talk of ongoing investigations. Information sharing was paramount to these get-togethers. The deputies looked forward to them. Nothing was held back, even criticisms aimed at each other. Over the first few months of these exchanges, Abron Kelsey could point out the barfly regulars, sizing them up by occupation and attitude. Even during conversations at his own table, he would catch the slightest personal clues through the actions of people at the bar or seated throughout the club. He and his fellow officers stayed out of trouble, even swallowing the occasional insult from young inebriated college students. Abron Kelsey, twenty-six years old and single, was looking for a relationship. His eye for detail was not wasted on a petite short-haired blond bartender. She only worked Monday through Thursday, which was puzzling. The crowds and the tips were always more plentiful on weekends.
Abron had only been working for the Spokane Sheriff’s Department for a couple of months. One cold winter night in late November, with snow on the ground, the officers were discussing a particularly brutal crime scene inside a home on the shore of Newman Lake, east of Spokane. Two attorneys had been killed mercilessly. One had been hung, shot, and stabbed; the other, clubbed and stabbed. David McCoy was found suspended from the rafters in the garage. His wife’s, Assistant District Attorney Phyllis McCoy’s, body was discovered on the kitchen floor, inside the house. The investigation was just beginning. The Bump was quieter that night, due to the cold outdoor conditions.
Abron stood up and said, “Coffee time, the road home will be slick.”
As he turned toward the bar, Christian Caine from the forensics lab whispered, “Here he goes again.” All eyes surveilled his approach to the bar.
“Ms., may I order six coffees to go?” The young lady bartender couldn’t help noticing Abron’s confident yet courteous vocal demeanor.
“Four minutes to brew, one more to deliver,” she replied, not looking up or turning in his direction.
“Thank you,” he said.
The young lady bartender was Isabel. This was just one of her part-time jobs and interests. Isabel Davis was enrolled at Eastern Washington State College, out of Cheney, south of Spokane. Attending classes during the morning and early afternoon hours, she had little time to dawdle. What Abron and the others didn’t know was that Ms. Davis also tended the bar at the Davenport Hotel in Downtown Spokane on weekends. With her energy and interest in people, Isabel made both bars fun stops for guests with her quick wit, outgoing personality, and baby-doll looks. Her apartment and college were closer to the weekend work. Isabel was majoring in sociology, with a minor in Northwest history. Surprisingly (and to her, at times) annoyingly, she possessed a gift not unlike Abron’s. Isabel Davis continually evaluated people around her by way of their actions and reactions. Isabel Davis was averaging about twelve units per semester. After four years of study and bartending, graduation was finally in sight. She was starting to feel anxious about her new vocation and the challenges that lay before her.
Quickly standing up to help the lady he wanted to meet, Abron said, “Let me help you with those.”
“Whoa partner,” she snapped, “this is a balancing act that took me a while to command.” Isabel made a show out of setting the coffee on the table. Her quick verbal response to Kelsey was not expected but liked. “I didn’t mean to be so abrupt,” she said and followed with “We could have made a pretty large mess if they tipped.”
We, Abron thought, perving. Abron paid and tipped her then asked, “Why not weekends?”
Again, a quick retort. “Study time.” Knowing exactly where he was coming from, Isabel said, “I’m still a helpless starving student at Eastern Washington.”
As she turned to leave, Abron chanced an introduction, shouting over Carlos Santana’s “Smooth,” “My name is Abron. May I know yours?”
Isabel made another show out of turning slowly to face him. With a smile and big hazel eyes staring into his, she replied, “Yes, I’m Isabel. My friends call me Izzy.”
A little in the moment, there was a pause; Abron was caught in her stare and beauty by surprise. Quickly he thought, I can’t miss this chance. Abron’s voice erupted over the music. “May I call you Izzy?”
Without pause she shot back, “No.”
Terry, Ron, Mike, nor Christian would not look at Abron. They were all forcefully trying to hide chuckles and grins. Mr. Big had been shot down by a five-foot, one-inch fireball of a bartender. For Abron, it would be weeks before he would talk to her again.
*****
Another change was taking place in the inner circle of the Spokane sheriff deputies seated at Bump that night. Mike Gwen’s transfer to the San Bernardino County Sheriff’s Office had come through. He would be leaving in less than two weeks. Gwen was much liked by his fellow deputies. They admired his sense of doggedness on all cases he was assigned. His teammates also knew he could bench-press over four hundred pounds and run a mile in under five minutes. Abron Kelsey had become a close friend in the short time they had worked together. The two officers coordinated their weekly visits to the gym. Abron would miss Mike’s entire family. Kelsey was not used to the togetherness and love shown by all four toward each other. The loss of this deputy would be tough to get used to. The Gwen family had practically adopted him when he came to town. The team had one last round of coffee then headed home for the Thanksgiving weekend with their families. Each deputy had two days off and two on for the holiday.
As they departed the Inn, the posse stepped into a brutally cold howling wind that let them know winter had come to town. When struck by the twenty-degree temperature and a wind-chill factor, all immediate cares disappeared. Only one thought presented itself: hurrying to the safety of their cars. Kelsey was hesitant to leave the parking lot and head back west to his condo. Would it be right for me to go back and talk with Isabel? Or would it be wrong to force the issue. He put the car in reverse. I am not a stalker, he thought. Inside the Bump, Isabel was wondering if she would ever get to know the mannerly cop.
*****
On the other side of the parking lot, hidden among the few cars that were weathering the cold, another member of the posse was closing their car door and starting the car. Detective Terry Hollander was casing the parking lot, waiting for the heater to work. He was suspicious of everyone. Terry had come out of the Army after four years of OJT with the military police. Terry had met his future wife in Germany while stationed there. Gretta was magnificent. Athletic, blond, and gorgeous, she loved Terry for his manners, chiseled face, and stability. Struggling through unhappy teen years, she was a product of a broken home. Her dad was away on business for weeks at a time. Her mother had turned alcoholic, bringing many boyfriends home in his absences. Gretta learned, at a young age, to stay in her room or over at a friend’s house while Dad was away. Terry Hollander was just what she was looking for in her eighteenth year. He was her rock. When the letter arrived from America, Gretta’s pulse had quickened. It had been almost a month since he mustered out of the military. The plane ticket fell out first: a plane ticket to Spokane, Washington. The Spokane that her lover and best friend had described so many times. Just a few words were written on the note: “Please marry me. I love you. Terry.”
Only Gretta’s dad and two closest girlfriends attended the wedding in America. But the church was full. Dozens upon dozens of Hollander’s family and friends were present. Gretta was a hit—graceful, beautiful, and commanding a broken English pattern of speech that enchanted her to everyone. She was blessed with caring friends and a father that loved her. Gretta and Mike Gwen’s wife, Debbie, were inseparable. For Gretta, the goodbyes would be exceptionally hard. When she first met Debbie and Mike, she was alone while Terry worked. Debbie Gwen had introduced her to many people and a busy schedule of local clubs and organizations that filled her days. Pondering the Gwens’ departure, Gretta thought, “I’m losing one of my best friends. With the internet and Skype, I’ll still be able to show Tammy my bump.” A few short weeks after Debbie and Mike departed for California, Terry was given the news by Gretta. Their “passion in the woods” on the way home from the Gwens’ anniversary party nine weeks earlier would soon