Cast the First Stone

by David James Warren

  It’s vintage, has some charm with its wood floors and ancient knocking radiators, but mostly was a cheap place in the city I could rent back before the book sales started adding to my nest egg.

  Actually, the entire place needs a remodel, but I only know that now.

  I currently drive a…that’s right, a 1984 Camaro and something inside me ignites when I see my first love waiting for me in a spot near the edge where no one can hurt her.

  I head toward her, but Burke catches up to me. “Listen—I don’t know why you’re acting so weird, but Booker wants to see you. Says it’s urgent.”

  Shoot. But in this dream, I still work for him so I route back inside and find him sitting in his office. Mulligan and a couple other precinct investigators shuffle out. Danny gives me the dark eye, but I ignore him and poke my head in. “You wanted to see me, Boss?”

  He frowns, and maybe I haven’t started calling him that, yet. “Come in, Rembrandt. Shut the door.”

  Hmm.

  He gets up, and gestures to me to sit down, which is a little weird, but I do, on the sofa shoved against the wall.

  He leans against the desk and blows out a breath. “Okay, I got some news, and I know it might be just another dead lead, but…”

  The way he’s acting, the grim look…oh, no, in all the bombing clutter I’d forgotten—

  “A fisherman found a dead body a couple days ago over in Swan Lake, out in Waconia. They hauled it in and sent it to the M.E’s office. I got a call this morning—it’s on the machine.”

  He’s reaching over to play it for me, but I know what it says. My body goes numb.

  “It’s my brother.”

  Suddenly, I desperately want to wake up. Because I remember this part of my past too. The fact that I was so busy with the bombings that someone else went to talk to my parents.

  Someone else, not their detective son, who’d become a Inspector for exactly this reason—to find my brother.

  I should have been there when they got the news.

  I will be, this time.

  “It’s not for sure. It takes a while to get back the DNA evidence, but it was a kid, and there was a backpack…”

  “It’s a Return of the Jedi pack, isn’t it?”

  He nods and while I know it’s coming, the gesture hits me like a fist.

  “I just thought I should give you a heads up. I know the timing stinks—”

  “I’ll tell my parents.” I get up.

  “It’s not conclusive yet,” he says. “Wait until the DNA comes back. But…I’m really sorry, Rembrandt. I know that you probably knew he was dead, but there’s always that hope, right?”

  I shake my head. “There are no happy endings, boss. I’m used to it.”

  The words dig in and now I’m annoyed and frustrated as I head back out into the heat. If I really could dream myself into the past and make some changes, I’d start with the day my brother went missing.

  The day I left him behind.

  Burke is waiting for me, leaning on his car, his arms folded as I come out. “You in trouble?”

  “No,” I snap. But, he doesn’t deserve that, so I add, “Chief just wanted to talk to me about an old case.”

  He nods and follows me over to my car. Only then do I notice the flattened back tire. Really?

  I give it a kick. “When did this happen?”

  “Last night. I gave you a ride home. Remember?”

  No, I want to say. Because yesterday was twenty-four freakin’ years ago, and even in my subconscious I don’t have that kind of memory.

  But that accounts for why he picked me up this morning.

  I pop the trunk and find my jack kit and tire in the back. Taking off my coat, I set to work, and twenty minutes later, the spare is on.

  “Can you follow me to the garage? There’s Speedy’s off Lake, and Rusty will have me back in action in a couple hours.”

  He’s about seventy-four now in my time, and we’re still good friends. I throw the tire in the back, close the trunk.

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  I dust off my hands. “Then we need to get a list of every coffee shop in the Minneapolis metro area.”

  “What are we going to do, stake out every single one?” Burke raises an eyebrow.

  “If I have to.”

  “That’s some hunch, pal. I hope you’re right.” Burke stalks over to his car.

  I slide into the sweet leather of my Camaro, roll down the window, start her up, and the stereo kicks in. My play list, at least, hasn’t changed in years.

  I pull out to Boston’s, “More Than a Feeling.”

  Chapter 8

  Eight hours on the job and Eve just wanted to go home and climb into her tub, (if she had water) and hide under a mound of bubbles.

  Wash the odor of smoke and ash, burned rubber, and soggy cinders from her body.

  Feed the beast growling in the pit of her gut, and if she were honest, she could really go for a cup of—

  “Coffee?”

  The voice made her look up from the table, where she was sketching a rough diagram of the coffee shop, scene labeling the various areas from where they’d gathered bomb debris and recovered bodies. She’d use it later to possibly create a reproduction of the event. Help detectives like the one standing in front of her figure out who was behind this horrific crime.

  Her gaze went to the proffered coffee, then back to Inspector Stone. He wore a look of expectancy on his face.

  “I drink tea.”

  “No, you don’t. You love coffee. And you’re going to love this. It’s a vanilla mocha with a shot of raspberry. It’s like candy. Trust me on this.”

  He raised one dark eyebrow and admittedly, her heart gave a little start.

  He was better looking than his book jacket. Especially with his collar unbuttoned, the tiniest grizzle of whiskers across his chin. Those blue eyes skimmed over her, checking her out.

