Set in Stone

by David James Warren

  Burke grins. “Beautiful.”

  There’s an ache deep inside, but I ignore it.

  “So, who did you tick off?” Burke says, but I see the concern he’s trying to hide.

  “Dunno,” Zeke says. “Rembrandt thinks it’s Fitzgerald.”

  Burke looks over at me.

  Thanks, Zeke, but I don’t care. “You heard about the bodies in the field, right?”

  He nods.

  “The backyard of my parents’ home.”

  He looks at his coffee.

  “He might be in my head, but I’m clearly in his, too,” I say. “Why?”

  “Maybe it’s because you beat the tar out of him twenty-odd years ago,” Burke says.

  I shake my head. “This guy is military. And he won. He got away.” I look at Eve. “This guy is about power, like Gunter said. He’s likes to win.”

  “Gunter says he’s playing a game with you.”

  “Again, why me? Why am I special to him now?”

  Burke looks at me, his gaze even. “Now, you’re the police chief. It can’t be a coincidence that the day you take the position is the day the tip is called in.”

  I consider his words. But they don’t make sense. “I wasn’t supposed to take the job for at least another week. Shelby went into labor early.”

  I look at Frankie. “But you know what was scheduled for yesterday?”

  “John’s commemorative ceremony,” she says.

  I nod. “So what was I doing before John was killed that would make Leo want me to remember that date?”

  “Check your journal. You probably wrote about it.”

  My…journal.

  The word takes a sweep through me.

  Good, good job young me, listening to your elders.

  Burke turns to Zeke. “You’ll be fine, buck. A little PT with Gene Latsky and he’ll get you back in one piece.” He glances at me. “He fixed Rem up, and then me. And didn’t he help your mom, too, Eve?”

  She nods, but I’m blank.

  Who is Gene?

  I have a faint memory, although foggy. A guy at a bar. Blond hair. Big hands. Keep up those stretches. The scar tissue can tighten up, and pretty soon your muscles are all knotted.

  “Gene is our physical therapist,” I say, a sort of realization.

  Burke’s eyebrow dips down, but he nods.

  “He knows Leo Fitzgerald,” I say softly.

  The room goes quiet. I’m nodding. “He was playing pool with him the day Leo and I got into it at the bar in Montrose.”

  Burke is staring at me. “Are you sure? That was a long time ago.”

  Sure. To some people. I remember it like it happened forty-eight hours ago.

  “I’m sure.”

  Burke takes a sip of his coffee. “That might have been helpful information.”

  I hear the reprimand, but I don’t care.

  I’m smiling.

  Because this round against fate belongs to me.

  8

  I have a foggy memory of Gene Latsky. There’s enough of a bookmark to know I’ve met him, and when, but that’s the extent of the imprint.

  I’m hoping hard that he has a better memory than I do.

  I track him down at the University of Minnesota physical therapy department. The hospital is clean, quiet and his office is in the rehabilitation clinic on the third floor. I stand in the lobby and watch the row team fighting the current of the Mississippi River. The river is dark, frothy and flowing high today after last night’s storm.

  Strong arms, packed with youth, but they’re not making much headway against the power of the river.

  “Rembrandt Stone. How you are?” Gene Latsky isn’t a remarkable person. Tall, over six feet, a little paunch, thinning blonde hair, blue eyes and he has a strong handshake. He’s wearing a lightweight long-sleeve shirt, a pair of cargo pants and tennis shoes and greets me with a smile.

  Because of course, he knows me.

  “Hey Gene,” I say, like we saw each other a few days ago. Because, you know, we did. “How are you?”

  “Good, good, good. Yeah. And you? How’s that shoulder?”

  Shoulder. Not a clue of what he’s talking about, but I nod.

  “That’s the spirit. Old gunshot wounds are likely to bind up with age, so keep working that muscle.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind.”

