The parking lot fronted what had been a fire station, recently remodeled into a brewpub. Liam parked with care, as his Silverado was brand spanking new and he was protective of its navy blue paint, and got out. A flurry of wings caught the corner of his eye and he jerked around. Only a magpie. He tried not to feel relieved.

The pub was a tall building, with a row of two-story windows on the left displaying rows of shining stainless steel vessels connected by a complicated arrangement of hoses, pipes, and valves. A row of similar windows on the right overlooked the serving side of the brewpub, a wooden bar running the length of the room. Tables and chairs filled up the rest of the space and more windows across the back side of the building overlooked the edge of the bluff, the Spit, and the Bay.

Double doors painted fire engine red occupied the space between the windows. A large, hand-painted sign above read “Backdraft Brew Pub” with a faint hint of flames behind the font. The door opened outward. The man behind the bar said, “We’re not open for another hour, Andy, I told you—” He looked up. “Oh. Sorry, Liam. I thought you were someone else.”

“An early drinker?”

“We’ve got plenty of those who’d like to be. As you are about to discover.”

He held out his hand. “How are you, Jeff?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that? How are you settling in?”

Jeff Ninkasi looked to be in his early fifties, with black hair graying at the temples, eyes with an Asian fold that told of his mixed Anglo-Japanese heritage, and a belly that betrayed a love of his own beer. He had lines on his face that betrayed a predisposition for laughter, and the no-bullshit gaze of the professional bartender. You knew just by looking at him that he wasn’t about to let anyone drive drunk from his establishment, nor would he allow a woman who’d had a few too many to leave unaccompanied by a friend.

One of the good guys, Liam thought. But then he’d had a week to come to that conclusion, and had already decided that the Backdraft Brew Pub would be where he drank in public in his new posting. Lucky for him the brewmeister-slash-bartender had a full liquor license and already stocked a fine line in Scotch, including Glenmorangie. “How’s Marcy?”

Jeff looked up at the ceiling. “Still rearranging the furniture.” A thump punctuated his comment.

“I’ve got that table you said you wanted in the back of the pickup.”

Jeff looked sheepish. “Not sure she wants it now. She’s decided to embrace minimalism in a big way.”

Liam laughed. “Not a problem. Our house in Newenham was small and we left most of our furniture behind. Be a while before we get your house filled up.”

“Your house now.” Jeff produced a manila envelope from the space beneath the cash drawer of the cash register.

Liam opened it. Inside was the deed and the two-page mortgage agreement the two of them had worked out. “Looks good,” he said, and pulled a folded check from his shirt pocket. “First month’s payment.”