  Interesting.

  He came back to her gaze with a smirk. Like she should fall at his feet to his offer of coffee.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, not showing a hoot of interest in the coffee.

  They were working off site from the crime scene lab, in a warehouse they sometimes used to process and catalog all the evidence.

  Silas and other crime scene techs were sorting evidence bags—clothing, pieces of the store, items that looked like bomb casings.

  His smirk vanished. “I need your help. What can you tell me?”

  She raised an eyebrow at his sudden honesty and took the coffee. “We’re just getting started. If we can isolate the bomb casing in the next forty-eight hours, it’ll be a miracle. The best I can do for you is to focus on the makeup of the explosive residue, see if I can get a signature mix. Bomb makers are artists, and they tend to have a signature.”

  She took a sip of the coffee. Shoot, that was good—a hint of raspberry? And vanilla? “What’s in this?”

  “Mocha. Raspberry. Vanilla. Told you that you’d like it.”

  He had a nice smile. It lit up his eyes, added a dangerous charm to them. So there were at least two layers to Mr. Rembrandt Stone—smolder on his book cover, charming in real life. Interesting.

  “Listen,” she said. “We’ll find it—but it’ll take time.”

  “Which we don’t have. I think the bomber was in the crowd today.”

  She put the coffee down. “What makes you say that?”

  “Just…a hunch. But I also think this isn’t the last bomb.”

  His words put a fist in her. “What are you saying?”

  “I think he’s going to do it again. And soon. Very soon.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know…” He looked away, then back to her. “It’s just…a gut feeling. I think he’s trying to make a point, and it’s not
quite made yet.” His lips tightened into a grim line.

  Layer number three. The guy really cared.

  Unfortunately, “I don’t know how I can help you.”

  “The shots you took today—are they developed yet?”

  She’d filled up three rolls of her 35mm film taking shots of the crowd, then the scene. She’d handed off her camera to one of the techs and they’d continued shooting every piece of evidence. “I think we have about fifteen rolls of film.”

  “I just need the crowd shots.”

  “Because you think you can spot him—or her, although bombers tend to be male—in the photos? How will you know who you’re looking for?”

  He lifted a shoulder.

  “Wait, please don’t say it’s a gut feeling.”

  He smiled. “Okay.”

  She sighed, glancing over at Silas and the crew. He was watching her, his pale green eyes not missing a thing.

  She turned back to Rembrandt. “This isn’t the order we do things in, Inspector. You don’t even know what you’re looking for.”

  “I know. And I know I’m jumping ahead, but…please?”

  It was the please that did it. So different from the weird, almost invasive man she’d met earlier today, this man had a sweet humility about him.

  Shoot, she liked him. And then there was the coffee.

  “Okay. But we’ll have to go to the Forensic Photography services at the lab downtown.”

  Rembrandt gave a slight nod. “Burke will drive.”

  She grabbed the camera, the rolls of film, her bag, and followed him out to the lot. Andrew Burke was leaning against his car, waiting, handsome to the bone.

  “Hi again, Detective Burke,” she said.

  He glanced at Rembrandt. “Apparently he can’t stop harassing you today. Just Burke is fine.”

  She slid into the backseat of his Integra. “We’re going to the photo lab.”

  “Have you come up with any theories so far?” Burke asked as he pulled out. Rembrandt sat in the other seat, in front.

  “Just that we think the blast came from one of the coffee canisters, given the pattern. It’s concentrated on one side of the building, although everyone sitting in the eating area was killed. Terrible.”

  Rembrandt stared out the window, his hand rubbing his watch, his thumb moving over the face. A nervous habit, probably.

  “Rough first day,” Burke said.

  She shrugged. “I just want to make sure we don’t miss anything. Let this guy slip away. Not catching him isn’t something I want to think about.”

  Rembrandt drew in a long breath and nodded without looking at her.

  They worked their way into the city, the sun low as it spilled over streets and along the paved sidewalks. Burke pulled up in front of the massive, city-block wide municipal building. “I’ll park and catch up with you.”

  “Third floor,” Eve said and followed Rembrandt up the wide front steps.

  She always felt as if she might be walking back into history every time she entered the circa 1887, Romanesque building. Its thick granite walls kept the air cool despite the early June heat, the rotunda soaring fifteen stories. Inside, carved pillars encased the ancient elevators, and the huge room was centered by a marble statue of a man leaning against a paddle wheel of a riverboat, holding a cornstalk.

  Stone led the way across the marble floor, then up the wide staircase. She almost had to run to catch up.

  “You okay?” She didn’t know why, because she hardly knew him, but he appeared rattled. Or maybe that was just his driven personality.

  He seemed to almost have forgotten her, because he turned then, his hand on the rail, and nodded. “I think so.”

  Huh. “We’ll find him, Inspector.”

  He made a sort of grunt of agreement, deep in his chest.

  The photo lab was located on the third floor, behind one of the original wooden doors. She greeted a couple familiar faces, then headed toward the dark room. “I’ll need to process these films. If you want to come back—”

  “I’m staying right here.” He reached for the film, which she’d dumped onto a table. “Which one of these is it?”

