in their backyard. He’d been there during the most crucial events in Natalie’s life. They shared such a rich history together that their current situation felt a little awkward at times, as if they were forever stepping over the line, and then retreating. She used to have a dreamy-eyed crush on Luke Pittman, but their timing was always off due to the eight-year age difference. By the time Natalie hit puberty, Luke was in college. By the time she’d kissed a boy, Luke was getting married and having a baby. By the time she entered college, he was divorced and in the army, being deployed overseas. By the time she joined the BLPD, Luke was a rock-star detective and Natalie was dating Zack.
Now she pointed out the empty beer mugs on the table. “Okay, I give up. Where’d everybody go?”
He shrugged laconically. “I guess things have been pretty smooth sailing down at the station lately.”
“Yeah, right. I work with six prima donnas, and I know that’s a load of crap.”
“Oh, you wanted the truthful answer. My bad.” He grinned. “You didn’t miss a thing, Natalie. I fielded a bunch of complaints and gave my usual spiel about budget cuts. They grumbled a lot. Brandon’s still here. He’s taking a leak.”
“What kind of complaints?” she asked.
“Legit stuff. Nothing I can do anything about.”
“Let me guess. Overworked, underpaid, lack of equipment?”
“Hey, you’re good,” he said with a warm grin. “I told them I’d bring it up at the next meeting with the chief, but I can’t promise anything.”
“There’s my girl!” Detective Buckner came tumbling out of the men’s room with all the galloping enthusiasm of a puppy. At thirty-six, Brandon was a big guy, with a round face and twinkly brown eyes, but hyperactive and enthusiastic about everything. “Shove over,” he said, and Natalie made room for him in the booth. “How did it go tonight? The deathiversary?”
“Sad but healing,” she said.
“Here’s to Willow.” Brandon raised his shot glass.
“To Willow, may she rest in peace,” Luke said, and they all clinked glasses.
Brandon Buckner hadn’t been Luke’s first choice for detective, second grade, but Brandon’s rich-as-Midas father and the mayor were good friends, and Chief Snyder had a long-standing alliance with both men. Fortunately for everyone, Brandon turned out to be an okay guy. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but funny. Quick on his feet. Loyal. Sincere. Now he knocked back his drink and said, “Christ, I’m thirsty.” He signaled the waitress, who was way ahead of them.
Anorexic Teena swung by with another round. “A Rolling Rock for the lieu, a Perrier for the lady detective, and a whiskey double-neat for the biggest dick in town.”
“Hey, I resemble that remark,” Brandon said with a hearty laugh, and when Teena didn’t reciprocate, he said, “You should eat something, Teena. You’re a stick figure.”
“Brandon,” Luke groaned.
“Don’t you make fun of my girl,” Natalie scolded him.
“Go ahead. Keep spewing your diarrhea, frat boy,” Teena said and walked away.
“Did she call me fat?” He looked down at his belly.
“Does Daisy approve of you being such an asshole?” Luke demanded to know.
“Daisy loves me. The whole beautiful package.”
“Pfft. You and your fairy-tale marriage,” Luke muttered.
“Speaking of which … big news.” Brandon downed his shot and clapped the empty glass on the table. “We’re pregnant. Ta-da.”
“Hey, that’s great news,” Natalie said, genuinely happy for them. “Congratulations, Brandon.”
“Right?” He grinned. “Drumroll, please.”
It wasn’t a secret that the Buckners had been trying to get pregnant for years now. Daisy Buckner, Grace’s best friend since kindergarten, had suffered through two previous miscarriages.
“Daisy wouldn’t let me spill the beans until after the first trimester,” Brandon explained. “She couldn’t face losing another one in front of the whole town, but the doc says three months is a good enough milestone.”
“I’m thrilled for you guys,” Natalie told him.
“Believe that? I’m gonna be a daddy.” He shook his head, dumbstruck.
Luke’s eyes softened with a faraway look. “Skye used to listen to Motown when she was little. ‘Dancing in the Street’ was her favorite song.”
“Yeah, huh?” Brandon said encouragingly, since Luke rarely mentioned his daughter. Sixteen-year-old Skye Pittman lived in California with her mother, Luke’s ex-wife, and it pained him to talk about it.
