“I’m allergic to cigarette smoke,” he says.

“Well, that’s a made-up allergy if I ever heard one.”

“I’m also allergic to women walking into my station with black eyes.”

“Your station? You sheriff now? What happened to Mona Sanchez?”

“Jordy, get up and I’ll follow you out from a few paces and we can do the whole thing nice and quiet. How’s that sound?”

“Or?”

“You’ll know it when you feel it.”

The pretense of good humor leaves Jordy’s expression. “I only smoke when I’m annoyed, and you are most certainly annoying me, Deputy Dawg.”

Luke drops the cigarette to the floor and stamps it out under his foot.

“You know what this is starting to look like?” Jordy says.

“An arrest in the making.”

“Ungratefulness.”

“Station’s only two blocks away. If you’ve got nothing to hide, a trip there won’t cost you much.”

“All I’m hiding is how much you’re pissing me off right now.”

“Well, then let it all out, Jordy. I love honest conversation.”

“Lacey and me are on and off. I set her up over in Trailer City so she could have a fresh start, a nice long way from her pill pushers down in LA. I’m trying to help her. Whatever crap she’s pulling with you is my compensation, I guess. No good deed and all that.”

“Why help her? Why not just move on?”

“Love is a funny thing, friend. And I’ve never been one to quit, even when the battle’s hard, know what I mean?”

No doubt Jordy’s not-so-subtle reference to his military service is intended to distract. But Luke’s still stuck on the words Trailer City. God, he hates that name. It turns his stomach every time he hears it.

Sure, they used to be empty fields with no mature trees, so maybe it’s good they’re being put to some kind of use. But the entire expanse of trailers and outhouses and tents has the look of a migrant city in a war-torn nation. And its new residents seem united in the belief that local law enforcement holds little sway inside its new and improvised borders. The whole place will most likely vanish as soon as all the construction’s done and the workers have moved on, but Luke’s not willing to consider it a free-for-all zone until then, and neither is his boss.

“So why’s she lying if you’re being so helpful and all?” Luke asks.

“We fight all the time, but I never raise my hand to a woman.”

“So how’d she get two black eyes?”

“I’m thinking a rock, maybe.”

“You think she gave herself two black eyes. With a rock.”

“You ever seen her mad before?”

“She’s your girlfriend. Which means maybe you should have thought twice before dropping her in the middle of your temporary housing for your all-male crew.”

“Oh, you think she’ll be in demand, huh?”

“She’s an attractive young woman.”

“Want her number?”

“I’m taken. Thanks.”

“That’s right. I heard. The chick with the serial killer parents. That must make for some weird role-play in the bedroom.”

It happens as easily as tying his shoes or opening a car door. It helps that Jordy Clements lacks the physical strength suggested by his constant strut. Also, the guy’s just arrogant enough that he didn’t see the move coming. Now, Luke’s got the prick on his feet and he’s managed to cuff him in less than ten seconds flat. He starts shoving him forward through the gawking crowd with the kind of short, determined bursts of force he’d use on a stumbling drunk.

“It’s ingratitude, asshole,” Luke growls into his ear. “The word’s ingratitude.”

20

Luke isn’t surprised to see the holding cell’s still got five men in it, all of them big, grizzled guys with expressions ranging from dazed to regretful. A few of them hold their heads in their hands, a sure sign they’re sobering up faster than they’d like.

When Jordy realizes he’s about to be locked up with some of his own employees, he sucks in a sharp breath that makes Luke tighten his grip on the man’s cuffs. After a light shove that sends him inside the cell, Luke uncuffs the man, then draws the gate shut between them with a louder than necessary clang.

“Howdy, boss!” cries one of the less sober men inside the cell, a mountain of a dude with a scraggly beard the color of the last cup in a gas station coffeepot. “What’ve I told you about beer after liquor? Sicker quicker!”

“That’s backwards, fool,” says one of his more sober bench mates.

“You sure you don’t want a lawyer, Mr. Clements?” Luke asks.

Jordy turns to him, expression impassive. “I won’t need one.”

Luke nods, then starts down the short passageway to the station’s main room.

He’s surprised to see his boss heading straight for him through the warren of desks that were mostly empty five months ago. Mona Sanchez is not supposed to be working tonight. Only Luke knows why. She’s also not in uniform, which means someone called her in for something.

Henricks, you weaselly prick.