Cast the First Stone

by David James Warren

  “Are you just getting off, or are you starting your shift?”

  He dropped the jacket on a nearby folding chair and came over, pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Just getting off and heading home now. We missed you this morning.”

  “We have to catch this guy.” She offered him a smile, the best she could give at the moment. After eight hours dissecting the debris from today’s Lyndale bombing, sorting evidence, ordering tests and sketching out a preliminary crime scene, her feet ached, her eyes burned.

  “Your poor mother.” He shook his head. “In her head, you’re still thirteen.”

  “She’s not the only one who thinks that.” She raised an eyebrow.

  “Fifteen, max,” he said and winked. “Why are you the only one here?”

  “Silas will be back any minute. He went downtown to drop off samples for testing, but we’re fairly sure the bomber used the same ingredients as the Franklin Avenue bomb—ammonium nitrate, fuel oil, and antimony sulfide.”

  She pulled off her rubber gloves, touched her pinky to a black residue on a slide tray. “Taste this.”

  “What? No.”

  She laughed. “Chicken. If you did, you’d discover it tastes sweet, and a little metallic. That’s antimony sulfide. It’s used in fireworks. And in its pure form, is used in batteries and even bullets.”

  “Fireworks, huh?”

  “Mmmhmm. This time, the bomb was packed into an old thermos, the kind someone might use for soup in their lunch.” She pointed to the torn, curved metallic shards. “Smaller than yesterday’s, although still deadly.”

  She walked over to the scene, sketched out on a grid on a nearby table. “After talking to the fire chief and measuring the burn and blast patterns, we think the backpack was left behind the counter, near the supply of beans.”

  “An employee?”

  “Or at least someone who had access. Although, according to Burke, he and Rembrandt interviewed all the employees and they all alibied out.”

  “Rembrandt. As in Inspector Stone.” Her father’s eyebrow went up. “You’re working with him?”

  She grabbed a nearby stool and slid onto it. “Dad. I work in the Minneapolis Police Department. So does he. Of course I’m going to run into Inspector Stone. He’s lead on the case.”

  He ran a hand under his chin. “And does that include eating dinner together?”

  She gritted her teeth. This was why she needed to move to another state.

  “I ate with Inspector Stone and Burke.”

  Her father’s mouth tightened into a grim line. “You heard what happened today, at the scene, right? With Rembrandt?”

  “That he ran down a possible suspect?”

  She hadn’t just heard about it, she’d watched as he tore past her, lean and quick and fierce, the expression on his face sending a spark through her she couldn’t identify.

  Not fear, really, but perhaps, well, warning.

  The kind that said she might have glimpsed a layer of Rembrandt that accompanied Silas’s accusation.

  “He attacked the guy. John’s thinking he might file police brutality charges.”

  She sighed and ran a hand behind her neck. Squeezed a muscle there. “The scene was awful, Dad. I’ve seen burned bodies before, but…it’s a terrible way to die. It’s different, you know, to be there. To see it. Again. And to know…well,” She caught her bottom lip in her teeth.

  “To know?”

  “It’s just…Stone had this hunch that it was going to happen again.” She didn’t want to betray him, but maybe they should all pay a bit more attention to his instincts.

  Her father gave a quick frown, just a flicker. “What kind of hunch?”

  “He made me print off all the pictures from the crowd yesterday and was studying them. That’s why—well, probably that’s why he went after this guy. Burke said the guy was at the bombing yesterday.”

  Her father’s frown returned.

  “And Inspector Stone just ran after him?”

  She lifted a shoulder.

  “Rembrandt Stone is a hot-head, who’s impulsive decisions are going to get other people killed.”

  She opened her mouth, not sure what to say. Closed it. Then, “I blew up the pictures from today, too.”

  Gesturing him to follow her, she walked over to a whiteboard where she’d pinned up the pictures. Today’s on one board, yesterday’s on the one beside it.

  Her dad studied the pictures. “You think that the bomber stayed to watch.”

  “Yes, I do.” The voice came from behind them; a quiet, deep tenor that made her turn.

  Rembrandt might have had a worse day than both of them. His cheek boasted a purpling bruise, his eyes tired, reddened. And he must have been wrestling a hand through his hair, one side of it rucked up. He dumped his jacket on her worktable and unbuttoned the sleeves of his grass-stained shirt, rolling one sleeve, then the other, up past his elbows. No tie today, and his suit pants hung low on his hips, also stained.

  “Ramses was at the first scene. He said he was getting coffee, but why would a guy get coffee from a different location if his mother ran a coffee shop?” He came right up to the boards, crossed his arms over his chest.

  He had nice shoulders, powerful forearms, and she sort of wished she’d seen that fight, especially after the rumors of how he’d tackled the suspect and kept him down.

  Apparently the sluice of warning hadn’t taken hold.

  Or perhaps her own instincts simply detected a different kind of danger.

  “These are the shots from today?”

  She nodded. “We spent the day looking for similarities.”

  “Why don’t you run them through a facial recognition program, see if the computer can find a match?”

  She stared at him. “I’ve heard about that. The Bochum system, out of Germany. I think they’ve developed a similar program at USC. I’d love to get my hands on it.”

