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something.”
    “You’ve known her since she was a kid and you can’t tell her to stay out of an official police investigation?”
    Sam ran his hands through his thick, dark hair. “A year before I went to L.A., I was involved in an undercover sting—a joint task force with the FBI. We nailed this con artist who had a simple but extremely profitable con going among wealthy investors throughout California. The guy was Jason Butler.”
    “Name’s familiar, but unless he killed someone—”
    “No, he’s not violent. At least, he wasn’t before he went to prison.”
    “What does this have to do with Murphy?”
    “Everything.” Sam hesitated. Jason wasn’t the primary reason Shauna hated him, but he was certainly the easiest to explain.
    “I arrested Jason the night before he and Shauna were supposed to get married.”
     

Chapter Six
     
    It was six in the evening and still a hundred degrees outside, but Sam suspected as soon as Shauna saw him, the temperature inside Dooley’s would skyrocket and he’d prefer the sun to her temper.
    He didn’t blame her.
    Nostalgia slammed Sam square in his chest when he walked into the pub. It hadn’t changed. Even though technically the bar was closed until tomorrow, regulars were coming in to pay their condolences and drink with Dooley. Sam hadn’t been here in more than two years. Before his ill-fated marriage, before his career hit the skids, Dooley’s had been a regular hangout.
    Dooley’s wasn’t an ordinary bar. Perhaps because it wasn’t an ordinary crowd. Catering to a broad cross-section of people, men and women of all ages and classes, from well-dressed business professionals to blue-collar laborers. Though the menu was short and changed often, there was always an abundance that smelled fabulous. Beer flowed freely, its hoppy aroma permeating the entire room. Irish folk music played comfortably from a jukebox in the rear.
    Wasn’t it the truth I told you, lots of fun at Finnegan’s wake!
    Dooley’s was clean and well-maintained with rough, worn, random plank wood floors and high ceilings fixed with old but functional electric fans, circulating the cool air pumped from a modern air-conditioning system. Signs with Irish sayings and beautiful framed pictures of Ireland’s lush, green landscape decorated the dark-stained, paneled walls.
    Behind the beautiful, lovingly maintained mahogany bar that ran the length of one wall, a crew of four men were putting in a new mirror. Sam’s stomach rolled at the thought of Dooley being robbed, of Mack being murdered two nights ago.
    It could have been Shauna.
    Sam spotted Dooley behind the bar. He hadn’t changed, either. Not an inch over five feet tall with a thick mop of white hair and mischievous blue eyes.
    Sam slid onto the only stool available, near the end of the bar by the doorway into the stockroom, while he waited for Dooley to have a free moment.
    He didn’t have long to wait. Dooley came over with a pint of Harp—his favorite—and hugged him. “Sammy boy! It’s good to see you.” He slapped him on the back, harder than his small frame should be capable of. “Glad you finally got out of that hell hole. When did you get back?”
    Sam couldn’t help but smile. L.A. wasn’t as bad as Northern California natives made it out to be, but it wasn’t home. “I got back a week ago Monday. Two years in L.A. was enough.”
    “Two years too many,” Dooley muttered.
    Sam didn’t want to get into all the reasons he’d left Sacramento. “I’m sorry about Mack.”
    Dooley nodded, grim, and sipped his own pint of dark beer. “He didn’t deserve it, that’s for sure.” He eyed Sam thoughtfully. “I saw Mike last week. Did he know you were back? Or is this just temporary?”
    “I asked him to keep it quiet. I’m back with the police department. Homicide. Officially started yesterday. I wasn’t sure all the paperwork would come together so quickly.” And he’d hoped he’d have more time before having