Cast the First Stone

by David James Warren

  “You asked me for a favor.”

  “Yes.” He glanced at her. “Yes I did.”

  “I don’t get into trouble.”

  “I know that.” Still singing, still grinning.

  Fine. “I was thinking about the coffee shop bombing, and I was wondering how Ramses or Gustavo might know how to build a bomb. What if they had an accomplice? Someone they met along the way that could add terror to their protests.”

  His smile faded and he nodded. “Yeah. That’s another angle we need to take a look at. Maybe your brother can hack into the ICDL site and get a list of their members.” He turned off Hwy 7, onto Vine Hill, then west on Cottagewood. Arching cottonwoods and poplars dissected the night sky, clear and dotted with stars. A golden moon hung over the lake as they turned onto her road. He dimmed his lights and pulled to the side of the road, across the street.

  “Now what?” Eve asked.

  “Now, we go in there and get your brother.” He turned off the car.

  “How?”

  “Through the garage? Is your dad home? And now I’m having this creepy déjà vu high school flashback.”

  “Of what, sneaking into your girlfriend’s house?” She didn’t know why she asked that.

  “Nothing that crazy—I was never big on overactive dads with baseball bats—just sneaking out of the house with the boys. You know, to climb the water tower, shoot BBs at the local squirrels.”

  “What?”

  “Calm down—we always missed.” His eyes shone, the moonlight casting over his face, turning it mysterious, shadowed, tempting. “I didn’t have a girlfriend in high school.”

  “Not one?”

  “I played football and…aw, I didn’t really know what to say…” His smile faded.

  Behind his eyes, she saw it. The wounds of his loss still open, enough to keep people at arm’s length.

  All except her. That fact twined through her, turned the air between them thick and sweet, tugging her in.

  She could too easily fall for a guy exactly like Rembrandt Stone.

  “Well, I didn’t sneak out—or have any boyfriends sneaking in—so it’s highly likely we’re about to get busted.”

  “I’ll take my chances.” He got out, closing the door quietly behind him.

  She came around the car and when he took her hand, the warmth of his grip only ignited the surge of electricity buzzing under her skin.

  “Stay along the edge of the driveway and the motion detection lights won’t flicker on.”

  “See, you have done this before,” he said as followed her. The lights stayed off and they reached the garage door.

  “Maybe you should stay here,” she suggested

  “I’m not afraid of your dad, Eve.”

  The man could quite possibly read her mind.

  “But I am,” she whispered and patted him on the chest. Was his heart racing?

  So, not as calm as his voice let on. Interesting.

  “Fine. Hurry. And if you need me, do something, like make a noise, or scream, or call my name—”

  She pressed her hand to his mouth. “Shh.” Then she let herself into the garage.

  Funny how in the thick of night, the familiar seemed foreign, riddled with danger. She nearly tripped over the lawn mower and right into a box of Christmas decorations. But she brailed her way to the back door, eased it open, and reminded herself to mention to her mother, sometime, casually, to lock the garage door at night.

  The refrigerator hummed and she tiptoed through the kitchen, then up the stairs, avoiding the third step, right side, then into the hallway and right to her brother’s bedroom.

  His light was off, but when she opened the door, he looked up from where he sat at his desk, the glow of his computer screen lighting his face, bulky earphones cutting off any sound. She put a finger to her mouth and shut the door.

  “What?” he whispered as he pulled off his earphones.

  “I think I need your help.” She eased over and glanced at some sort of computer game on the screen. “Can you really hack into things?”

  He frowned. “Why?”

  “I need help with a case. Hacking into a database in Chicago to get a list of addresses of local coffee shops that carry a particular coffee.”

  “Really?” His voice raised a little. “Does this have to do with the bombings?”

  She again pressed her finger over her mouth. “Can you do it?”

  “Sure,” he turned to his computer.

  “Can you do it from my computer?”

  He considered her a moment, then scrubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah. I think so.”

  “Stay behind me, and don’t make any noise,” she said, but he stopped her with a hand to her arm.

  “Sis. You’re talking to the master. Watch and learn.”

  She might not know Asher as well as she thought. They were outside in moments, going out his upstairs window, onto the roof and climbing down a ladder conveniently—and possibly permanently—propped against the roof.

  “Dad thinks I’m working on the gutters. Summer project.” He winked as he followed her toward the garage.

  Rembrandt emerged from the shadows. Held up a hand as Asher spotted him. “I’m with Eve.”

  She sort of liked how he said that.

  “Nice wheels,” Asher said as he climbed into the Camaro.

  Rembrandt’s voice filled the car, a delicious tenor as he sang along to a song from Steve Miller’s “Fly Like an Eagle.”

  They pulled up to her dark house and she led Asher into her den, firing up her computer.

  Rembrandt stood behind them, watching.

  Eve gave Asher the rundown of the case, what they’d found, and when he pulled up the distributor’s site, he shooed them out of the room. “I could use a pop, though.”