  He leads me back, into his office, and when we get inside, I see a number of plaques and awards on his wall, a clutter of old pictures—a football team, a shot of young him in a military uniform, along with a shelf of books. My gaze lands on a familiar book. “You’ve got my memoir, The Last Year.” I walk over and pick it up.

  I wrote the book during my rookie year as an investigator. It got picked up by a publisher and somehow turned into a New York Times best-seller.

  It’s what paid for my Porsche, may she rest in peace.

  “Did you forget that you gave it to me?” He takes it and flips open the cover. “To Gene. No matter how much it hurts, I’ll always be back.” He’s grinning, and reshelves the book.

  “After I was stabbed,” I say, remembering our conversation from the bar.

  “Yeah. As I remember you were working on a second book. A novel?”

  Interesting. So once a writer, always a writer, regardless of the timelines. “Yes. It’s still up here.” I tap my head.

  He laughs. “That’s what you said last time, too. You need me to look at your shoulder?” He indicates one of his chairs.

  I don’t sit. “No. I just need to ask you a question.” I take a breath. “I don’t know if you remember this, but many years ago, I came into a bar in Montrose, looking for a suspect, and you were there.”

  He folds his arms, nods. “Of course I remember. You got into a scrap with the guy I was playing pool with.” He’s wearing a smirk. “If I remember right, he owned you.”

  “Thanks for that.”

  “Aw.” He gives me a slap on the arm. “Shake it off.”

  “Did you know him?”

  He drops his hand. Frowns. “Not really. He was in the military, and that made him a bro, but that’s all.”

  Hmm. “You sure? You two looked pretty friendly.”

  He makes a face, shakes his head. “Naw. He just liked shooting stick. I live out that way, and like to go over to The Joint to work off the day, right?” He lifts a shoulder.

  “Remember his name?”

  “Lenny, maybe?”

  Hmm. “Seen him around since?”

  “In the last twenty years? Uh, sure. Yeah. I don’t know.”

  “Recently?”

  He frowns again. Deeper this time. “What’s this about?”

  I run a hand over my mouth, then walk to the window. The rowers are still fighting the current, having made little headway. “He’s a suspect in a murder case.”

  Gene is quiet behind me. Then, “Who did he kill?”

  I don’t know where to start, but one answer stands out. “A little girl.”

  He makes a noise, something of a groan. “That’s horrible.”

  “It is.” I glance at him.

  He’s giving me a strange look. “And this crime—it happened twenty years ago?”

  “It started twenty-four years ago. But he’s still at large.”

  “Still murdering little girls?”

  I nod, because it’s close enough. “I need to find him and stop him.”

  “Yes, you do.” He walks up next to me. “The one that just keeps getting away.”

  I say nothing.

  “That’s a long game to play with someone.”

  I think he’s calling me obsessed.

  Gene is watching the rowers too. “There’s this phenomenon we have in the industry called a phantom pain. It’s a pain that happens in a limb that is perceived, even after the limb is gone. Sometimes it helps to play a trick on the mind—to put a mirror to the remaining limb, making it seem like the missing limb is there. The brain can then interact with the missing limb. Scratc
h it, or unclench a fist, or even just move it.”

  I don’t understand.

  “For a little while, then, the pain abates. But then, the mind realizes it’s been tricked, and it returns and they’re back in my office with the same wound, looking for more treatment.”

  “Are you saying that I’m looking for him to help soothe some inner wound?” I clench my jaws. “He’s a killer. I’m doing my job.”

  “I’m saying when the body perceives an emptiness, it reaches out in pain until something can replace it.”

  I stare at him.

  “Ashley,” he says quietly. “Maybe your job helps fill the emptiness.”

  I can’t breathe. “How do you know about my daughter?”

  He frowns. “I was at her funeral.”

  Right. Everyone but me.

  “This isn’t about my daughter,” I say. “But yes, there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about her.” I don’t know why but saying that loosens a vice in my chest.

  Missing Ashley has become a phantom pain, because no one understands the depth of what I’ve lost.

