The bouncer complies, but not before giving Luke a look that suggests that in the new Altamira, bouncers might have more pull than cops.

The music hits him in a deafening wave. It’s someone’s idea of country, but not his. The band’s out of tune and loud, like all they care about is being heard over the crowd at all costs. But everyone’s so drunk, they probably wouldn’t give a whit if the lumberjack-looking dudes on stage were yodeling a version of “Feelings.”

Dan Soto, the Gold Mine’s owner, who just a few months ago spent most of his evenings playing cards with his buddies and listening to absolutely nothing happen on his police scanner, is running around behind the bar, sweating through his T-shirt as he frantically works backup for three newly hired female bartenders who are ringing up drink orders faster than Luke can eat tortilla chips. And he loves tortilla chips.

Boomtown.

The word never inspired dread in him before. But that’s what it does now.

One of the bartenders pours a shot of tequila into the navel of a svelte young woman lying halfway across the bar, her feet propped on the stool in front of her. Midriff Girl wears a tube top and a licentious smile as a construction worker Luke recognizes from a drunk-driving stop—the guy smelled all right and only had a block to go, so Luke let him off with a warning—leans in and sucks the shot from her belly button while he’s cheered on by his drunk friends.

Midriff Girl’s got a somewhat pretty face turned cartoonish by heavy makeup. This, combined with her skimpy, skintight outfit, makes her seem alien to Altamira, where blue jeans and sundresses are considered formal wear. No doubt she’s one of the new breed of working girl that’s moved into town to service the needs of the town’s new male population.

Watching the woman almost as closely as Luke is, but from a small table near the opposite side of the bar, is Jordy Clements, the man Lacey Shannon just accused of beating her.

Clements doesn’t even look buzzed. The pint glass in front of him is more than half-full. When his eyes leave Midriff Girl and he starts scanning the crowd, he does so with the cool, assessing gaze of someone who feels like he owns the place, which, Luke fears, in another few months, he just might.

After the guy started strutting around Altamira like the new mayor, Luke did a little research on him. Jordy’s thirty years old, but the vertical knife-scar on his left cheek that comes dangerously close to his eye makes him look much older. He sports a high and tight haircut that keeps his long forehead exposed. He’s got a Marine Corps background, along with an honorable discharge. Luke suspects he landed the gig as project supervisor for the tunnel because his dad owns the company.

There are two different construction crews in town—Clements and Murdoch. It’s easy to tell their men apart.

Clements is responsible for building the tunnel to the Pacific Coast Highway, so while its crew is smaller in number, its members are honest-to-God miners. In another few weeks, after they’ve taken all the seismic readings and rock samples they need, the Clements crew will start drilling and blasting a hole through the heart of the mountains west of town—which means they can’t be bothered by claustrophobia, a fear of otherworldly darkness, or the very real possibility of a tunnel collapse. They’re rough and tough guys, each one of them capable of taking on the entire Murdoch Construction crew single-handed in a fight.

The Murdoch guys, on the other hand, are mostly itinerant labor. They’re building the resort, which at present involves concrete, hammers, nails, and a whole lot of timber. The promontory on which the resort’s main building sits sports some jaw-dropping cliffs, so nerves of steel when it comes to heights has to be a job requirement.

Luke’s about to tell Dan Soto to put the awful band on break, but just then the musicians start giving an ignored farewell speech. They step offstage to weak applause that barely rises over the din of rowdy conversation. Despite Luke’s quick and quiet approach, Jordy senses him coming and locks eyes with him when he’s only a few feet away.

“Got some questions for you, Jordy,” Luke says.

“Call me Mr. Clements and I’ll be happy to educate you, sir.”

Jordy’s three burly companions know better than to laugh out loud, but they each give Luke their own version of a smirk crossed with a sneer.

“I would, but I don’t see your dad anywhere around.”

“That’s funny.” He reaches into his shirt pocket. He pulls out a pack of Camel Lights, shakes one free, and lights it. “You’re funny.”

Even though smoking inside a bar has been illegal in California for over a decade now, no one seems to care about the cloud of smoke billowing between them.

Except for Luke.

“Jordy, I need you to come down to the station with me. I can either—”

“Not gonna happen. Come on. Have a drink. I’m buying.”

“I’m on duty, but thank you.”

“Well, have a Diet Coke then, pansy.”

“Pansy? What are you, a homophobe from the forties?”

“Ah, don’t get all social justice on me. We’re just trying to have a good time. Right here. In this wonderful bar I am considering buying and expanding because I have fallen hopelessly in love with this town. Smoke?”

Jordy shakes a cigarette half-free of the pack and extends it to Luke. Instead of taking it, Luke snatches the lit cigarette from Jordy’s other hand.