Triple Double. James Lewis

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      *****

      The Bump Inn at Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, was Abron’s and his fellow deputies’ haunt. An occasional beer in hand, case conversations, and stratagems were the norm. Over the state line from Washington, ideas could take many different paths. Work interventions seemed far away. The Bump, a pub and grill, was loud and fun. The posse was, for the most part, invisible. They were quiet and nonoffensive, and no uniforms allowed. Their lack of hairstyle or, for that matter, lack of hair altogether was the only giveaway.

      They all shared in the conversations. Here, lines could be crossed, laws slightly bent, in their 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.