  I’m still holding onto her. Unfortunately, no mirror is going to bring her back. Ease the grip of grief. That thought hits me as I turn to him.

  I have rewritten the one person I can’t replace. And no matter how many times I go back, she is gone.

  “Think you’ll find him?” he asks quietly and meets my eyes.

  I can’t place the look. Maybe it’s just a polite question. Maybe it’s worry. I don’t know, but I meet his gaze. “Yeah. Yeah, I will. He’ll make a mistake, and when he does, I will be there.”

  He draws in a breath. Then smiles. “I’m sure you will.”

  “If you can think of anything, let me know, okay?”

  “You got it, Chief.” He holds out his hand, smiling. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you didn’t quit.”

  I grip his hand a little longer than normal. And a little tighter.

  He frowns. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember. Right after you got shot. You and Jimmy Williams. The way he tells it, you took a bullet for him.”

  “I was just in the right place the right time,” I say, making a mental note to look that up.

  “I thought for sure you were going to quit the force. You sounded so sure, so ready to be done. And then Ashley died.”

  I still.

  “And I guess that kept you in the game, right?” He clamps me on the shoulder again. “Gotta fill those gaps.”

  “Right,” I manage.

  I head downtown and stop by the coffee kiosk on my way through to my office. But I stop in the lobby and change directions, and head upstairs to the mayor’s office.

  I can admit, I have a burr under my skin.

  Her secretary rises when she sees me. “She’s requested no visitors.”

  “Perfect. Then we can have a private chat.” And I walk into her office.

  Mariana has her shoes off and is drinking a green smoothie while watching the news on her flatscreen. Picking up the remote, she clicks it to mute, but doesn’t get up. “What?”

  “Where was your son this morning, around six a.m.?”

  “Why?” She pulls her bare feet off her coffee table and leans forward.

  “One of my officers was shot.”

  She shakes her head. “Ramses was home, with me.”

  I press my lips together, want to call her a liar, but who knows? “Is your son right-handed?”

  She frowns. “Why?”

  “Just answer the question.”

  She takes a drink of her smoothie through a straw. “Ramses didn’t shoot anyone. Go away.”

  I stand there a moment, then, “The second he doesn’t check in with his parole officer, I’m on him, Vega.”

  “That’s Mayor Vega, Acting Chief Stone.” She’s set down her drink. “And next time you want to talk to me, make an appointment.”

  She picks up her remote and turns on the volume. I turn back to the door, but I hear a sigh from behind me, as the volume clicks back off again.

  “How is your officer, Acting Chief Stone?”

  “He’s still alive.”

  Her voice is almost conciliatory as she looks me in the eye. “I’m telling you the truth. He was with me last night. And if I thought Ramses was capable of this, I would tell you.”

  Sure. “Would you?” I turn and leave quickly. That’s my charm quota for the day.

  Reagan, my assistant rises from his desk as I stride into my office area. “Your brother-in-law called here.”

  I dig into my pocket and discover my cell has died. That’s what happens when you leave your charger in the middle of a soggy house.

  “I have an extra cord,” Reagan says and hands me a coil from his desk.

  I like this guy. On the ball. “Thanks.”

  I plug in my phone. Then I use the office phone and call Sams.

  “Hey,” he says. “The tree removal crew is here. I also walked through the house with the insurance guy. He says that most of the house will need to be taken down. If you want, I can get a crew in here tomorrow—”

  “Wait—” I take a breath. And I know what I said about starting over, but— “I need to talk to Eve.”

  And I need to get in the house. Remember what Eve said about my journal? If I’m grubbing around for clues from the past, I should probably start with my own brain.

  “Okay. Get over here when you can. I’ll stick around.”

  “Thanks, Sams.” I hang up and boot up my phone.

  I’m hoping the man I’m looking for is still around. Still has his ear to the ground of the underworld.

  I find Yasir Isse’s number in my contacts and hold my breath a little as the line rings.

  Someone picks up. “Seriously?”