  She fetched it, then found herself sitting on the counter in the kitchen, watching Rembrandt drink the beer Samson had left in her fridge.

  He leaned against the opposite counter. Glanced at the clock.

  “You really think another bomb is going to go off?” she asked, studying the little pucker of worry between his eyes.

  He nodded. “Bombings are designed to make the news, to scare people out of their normal routines and to make a point. I think we’re onto something with this ICDL group. The first one got our attention. The second scared us into staying away from coffee shops. A third one alerts us to their mission and makes us sit up and listen. Their threat is not only credible but irrefutable. They want to force people to pay attention. Yeah, there’s another one coming. And I can’t live with myself if we don’t stop it.” He stared at his beer. “I don’t want it haunting me for the rest of my life.”

  The way he said it, goosebumps lifted on her skin.

  “I was thinking about what you said at lunch about regretting things…yes, I’d want to save my friend, but maybe if I did, I would have never become a CSI. And then…well, I might end up being, I don’t know, a doctor, or even, a barista. I could have been one of those victims at the coffee shops.”

  He looked up at her.

  “I’m just saying that if we did everything differently, we’d still have to learn the same lessons, somehow, right? And if we didn’t, maybe one small change would make everything different. Even, much, much worse.”

  She wasn’t sure where that philosophy came from. “I guess I just think that everything happens for a reason. And going back to change it would mean we’d be a lesser person for the lack of the lesson.”

  He looked at her, nodding quietly, his blue eyes in hers, as if hanging onto her words.

  The expression threaded through her, tugged, and maybe that’s why she slid off the counter. Why she walked over to him.

  He watched her the entire way, his gaze on her turning warm, hot. He swallowed, his breaths rising and
falling.

  She hesitated only a moment before she put her hands on his chest. Contoured, warm, his heartbeat pounded under her hand.

  He set his beer on the counter beside him.

  “Eve,” he said quietly, his voice more of a whisper.

  “Everything happens for a reason, Rembrandt. Like you appearing on my doorstep tonight.” Her pulse thundered in her ears, her words crazy, daring. You like the troublemakers, Eve?

  No. Just this one.

  So, before her common sense could grab a hold, she rose up on her tiptoes, caught his eyes—

  He took a breath in, and his hand tangled into her hair. “I like your hair down…”

  Aw. She simply couldn’t—or didn’t want to—stop herself. Maybe driven by the impulse, the uncanny sense that she belonged, somehow, in Rembrandt’s arms, and he, in hers…she kissed him.

  For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t even breathe. And for a split second, a fear sliced through her that—

  Um no. Because just like that, he came alive. He pulled her into himself, kissing her like he’d been holding his breath, waiting. As if, like her, the urge had lingered in the back of his mind for two days.

  He tasted of the beer he’d been drinking, and her body responded, leaning into his exploration.

  She hadn’t kissed many guys in her life—few, actually—but she knew the difference between a fumbling boy and a man who knew what he was doing.

  It sent a dangerous, delicious spark through her. Troublemakers, indeed.

  Rembrandt Stone. She wrapped her arms up, around his shoulders, closed her eyes, and a small, intimate humming sound emerged.

  It only ignited a tiny growl from the back of his throat.

  Apparently Inspector Rembrandt Stone was all business, whether he was solving crimes or making a move. Strangely, deliciously, he kissed her almost like he knew her, maybe better than she knew herself, his kiss soft, then deepening, then again lingering, making her ache for more.

  This man. Her fingers played with the button of his dress shirt, then found his hot skin and the fine hairs of his chest. Yes, she heard the sirens, sensed the dangerous pull of him, but now ignited, she hadn’t the power to stop.

  Didn’t want to. Because something about his intoxicating presence made her feel alive, brave and yes, even brilliant. Every part of the person she longed to be.

  “Okay, I think I figured it out—Whoa!”

  Her brother came skidding into the room and Rembrandt jerked away from her, his hands on her arms to steady her.

  “Sorry!” Asher turned, about to exit—

  “No, it’s okay, Ash—” she started, but Asher had already fled.

  She laughed.

  Not Rembrandt. His eyes widened and something that looked horribly like guilt flashed across his face. “Um…I…”

  Oh, for Pete’s sake, they weren’t teenagers. “Take a breath, Rem.” She patted his chest, then pushed him away, completely aware that her wet hair lay in tangles, her skin probably flushed red, and surely anyone could see her pounding heartbeat.

  Still, no regrets here.

  “What did you find, Ash?” She followed him into the den, keenly aware of Rembrandt behind her, and when Ash sat down at the computer, she noticed Rem run a hand behind his neck, glance over at her, then away.

  Rembrandt Stone looked suspiciously like he might be freaking out.

  Huh.

  So maybe the guy didn’t break the rules often either. So much to learn about him.

  Rem crossed his arms over his chest, planted his feet and stared at the screen, at the listing of stores, with addresses.

