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Astute, intelligent, and
    highly curious. He planned to become a detective, but he was currently a rank-and-file
    member of the Los Angeles Police Department, where the unwritten policy with regard
    to unnatural men was entrapment. It would pay to remember how painfully—and at
    what tremendous cost—Rafe had learned that lesson.
    Z. A. Maxfield | Secret Light
    30

    Chapter Four
    December 6, 1955
    Rafe was brooding at his desk when Ash Gallagher knocked. He’d smoked an
    ashtray full of Dunhills and left his phone calls for later. An unattractive, unhealthy
    miasma hung like a fog in the air. When Gallagher opened the door, he waved his hand
    to disperse it.
    “Okay, what’s wrong?”
    “What?”
    “I haven’t seen you like this since the Fahey deal fell through. Is this work, or are
    you suffering from the oldest malady in the world?"
    “Prostitution?” Rafe shot Ash a half smile.
    “That’s the oldest profession . You catch the oldest malady; you don’t buy it. What
    happened with that little waitress from Cinnabar? Did she turn your head and give you
    the heave-ho?”
    “No, of course not.”
    “I get it. You’re a gentleman, so you don’t kiss and tell. But I heard you were so
    busy with her you didn’t notice someone burning your house down.”
    “My garage.”
    “So what gives?”
    “Nothing.”
    “I’ll bet. Well, come with me, anyway. I need to drink lunch—even if you don’t
    want to talk about what’s eating you.”
    Z. A. Maxfield | Secret Light
    31

    Rafe threw his pen down and rose, snatching his jacket off the back of his chair. “All
    right.”
    “Where do you want to go?”
    “Not Cinnabar.”
    “Oh ho. The plot thickens.”
    Rafe gave him a small shove. “I plan to eat, and Cinnabar doesn’t serve food. I’ll
    drive, as I’m going to want to get back to work in one piece.”
    “Have some faith,” Ash teased as they got into Rafe’s car. “Cinnabar has peanuts,
    and I’m sure we could get back all right; I hear the waitresses are very
    accommodating.”
    “You malign the poor girl. She merely offered me a lift.”
    “But what—exactly—did she lift? You lucky son of a bitch.”
    “She wasn’t…” He edged out of the parking lot and saw a black-and-white parked
    across the street. A shiver raced up his spine before he could help it, and he cursed
    under his breath.
    “What?”
    “Nothing.”
    Ash glanced back. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”
    “No.”
    “I’ve seen some jumpy people in my day…”
    “I’m not jumpy. One of the patrolmen who investigated my fire believed I set it.”
    “Why would you do that?”
    “I don’t know. He knew my car wasn’t in the garage, and he believes I left it out so
    it would be safe while I burned the garage down.” All of this was technically true but
    not why Rafe wondered if it had been Ben’s patrol car sitting there, or if Ben was
    somehow keeping tabs on him.
    “And you wrote all that Nazi garbage on your own door?”
    Z. A. Maxfield | Secret Light
    32

    Rafe glanced in the rearview mirror. The patrol car didn’t move. “Apparently I’m a
    clever enough bastard to throw suspicion elsewhere.”
    “You need a drink, then, too.”
    “I have an appointment later. I’ll have to pass.” Rafe headed for a local burger joint,
    hoping it wasn’t too packed to grab a meal before he had to take Ash back and head
    out.
    Once there, they opted for a seat at the counter, squeezing between a woman with
    stiff hair and a bottom that draped over the sides of her seat like a toadstool, and a man
    in work clothes.
    Ash pushed his menu back at the dark-haired girl when she gave it to him. “Burger
    and suds, honey.”
    “Sure, okay.” When she glanced at Rafe, a delicate blush tinged her cheeks. “Oh,
    hiya, Rafe.”
    “Hi.” Rafe didn’t remember her name, but she was familiar. Because of its
    proximity to his work, decent coffee, and forty-cent cheeseburgers, he ate there quite a
    lot. He glanced at her