Burn You Twice - Mary Burton Page 0,2

professional courtesy but because she had been one of Elijah’s intended victims.

She raised her glass and peered through the amber liquid, which cast tawny golds on the letter. She might be many things, but she was not a victim.

“What’s turned you so sour?” the bartender asked.

The bar’s owner, Ray O’Toole, was a mountain of a man, standing over six foot, five inches. He sported a graying beard that would have made him look fierce if not for the doe eyes outing him as a soft touch. When Joan’s father was alive, Ray had given him work when rent money was scarce. When she was in middle school and her old man had accidentally set fire to their apartment, Ray had given them the extra two rooms above the bar. And when Joan’s father had finally taken off for good when she was fourteen, Ray met with social services and saw to it that Joan stayed with him.

O’Toole’s Pub was still a neighborhood favorite, an everyone-knows-your-name place that also had the added bonus of being within walking distance of her current town house. It was the closest place she had to a home base.

Joan downed the last of her whiskey. “You mean more than usual?”

Ray grinned. “Exactly.”

“It’s an old case I was involved in. The guy has served his time, and now he’s getting out.” Joan studied her empty glass, knowing the stain of some memories required more elbow grease than others.

Ray set another whiskey neat in front of her and glanced at the letterhead. “Montana? You have not been out there since . . .”

She met Ray’s gaze. “The fire.”

“That letter is about Elijah Weston. That psycho is out?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Shit. You okay?”

“I’m fine.” If her old man had taught Joan anything, it was how to bullshit her way through uncertainty.

More patrons walked through the front door, laughing and joking and drawing Ray away as he swiped a couple of menus and followed them to a booth.

Joan folded up the letter and, needing a distraction, shifted her attention to a reasonably good-looking man sitting at the end of the bar. He had a full head of dark hair, a strong jaw, and carried a few extra pounds that tugged slightly at the lines of his expensive gray suit. She had seen him around the courthouse, and they had exchanged glances once or twice as each checked the other out. She rummaged through her brain, searching for his name. It escaped her, but she was fairly certain he was a prosecutor. Most importantly, he might be a nice distraction over this very long Labor Day weekend.

He raised his gaze and, noting her attention, ordered a beer, came down the bar, and slowly took a seat beside her. He regarded her cropped dark hair, tasteful silk blouse, tailored black suit, and heeled boots. “I’ve seen you at the courthouse. Cop or lawyer? I usually can tell but can’t with you.”

“I’m a cop, and you’re a lawyer,” she said without looking up.

“That’s right. Steve Vincent.”

She knew immediately Steve liked what he saw. She was not stunningly beautiful but had been described as “striking” by a few suitors. Several workouts a week kept her figure toned. “Detective Joan Mason.”

“Joan Mason. Where have I heard . . . ? Damn, you were the lead detective on that arson case,” Steve said. “Suspect’s name escapes me.”

“Avery Newport.”

“That’s right. Her roommate died in the fire.”

“You’re well informed.”

“Word gets around the courthouse. It’s like a small town. You landed one hell of an explosive case.”

Joan was the homicide detective to call when arson was involved. “Yes, it was.”

Steve accepted a beer from Ray with a quick nod. “The defendant’s old man hired a real ballbuster of an attorney. Dug up some facts about you. Said you were biased, based on your history.”

“Like me, he was doing his job,” Joan said.

“Did the department really suspend you?”

She had never played politics well. And when she’d been told to back off the case, she had not. She knew Avery Newport was guilty, and she did not care about her father’s political connections. “Yes, they did, Steve.”

He glanced toward her hands, most likely searching for the burn scars the defense attorney had mentioned repeatedly to the media. “He said something about you nearly dying in a fire when you were a kid and then another one while you were in college. He said that’s why you couldn’t drop this case.”

“Those fires were a long time ago.” Though they both felt painfully close