Unrevealed

any of this?”
    “That’s right. And once I call that reporter and tell him that your wife’s death was an accident and then strongly urge him to write a glowing story about you and how much Abbey’s Road Pub has done for the Denver community, there will not be a whisper of doubt or judgment about you from anyone.” I stood up. “Go home, Mr. Gambrel. Grieve for your wife. And then go back to work when you’re ready with your head held high.”
    “You don’t judge me?”

    “Because you pretend to be British?” I asked him. “Or because you changed your first name? Or because a big manly guy like you enjoys wearing women’s panties? I’m a recovering drunk, Mr. Gambrel. I’ll leave the judgment to the ignorant and to those who have never experienced their own dark night of the soul.”
    He left, and as I walked back to my desk, I remembered Gambrel’s comment about how random it all was. He was talking about death — first his parents’ death and then, forty years later, his beloved wife’s. But there’s a random quality to life too. Your parents die and you grow your hair long and start listening to The Beatles. Then you sell the family house, change your name, and travel to England, where you adopt an English accent and meet a girl named Abbey in a pub near Abbey Road while John Lennon sings “Give Peace a Chance” on the radio. The randomness of his parents’ death was responsible for the randomness of finding the love of his life. It was actually a beautiful story, but, sadly, it was one that could never be revealed because it was born and ruled by the power of a secret.
    And then I was reminded again of that Jewish “shaman” my brother hired for his spiritual blessing ceremony. I bet he’s got one helluva backstory, too. I should introduce him to Mr. Gambrel. They’d have a lot not to talk about.

THINGS AREN’T ALWAYS WHAT THEY SEEM
    Detective Jane Perry walked down the snow-packed Denver sidewalk, the early morning air crisp and biting around her. She took a hard drag on her cigarette and then another, hoping it would settle her nerves, but that familiar knot in her gut remained. The snowy drifts and white landscape surrounded her, smothering most of the typical sounds one might hear on a city street, even at this hour. It was as though a pillow had been placed over Denver’s streets, suffocating all but the screams.
    She arrived at her destination, glancing down the street furtively. Mirrored stillness embraced her with an uneasy grasp. Above her head, the red neon sign of Bloody Mary’s Bar glowed angrily against the traces of snow that had blown against the building. The bar was aptly named, Jane figured,
given the brutal crime scene she’d left twenty minutes ago. Bathed in a grisly crimson slaughter, the smell of death was still ripe and stung Jane’s nostrils.
    It was just past 1:30 in the morning. She had less than thirty minutes before the bar closed. Jane hesitated briefly before inhaling a hard hit of nicotine and entering the establishment. Inside, she stamped the snow off her rough-out cowboy boots and shook her shoulder-length brown hair, letting the icy droplets fall against her leather jacket. Save for the jazzy background music, the bar was nearly as quiet as the street outside. A lone bartender stood behind the ornate western-style bar, wiping down the sink in an almost trancelike manner. The only other occupant, a blond-haired woman, sat at the far end of the bar, staring straight ahead and sipping a martini. She was dressed in an expensive white down jacket with black fur trim. A pair of designer jeans hugged her trim thighs and toned backside. Fur-trimmed white boots completed the ensemble.
    The bartender looked up at Jane, his eyes hiding apprehension. Jane sat at the opposite end of the bar from the blond woman. She’d been told numerous times in AA that you don’t willingly put yourself in situations or places that compromise your sobriety. But here she was. One-fuckingthirty in the morning. She eyed a bottle of Jack Daniels behind the bar, spotlighted beautifully and magnified in all its majesty against the large mirror that framed the rear of the bar. How many nights had she drained a bottle of Jack in the comfort of her own house, hoping that she could momentarily forget the carnage and float above herself in suspended animation? Jane shifted in her seat. The barstool felt strangely comfortable against her ass. Too comfortable. She could feel