  He glanced over at her, gave a quick frown, blinking. “Yeah. Maybe someday.” Then, “I’m going to need copies of these.”

  “I already made them.”

  She didn’t miss the glance from her father before she walked across the room, to her makeshift desk, to grab the manila envelope.

  When she returned, she caught the tail end of her father’s words, low and clipped. “…her into trouble.”

  She should have moved to Duluth. Or maybe Anchorage. “Inspector Mulligan?” she said, and her father glanced at her without even a hint of embarrassment.

  He just smiled at her. “Stop by the house tomorrow. Your mother worries.” He leaned in and popped a kiss on her forehead.

  Now she felt fifteen.

  Rembrandt wore a strange, almost soft expression watching her father stride from the room.

  Then he turned back to the boards. “He thinks I’m going to get you into trouble.”

  “I’m just doing my job. Which is to follow the evidence.” She handed him the envelope. “And help you catch this guy.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  Rem appeared so wrung out that she quelled the strangest—and inappropriate—urge to touch his arm. Maybe suggest a beer.

  Still. “You okay?”

  He glanced at her. “You ever think about it?”

  “About what?”

  “You walk into a coffee shop, on your way to work, and order a latte, and then, boom. It’s over. Your life, done.”

  She drew in a breath. “No. Or, not usually. Today, however…”

  “Right?” He walked over to her table, leaned on one of the metal benches and crossed his arms. “What would you regret?”

  She had followed him over, sat on the chair from where her father had retrieved his coat. “Regret?”

  “You know—do over again, if you could? With what you know now.”

 
She considered him, the way he was studying her. He had amazing eyes, deep blue, the kind a girl could fall into and never come up for air. “I don’t know. Maybe I’d tell my friend, Stefanie, not to trust the cross-country coach.”

  His eyebrow went up. “That’s who you think killed her? The girl who got run over?”

  She nodded. “But it’s just a—”

  “Hunch.” His smile stirred coals deep down inside.

  No, no…she shook her head, not smiling. “A hunch only gets you so far. You need evidence to close a case.”

  “Fair enough,” he said, his expression turning serious. “And was there any evidence?”

  “It was a hit and run, so…no.”

  He gave a grim nod.

  Silence hung between them.

  “If I could go back in time, I’d tell myself not to ask Dougie Randall to the 10th Grade Sadie Hawkins dance.”

  He raised an eyebrow, one side of his mouth tweaking up. “Yeah?”

  She ran her hands up her arms, not sure why she’d said that, but she liked the sudden spark in his eye, so, “I called him up, asked for Doug, and then rattled off an invitation to the dance. But then it got real quiet on the other line and this deep voice finally said, ‘I think you’re wanting to talk to Doug Jr.’”

  Rembrandt’s eyes widened. “You asked his father to the dance?”

  “I wanted to die, right then. I never talked to him again.”

  His laughter was deep and rich. It washed through her like summer rain.

  “That is fantastic, Eve.”

  “Okay, what about you? What would you do over? Your regrets?”

  His face turned solemn. He considered her for so long, she wanted to look away. His voice softened. “I think I would start all the good things sooner.”

  She frowned, “You’re twenty-eight. What on earth could you start sooner?”

  He didn’t answer, just looked at her.

  Her heartbeat pounded in her throat. No. She barely knew this man.

  But she couldn’t escape the sense that somehow she was part of his answer.

  He got up, and took a step toward her, so much in his gaze it seemed to pin her to her chair, shuck away her breath. “Eve, I—”

  The door slammed and steps sounded on the cement. She landed on her feet as if she might have been caught making out in the car, her heart thundering, her palms sweaty.

  What now?

  Silas slid into view. “I got the test results of that cup back.” He wore his backpack over his shoulder, and frowned only for a moment after his gaze landed on Rembrandt.

  He’d edged over to the table and was looking at the bomb fragments.

  “And?”

  “They belong to Ramses Vega, that guy who—”

  “—I ran down today,” Rembrandt finished, jerking his head up. He snapped to look at her. “What cup?”

  “We found it on a side street near yesterday’s bombing.”

  “What side street?”

  She walked over to the table with yesterday’s sketch of the crime scene. “Here. Across the street to the northeast, in front of the grocery store.”

  He stared at the map, then, “Do we have a map of the area?”

  “I think so.” She had used a city map to construct the former location and grid of the Daily Grind. Now, she pulled it out and unrolled it onto the table. Rembrandt leaned over it, searching for—

  “Here. It’s the Immigrant Learning Center.” He trailed his finger south, along Nicollet Avenue. Tapped it. “If Ramses was on his way to school, he would have been heading the opposite direction. Instead, you found the cup here, across the street from a bus stop. Even if he was waiting for the bus, the next stop lets off another block further from the ILC. It’s closer to walk.”

  Rembrandt grabbed his jacket. “I think we need to take another look at Ramses.”

  Litter fell out of his pocket and he reached down to pick it up.

  Eve caught his arm. “What is that?” It looked like burlap. She eased it from his hand, “What are you doing with this? This is evidence. From yesterday’s bombing.” She set it on the table, and tried to keep accusation from her voice. “Where did you get this?”