  “The canister labeled number one.” She plucked it from his hand. “I really don’t need help.”

  “I know that, Eve.”

  But he didn’t move away.

  “Are you going to be like this for every case?”

  “Probably, although I promise, I’ll grow on you.”

  “Like a wart?” She walked into the dark room, and he followed. But she heard a huff that sounded a lot like a chuckle.

  She flicked on the purple light, waited for him to close the door, then took the film picker and tugged the film from the cartridge. “This shouldn’t take too long. We just got a new developing machine.”

  He stood with his back to the door, blocking it, as if afraid someone might come in. “There’s a little light that tells people we’re in here. And it locks from the inside.”

  He’d taken on a purply hue, looking downright sinister standing there.

  “So, what’s your story, Inspector?” She cut the film square, then taped it to a plastic leader card.

  “I wrote my story,” he said. “Didn’t you read it?”

  Every page, cover to cover. “Naw. I’m not a reader.”

  Silence and when she glanced at him, one side of his mouth had quirked up. “Mmmhmm.”

  She frowned. “Okay. I read parts. I like the story of how you found the murderer of the old dentist through the killer’s bite marks.”

  “Yeah. It was a burglary gone wrong. The dentist surprised the perp, they got into a struggle, and he bit the dentist. We nailed the guy from the bite marks on the dentist’s arm—right there in his files.”

  “Clever.” She printed out a sticker with the identification marker and pasted it to the film.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m surprised how many cases you solved your rookie year, actually. You’re like a dog with a bone.”

  He laughed then, a rumble that slid under her skin, sank into her soul.

  “What?” She opened the machine and stuck the leader card in.

  “Nothing.” He had folded his arms, was shaking his head, still wearing a slight smile. Apparently laughing at his own private joke.

  “Your book didn’t say why you joined the force.”

  She didn’t even have to see it. She felt it. A wall going up. She’d probed too far. His smile faded as the machine began processing the film. He ducked his head, his hands going to his pockets.

  Silence labored between them as she stared at the machine. Watching the developer phase, the bleaching, then fixing, then washing.

  She fully expected a full-out stiff arm, a shutdown of their conversation but after a long, deep sigh, Rembrandt Stone began speaking softly.

  “When I was twelve, my brother was kidnapped while we were out riding our bikes. They…they think they’ve just found his body. It’s been sixteen years. Not knowing.”

  Everything shut down with his words, and she stared at him. “Oh my.”

  He looked up, met her eyes, a sorrow in them despite the darkness that reached inside, unsettled her.

  “I can’t get past the idea I could have stopped it. Mickey was way behind me, around a bend in the road, and I saw this white van drive by. We were on a remote dirt road—no reason for that van to be there, and I had this weird sting in my gut. When I discovered he wasn’t following, I went back to find him and found his bike on the side of the road. He’d vanished.”

  “The police—?”

  “Scoured the area for days, weeks. My parents never stopped looking.” He drew in a breath, and seemed to be about to add more, but then simply shrugged and looked away.

  “I’m so sorry, Inspector.”

&n
bsp; “Rem,” he said, looking up. “I’d like us to be friends.”

  Oh, and what was she supposed to do with that? Because she’d never met a man who cut right past the charades and showed up with the truth. A man without games or a hidden agenda, no secrets.

  It only made her painfully aware of how much she suddenly wanted to know more about him, the layers yet unseen.

  The photo development had moved to stabilizing, a chemical process that uniformly dried the film, set the image permanently.

  “So, my guess is that you became a detective to find your brother?”

  “I couldn’t save my brother, and we never found his killer. If I can protect other people from that kind of pain, I will.”

  “I get it.” She nodded. “I had a friend who was killed by a hit and run driver when I was thirteen. I always had this hunch she knew the person who killed her. But what did I know? I was a kid. And it might have been my overactive imagination.”

  “Or, not. Maybe it was the budding investigator in you.”

  “Or, it could have been my favorite Alfred Hitchcock mystery series going to my head.”

  “Jupiter Jones, Bob Andrews, and Pete Crenshaw. I loved those books. I didn’t know you read those. Wow.” He sounded genuinely, oddly surprised.

  Didn’t know? Why would he? Maybe it was just an expression. “I loved them. That and Encyclopedia Brown, and not a few Hardy Boys.”

  “Nancy Drew?”

  “The complete collection.”

  “Hang onto them. The original books will be collector’s items someday.”

  The film had finished processing and the machine churned it back out. She cut the strip and hung it on a tree. “Now it just has to dry. Then we’ll put it through the scanning mask and turn these negatives into positives.”

  He wore a smile again, something warm and sweet, as if she’d said something clever.

  “What?”

  “You need to eat. Your stomach is growling.”

  Oh. It had, but— “I’m fine.”

  “You’re going to get all grouchy and frustrated. Listen, we’re not far from the Towne Hall Brewery. You love—I mean, you’re going to love the pretzels there. Beer cheese queso.”