Lucy raised a brow. "Do what?" Her detective's shield was discreetly clipped to her waistband, her Beretta semi-automatic barely distinguishable under the perfect cut of her jacket. An intricately designed antique silver clip tamed thick, curly black hair into a discreet French braid.
Kaz just shook her head. The tavern's only waitress appeared at her elbow with her usual—a frosty pint of microbrew and a tablet of ibuprofen. Kaz shot Sandra a grateful smile, then realized she'd gotten distracted from finishing her rant. "I lost a half dozen pots, dammit. Remind me to hunt down the jerk and give him a piece of my mind."
Lucy snorted. "Like you have a prayer of discovering who it was. So how many crabs did you catch?"
"You don't count them, Luce. You weigh them." When Lucy raised a brow, Kaz sighed. "Okay, the catch was light—a few dozen."
Lucy choked on a sip of beer, waving a hand in the air. "Wow. Big ones or little ones?"
"Oh, shut up." Kaz slumped more comfortably in her chair, raising her mug. "To safe passages."
"Safe passages," Lucy repeated, clinking glasses. "So tell me you didn't just come into port—that you aren't that crazy."
"I'm not that crazy," Kaz replied obediently, swallowing the ibuprofen with another gulp.
Lucy glared. "Dammit, Kaz—"
"I'm handling it."
"Yeah, right."
Time for a change of subject. "So who's the new guy?" Kaz nodded toward the booths along the back wall.
She'd noticed him right away, of course—they didn't get many tourists this far into Uniontown. The Redemption was a working-class tavern in a working-class neighborhood, a little too rough for most with its worn, scarred tables and harsh, mingled odors of fish, grease, and creosote. Then again, the guy didn't strike her as a tourist.
He sat in a booth by himself, eating a hamburger while he read The Daily Astorian. Obviously, no one had told him not to order the grilled food. Few locals except Lucy, who had a cop's cast iron stomach, were that foolish. For the first time, Kaz noticed the black German shepherd asleep at the guy's feet. Stretched out on the floor, the dog looked about the size of a full-grown deer.
Lucy followed the direction of her gaze. "That's the new fire chief, guy by the name of Michael Chapman. He made the rounds to introduce himself a couple of days ago—comes from back East. When Richardson decided to retire, this guy applied for the job. The Mayor took one look at his resume and snapped him up."
Kaz frowned. "That good?"
"Yeah." Lucy abandoned the rest of her sandwich and leaned forward, lowering her voice. "He's some kind of a big-time, washed-up arson investigator. The way I hear it, he and that dog of his brought down one of Boston's worst arsonists in decades, some guy who'd set dozens of fires and killed several people." Her expression turned grim. "I hate arsonists. They're sick little creeps."
Intrigued, Kaz sneaked a second glance. The guy definitely looked tough enough to bring down a serial arsonist. Dark hair, cut military-short, barely touched his high forehead, and hard features telegraphed a quiet grimness. He had a rangy, muscular build and shoulders wide enough to make any woman's heart skip a few beats.
Definitely good-looking. Rough-edged, like he'd lived hard. "So why do people think he's washed up?" Kaz asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.
"The torch burned down Chapman's apartment, killing his fiancée." Lucy straightened and tossed her crumpled napkin on top of the remains of her sandwich. "Rumor is that Chapman wigged."
"Sounds like he had good reason." Kaz knew all too well what that kind of loss did to a person.
Without warning, he glanced up, his gaze locking with hers.
He had light-colored eyes, maybe blue—she couldn't tell from this distance. But she had a sneaking hunch they'd chill her right down to the bone. His jaw was rock-hard, that much she could tell.
She returned his look without blinking, a shiver dancing across her skin. This guy wouldn't welcome her sympathy.
He nodded, the slightest inclination of his head, then turned back to his meal.
"Kind of cute for a burnout, huh?" Lucy's voice cut into her thoughts.
Kaz made a noncommittal noise, disguising her reaction by drinking more beer. "Maybe he wanted to downshift, live with a little less stress," she murmured, not believing it for one minute.
Lucy harrumphed. "If that's true, he'll go stark raving mad the first winter. Guys like him come out here to kick back, to live the supposedly idyllic, small-town life. After the first hundred inches of rain and thousand dollars of counseling to help them cope with all the peace and quiet, they de-web their feet and head back home."
Kaz smiled, her tension easing a little. Living on the north coast of Oregon did require a certain kind of fortitude. "Still, if he's got the kind of experience you say he does, maybe Astoria is lucky to have him," she pointed out.
Raised voices forestalled Lucy's reply. Kaz turned in time to see her brother Gary shove his friend Chuck hard against the bar. The room fell silent.
She jumped to her feet, shaking her head at Lucy, who was already half out of her chair, then headed toward them.
"I need your help, damn you," she heard Gary say in a low tone as she neared. His large hands fisted in Chuck's shirt.
She ducked under Gary's arm and placed a hand on his chest. "Hey." Pasting a smile on her face, she glanced over her shoulder at Chuck. "What's going on, guys? You're starting to draw attention."
Beneath her hand, Gary's muscles were rigid with suppressed violence. Their genetic propensity for height had blessed him even more than Kaz—he towered a good six inches over her five foot ten. And whereas she tended toward a willowy frame, a stint as an Army Ranger and grueling years of drag fishing had given Gary a solid, powerful build.
"Yo, guys? You're turning me into a candidate for high blood pressure, here. What d'you say we—"
"Stay out of it, Sis," Gary muttered, not looking her way.
She risked a quick glance at Chuck, whose expression was calm. But then, Chuck always looked calm.
"Bad move, what you're thinking, man," he murmured to Gary, his lips barely moving.
A frisson of unease slithered through her. "What's this all about?"
Chuck spared her a chiding look. "Not your business."
"You're making it my business," Kaz shot back softly, "as well as everyone else's." She angled her head toward the room. People's gazes were lowered, but they hung on every word.
"Problem?" The resonant baritone came from behind Kaz. She swung around, her shoulder connecting with Gary's chest, which served to force the two men slightly apart.
The new fire chief stood a few feet away, boots planted, arms hanging loosely at his sides. He was taller than she'd realized, and if the crow's feet around his eyes were any indication, older than she would've originally guessed—maybe around forty. Formidable was the first word that leapt to mind. If any more tough men showed up, she'd asphyxiate from the ambient testosterone.
"I'm handling it," she insisted.
Chapman's gaze flicked over her, then he turned back to the men. "You two might want to continue this outside."
"Who the hell are you?" Gary demanded, causing Kaz to wince. He had an almost preternatural gift for irritating the authorities.
"Just a guy who wants to finish his dinner in peace," Chapman said, crossing his arms. The soft wool of his cable-knit sweater glided smoothly over hard muscle. "And I'd prefer that the lady not get hurt."