  “I picked it up on the street. Today.”

  Oh. She really couldn’t have missed this, could she? Eve pulled on her gloves and flicked on a light, reached for her magnifying glass and held the scrap under it for inspection. “See these three green leaves, these two brown dots? This is the logo for Green Earth coffee. The same coffee that Daily Grind uses.”

  She motioned with her head and Rembrandt followed her over to the body of evidence, cataloged and labeled from the Daily Grind fire. She found the appropriate bag and handed it to him. “See the logo?”

  He stared at it, then looked up at her and a slow, almost languid smile slid across his face. “I could kiss you,” he said softly.

  Oh. Oh.

  He put the baggie down, set his jacket back on the chair and said, “We’re going on a bean hunt.”

  Chapter 15

  I’m rewriting history.

  That’s my only explanation for the fact we’ve found a twenty-year-old lead to a case I’d poured over a hundred times.

  The thought has me buzzing, as if I’ve downed too much coffee, jittery and on fire. I’m not sure why we never saw the connection before, but I can’t ignore the old rush of a hot theory filling my veins.

  “Let’s Google it,” I say, holding up the baggie with the burlap label, and when Eve just looks at me, I realize I’ve made yet another time-warp blunder.

  Not unlike my suggestion for a digital facial recognition search. Good job, Slick. I’m not sure how much of my inadvertent future knowledge will affect the past, or, uh, the future. Except, now might be the time to invest in Google stock, right? Too bad they don’t exist yet.

  Eve shoots me an appropriately odd look. “Do what?”

  I rack my brain for a few seconds. “I mean Yahoo.”

  She frowns but nods. “Sure. Yahoo.”

  She pulls up a chair to a desktop computer stationed in a nearby cubicle and I flip around a folding chair and straddle it, leaning on the back.

  I can feel the heat of the spark still lingering between us, the one I lit with my words, “I think I would start all the good things sooner.”

  For a crazy second, the smell of her, the look in her eyes, something of surprise, even hope, ignites a different sort of buzz under my skin. Because I know that look. It’s the same expression I get when she puts down her book, late at night, when she just wants me to ease away the ache of the day.

  It’s the hint of vulnerability Eve so rarely shows. The hard-wrought intimacy we fought to find after our many dating starts-and-stops.

  However, while my twenty-eight year old body stirs with the memories in my head, in that moment it’s the fifty-two year old, well-married man inside me that longs to wrap my fingers through her hair, pull her close, anchor myself to something familiar.

  Something known. Something mine. No. Ours.

  Except for Silas. His timely appearance brought me up short, reminded me that Eve is not mine. Yet.

  She’s young and eager, still relatively innocent and I am, in experience, if not in body, a much older man.

  Which makes my impulses suddenly awkward and not a little creepy, and I’m possessed with the strangest urge to protect her.

  From myself.

  This is really getting weird.

  She searches for Good Earth coffee and finds a listing. Not a website, apparently the world isn’t quite that sophisticated yet, but a piece of data with relevant info.

  “The company is located in Brazil, with distribution worldwide,” Eve says, reading from the site.

  “There has to be a connection,” I say, not because it’s such a rare and u
nique deduction, but I’m reaching a point of desperation. “It’s our only known link between the two bombings.”

  I don’t continue my thought that it’s also the only link to tomorrow’s horror. Unfortunately, yesterday’s search didn’t raise even a sliver of memory.

  At this rate, I’ll need some kind of miracle to stop tomorrow’s bombing.

  If I even can. Because suddenly every time paradox I’ve ever read whirls through my brain.

  Is my failure already written into the timeline, no more than fated scenes about to play out and etched in stone? Or, can I stop it, and if so, does all of history change? Will I wake up to a new life tomorrow?

  That brings me to the conundrum that I might actually be stuck here, right? How does one return to their time when they don’t know how they got here in the first place? Art said only, I think so, to my question. I don’t know about you, but in my book that isn’t the reassurance I was hoping for. My watch is still ticking, so, that has to mean something, but what if I’m stuck here forever?

  I’ll be smarter. And richer. And maybe I’ll enjoy it better this time around, so I guess I’m not horrified by this idea.

  Except … what happens to Eve, in the future? That future. The one I vanished from without a trace. If I never get back, she’ll never know what happened to me. Just like we never knew what happened to Mickey for so many years.

  My hands grow clammy.

  Then one more thought strikes me like a bolt of cold lightning.

  Ashley.

  I want them both back now, and that thought puts a fist right through my sternum so hard I nearly gasp.

  I have to get back. I will get back.

  But while I’m here, I’ll save a few lives. In fact, the first thing I’ll do after stopping this bombing is figure out how to get Danny Mulligan to stop hating me.

  For no reason, I might add. His words to me, out of Eve’s earshot, have left a bruise. “I don’t trust you, Stone, and I’m warning you—stay away from my daughter, unless it’s work related. I don’t want you to get her into trouble.”

  Everything for the rest of my life will be classified as work related, you can bet on it. But I would really prefer Mulligan to like me, especially since he’s going to be sticking around.