  Bingo. “Yasir?”

  “Inspector. Why are you calling me?”

  I wish I knew how long it’s been since we last talked, but I’m taking a chance that I’ve stayed connected with the man who helped me find his sister-in-law’s kids and save their lives.

  “I need some information. There’s word on the street that a Russian gang under the leadership of a guy named Sergei Malakov has declared war on my police department.”

  “And what would I know about this?”

  I pause. Because it’s a good question. But in my silence, he says, “Go on.”

  Not all my hunches are from the future. I was a good investigator, once upon a time.

  “I need a name. Someone who might have information on the Malakov gang.”

  “Why?”

  “Because cops are getting shot.” It feels like an easy answer.

  “I’ll sniff around. Maybe then you’ll leave me alone.”

  “Unlikely,” I say. “Thanks, Yasir.”

  He hangs up, I grab my coffee and head up to Eve’s office.

  I find her standing at the window, looking out at the sky, clear, almost pale blue, not a hint of storm in the wispy clouds. “You okay?”

  She looks at me. Nods. “I feel like my life is unraveling.”

  I put my coffee down and pull her against me. “We’ll rebuild, Eve.”

  She wraps her arms around me. “I’m living in limbo land. I don’t like it.”

  “Let’s focus on finding our serial killer.” I step away. “Did you pull the CityPerk file?”

  She nods, picking up her glasses and walking over to the board. “I have a list of three names. I don’t know that they’ll help.”

  I open the file and scan the names. I remember them. The barista, Katia Higgins, her son, Noel, and a lawyer, Graham Morris. All of them tell the same story—the one where Burke and I corner Ramses Vega and take him down right after he left the bomb under the counter. “Do we know where these people are today?”

  “Katia Higgins is still the owner slash barista of CityPerk, and Noel is helping her run it.” She walks over to a board where I see she’s put up pictures. “Graham Morris now lives in Chicago, and is a partner at Morris, S
immons and Seay.”

  I can’t help being a bit disappointed. Except—the last time around, the blast destroyed the entire city block. “Do you have names of people who were in the surrounding buildings?”

  “I still don’t know how you knew the bomber would be there.” She walks over to the board, and studies the faces and names pinned onto it. “You’ll have to check the notes on the bystanders.”

  “I made a list of all the victims, too, trying to find similarities.” She gestures to the board. “Aside from all the markers—the strangulation, the sexual assault, the twenty-dollar bill—they come from all demographics. There’s no economic baseline, no geography similarities. The only consistent profile is that all the victims are white, all in service industries, and all of them were killed after their shift, late at night.”

  She steps back from the board. “According to Gunter, our guy is an organized killer. Which means he probably knows them, even stalks them beforehand. So, how does he choose them?”

  “That’s the link,” I say.

  Her desk phone rings and she picks it up. “Sams.”

  “We’d better get over there.”

  She picks up her satchel, puts it over her shoulder and reaches inside.

  And pulls out the pictures she’s taken from the house.

  She sets one on the desk.

  It’s a blow to my chest, but I manage not to gasp. Ashley, age four, on a swing, me next to her. I’m grinning, my eyes shining, and I don’t remember ever being this happy.

  Maybe I do, but it’s a faded memory.

  Crazily, my eyes burn.

  Eve slides her hand into mine. “Ever think about how our lives would be different if Ashley had lived?”

  I can barely answer her. “Every day, Eve. Every single day.”

  She looks at me, but I squeeze her hand. “Let’s go.”

  One thing is clear.

  If I want to solve this, I need to get to my house, before it turns to rubble.

  9

  I know without a doubt that I would have written the details of my daughter’s murder in my journal. And this is the only thing tempering Eve’s words about Ashley, roaming raw and untended in my brain. Ever think about how our lives would be different if she hadn’t been murdered?

  Please let the journal have answers. Because the longer I stick around, the more I haven’t a clue what I’m doing. It’s like showing up late to a movie.