“I helped her make cookies shaped like bees once,” Luke said, stroking his chin.
“Bees? Why bees?” Natalie asked.
“Why not?” He laughed, his eyes straying from the beer label to look at her. Luke’s eyes had a gorgeous laziness about them tonight. He had a rangy, predatory grace, and she could picture his cynical, hip boyhood face superimposed over his no-nonsense, grown-up face. It made her smile. He was still there, underneath the professional veneer. Mocking authority and dreaming about his future.
“That’s sweet,” Natalie said.
“Hey, Teena! Over here!” Brandon signaled the waitress for another round. “Is she on strike or something? She keeps ignoring me. Hey, Teena!” He made another drunken swipe at the air, and Luke batted his hand away. “Ow.”
“I’d stay out of the deep end of the bar if I were you, Brandon.”
“Yeah, this is not a good look for you,” Natalie agreed.
“You have to cut this shit out. You’re going to be a father.”
“C’mon, Lieutenant. I’m buying.”
“You’ve celebrated enough.” Luke scooped up Brandon’s car keys from the table.
“Hey!” Brandon reached for his keys, but Luke held them out of reach.
“I’ll take him home,” Natalie volunteered.
“You sure?” Luke said.
“Yeah, no problem.”
He handed Natalie the keys, then fished out his wallet and dropped a couple of twenties on the table.
“You leaving already, Lieutenant?” Brandon said with disappointment.
“Got to split.”
“Party pooper,” he said, sulking.
Luke stood up. “See you tomorrow, Natalie.”
“Same bat-time, same bat-station,” she said, keeping it light.
The way he studied her made her nervous. But he looked at everyone that way—dead ahead, like a cougar, sizing you up. Measuring your worth. “Don’t keep my best detective too long, Brandon. She’s on-call this week.”
“Yes, sir.” Brandon winked at Natalie.
Luke walked away, and they watched him tip the waitresses on his way out of the bar. As soon as he was gone, Natalie pocketed Brandon’s keys.
His eyes narrowed to stubborn slits. “Jesus, I’m not that drunk.”
“Are you kidding me? You’re drunk enough to make a DUI stick. Drunk enough to make our stupid-busts list. Drunk enough to get your wife thoroughly pissed at you. Do you want me to call Daisy? Because I will.”
“Daisy doesn’t get mad at me. I told you, she loves me.…”
“Right, the whole sorry package.” Natalie stood up. “C’mon, let’s go.”
The bar walls, like a pair of lungs, had absorbed decades of secondhand smoke. The lizard-skinned bouncer, Mickey, sat on his leather-padded stool watching ESPN. A bunch of locals were taking potshots at one another. Brandon grabbed a bottle of bourbon on his way out, and Natalie had to pry it from his sweaty hands.
“Quit embarrassing yourself,” she said with exasperation.
He laughed. “I sincerely enjoy messing with your head.”
They walked out of the bar together, sidestepping big puddles. Neon-blue lettering blinked on and off in the dusty plate-glass windows. Outside, the rain had blown away, and the evening mist slowly swirled up into the atmosphere.
“Seriously, Brandon. It’s time to cut back on the drinking.”
He stopped walking and just looked at her, his gaze slightly mocking.
“What?” she said, irritated.
“You and Luke.”
“Shut up.” She laughed dismissively but could feel the familiar tightening of her facial muscles, a physical reaction that occurred whenever Brandon—who prided himself on his candor—got too personal for comfort.
“Come on,” he said, studying her with excruciating honesty. “Ain’t no big thang. This is a small town, Natalie. Everybody knows everyone else’s dirty laundry. Besides, I can see the way he looks at you. Especially since you dumped that loser boyfriend of yours…”
She cringed. “Keep digging yourself a deeper hole. Go ahead.”
“Relax. I’m busting your chops.”
“Well, cut it out! Quit trolling me.”
“Sorry.” He threw up his hands in surrender. “You know I love you, Nat.”
“Love you, too, you big dope.” She opened the passenger door for him. “Now get in, before I arrest you for loitering.”