I glance over to see if she’s being sarcastic. She catches my look. “Again, welcome to Rockton, sugar. Whatever you think you know about keeping the peace? It doesn’t apply here. This place does something to folks. You just met Kenny. Any idea what he did down south? His occupation?”

“Construction worker? Carpenter?”

“Try high school math teacher. When he arrived eighteen months ago, he’d never have worked up the courage to talk to you. People come here and it’s a clean slate. A chance to be whoever they want for a while. Fantasy land for grown-ups. Which leads to a whole lotta trouble for the local constabulary, because nothing folks do up here will follow them home.”

As we walk down the main street, I can’t shake the feeling I’m being tailed by acrobats and a marching band. People spill out of doors to get a look at the new girl. Every half-dozen steps, a guy saunters our way. Isabel raises a hand. She doesn’t say a word. That hand goes up, and it’s like casting an invisible force field. They turn back. When one whines, “I’m just being friendly, Iz,” she says, “You want to set foot in the Roc this month? Turn your ass around.” He does.

She waves me to a building that looks as nondescript as the police station. From the end of the second-storey balcony hangs a sign announcing it as The Roc. A wooden sign under that depicts what is probably supposed to be a roc, but the artist has confused the mythical bird with a rook.

I don’t hear any trouble within. Is the fight over? Or is this some kind of local welcoming ritual? I decide to play dumb and follow Isabel inside.

The main floor is twice the size of the police station. There’s a bar along one end. Tables fill the rest. It’s not nearly as rundown as Kurt’s place, but there’s still that sense of basic utility, the one that says you’re here to drink and nothing more.

The bartender is a few years younger than me. A burly, dark-haired guy, he looks quite capable of handling any fight, but he’s currently reading a novel, as is a pencil-necked guy in the corner. Another man is drinking a beer and so engrossed in his thoughts that he doesn’t even look over when we walk in. The last two patrons are a couple in their late thirties, sharing a half pint of wine. Both are nicely dressed. Average-looking. They could be any long-married couple out for a lunchtime tipple.

“I’m not seeing the fight,” I say.

“Oh, it’s coming. Wait right there, detective. You might want to pull out your firearm. Just don’t shoot straight up. There’s a customer sleeping it off right above your head.” She nods toward the bartender. “That’s Mick. Former city cop. Former local cop, too. He’ll help out if you need it, but I’d just as soon keep him behind the bar.”

Because he’s extremely busy reading that novel. He gives me a nod, though, friendly enough.

Isabel walks to the couple. She stops beside the woman and stands there at least twenty seconds. The guy keeps glancing up, but the woman is making a concerted effort to pretend she doesn’t see Isabel.

“You aren’t welcome in here, Jen,” Isabel says finally.

“It’s a public place, bitch.”

The insult—and the venom behind it—startle me. The woman looks like she should be teaching third-graders.

“No,” Isabel says, more respectfully than I’d have managed. “My establishment is not communal property. I pay for that privilege. Now go home, get clean, and then we’ll discuss you coming back.”

Get clean? I could say Isabel meant “sober up,” but I get the feeling this lady is careful with her word choices. I walk closer and size up Jen. I notice her pallor, despite the fact summer has just ended. Her pupils are slightly constricted. Her clothing hangs as if she was two sizes larger when she got it. It’s not proof positive of drug addiction. This is a restricted community. They may choose not to prohibit alcohol, but they sure as hell should be able to control drugs.

“What are you looking at, asshole?” Jen says. I think she’s talking to me. Then I see she’s addressing the guy sitting with her, who’s staring at me like I’m covered in chocolate and sprinkles. His eyes are glazed over and my gut tells me it’s not from a half glass of Cabernet. Jen looks up at me and her eyes narrow. “Fuck, don’t tell me you’re the new cop.”

“She is,” Isabel says. “And she’s here to escort you out.”

Jen snorts. “That itty-bitty girl? Fuck, no. And you, asshole, stop gaping at her or— Hey, I’m talking to you!”

She lunges at the guy. Literally dives across the table, grabbing him by the shirtfront, screeching like a banshee. As I go after her, Isabel murmurs, “Well, that’s not how I expected it to go down, but the end result is the same. I’m going to have blood to clean up.”

I grab Jen. She takes a swing. I wrench her arm behind her back, and she howls. She keeps struggling, though, and I keep wrenching, until I’m about a quarter inch from breaking the bone. When she still doesn’t stop, I slam her against the wall. That’s when her companion decides some chivalry might be in order. He’s on his feet, telling me to let her go.

“As soon as she stops trying to hit me,” I say.

“Back off, Ted,” says Mick, who is walking our way, possibly having hit a chapter break.

“Sit and enjoy the show, Ted,” says the beefy guy with the beer.

Ted grabs for my arm. I see it coming, and a roundhouse kick puts him down without me needing to release Jen. The guy with the beer shows his appreciation by cheering while Ted dives for my leg and tries to bite it. Yes, bite. Another kick sends him flying and then beer-guy is on his feet, tackling Ted, and two other guys have come from God-knows-where, and they’re getting into it, and someone outside shouts, “Bar brawl!”