  “There are five stores that carry this coffee in the Metro area,” Asher was saying. “Two, of course, are the locations of the previous bombs, but there are three more, two in Minneapolis, one in St. Paul.”

  “Can you print out the addresses?” Rembrandt said, his tone now all business.

  “Sure.” Asher hit the print button and Rembrandt walked over and stood over the printer, as if he could magically make it print by glaring at it.

  Asher glanced at her, grinned. Eve hit him on the back of the head.

  The printer spit out the list and Rembrandt took it. Returned to Asher.

  “Okay, now I need you to hack into the International Children’s Defense League and see if you can get me a list of names.”

  Asher lifted an eyebrow. “Um, if it has private donors, it’ll be an encrypted site. It’ll take time.”

  “How much time?”

  “Hours. Days, even.”

  By the look on Asher’s face—

  “You don’t know if you can do it,” Eve said.

  Asher shrugged. “I’ll try.”

  Rembrandt checked his watch, something that looked like an antique. She’d noticed it the first day—and the fact that John Booker had one that looked just like it. Must be a department thing.

  “It’s after 3 am. I’d better get you home, kid.”

  That was probably the right decision. But she glanced at Rembrandt, searching for something that might indicate he was coming back…

  He didn’t look at her, staring at the printout.

  Okay, and now they were back in middle school.

  Asher got up and headed to the door.

  She caught Rembrandt’s arm, and he turned. Barely met her eyes.

  “What’s going on?”

  He drew in a breath. Then, oddly, lifted his gaze to hers, reached out and touched her cheek. He drew his thumb down it in a caress, a gesture so sweet it left her wordless.

  “I don’t want any more regrets,” he said quietly.

  Then he walked out the door behind Asher, and closed it.

  Chapter 17

  Maybe I haven’t been completely clear about the way things were between Eve and I, the first time through. The fact is that we didn’t exactly hit it off right away. Sure, I brought her coffee, offered to pay for her busted camera, but like I said, I wasn’t all that bright back then and it didn’t occur to me to ask her out for at least two months. And even when that did finally happen, it was just the first step on a long road.

  I liked her, sure, but during that season she was trying to track down her father and brother’s murderer, and although we worked together, flirted, downed a few after work beers and occasionally found ourselves folded together on her sofa, we dodged any commitment for a couple of years.

  Then came my undercover years, and that’s another story, but it’s hard to love a man you hardly see, and when he does finally turn up, he looks like he’s just escaped from a maximum security prison, and tells tales that are straight out of an FX television series.

  Let’s just say that Eve had her reasons for not wanting to tie herself to a guy like me.

  And then there was Silas. Always in her ear, whispering that I was trouble. He was probably right, but it didn’t help our relationship.

  Eve would argue with me, but I always suspected he was holding a torch for her.

  Yet, despite Silas, despite the demons that kept me on the run, Eve and I kept finding each other, drawn by something bigger than ourselves, our fears, insecurities and even vices. We understood each other, more than anyone else in our lives could, and at the end of the day, respected each other.

  Eve was my compass, my anchor to a life I desperately longed for, even if I didn’t know it.

  I was the gasoline to the fire simmering inside her.

  I’d forgotten how dangerous that combination could be until tonight when she stepped up to me, studied me with those luminous hazel-green eyes, holding more promise than she could even imagine, and kissed me.

  I tried—really, with everything inside me, you have to know I tried not to kiss her. Because, awkwardly, my Eve, the one I was desperate to get back to, was in my head calling me a cheater. Yeah, I
know. Weird. But the truth is, this Eve is not my Eve. Not yet. So maybe I am cheating.

  But as her soft lips found mine, her aroma rising around me, everything merged into one succinct emotion. My Eve became now Eve, the gentle curl of her hair falling over my fingers, the taste of her filling every barren crevasse as she kissed me.

  How could I not kiss her back? Yeah, I agree, I lost myself there, every thing about her so familiar. It took over and pushed me somewhere I know she wasn’t ready for. God help me, but in that moment, every crazy nuance, every unbelievable event of the past thirty-six hours broke open and for a few sweet moments that ached soul deep, I was home.

  I’m still shaking a little, my hands tight on the wheel, the fragrance of Eve still haunting, distracting me as I drive Asher home. The night is thick, my lights peeling back the darkness as we ride down the highway.

  Asher says nothing as he sits beside me, tapping his hands on his jeans. I should turn on the radio, something to fill the prickle of silence between us.

  I don’t remember Asher at all. From Eve’s stories, he was smart, a little bit of a renegade and her favorite. Wiry, this Asher has Eve’s dark auburn curls, his hair surfer long. Our daughter, Ashley, despite her wispy blonde hair, is his ironic spitting image. Tonight he’s wearing a black Guns N’ Roses T-shirt, a pair of cargo shorts, and high top Cons.

  “So, you’re into my sister, huh?” he says into the darkness, apparently not able to stand the void.

  Your sister is my entire life. I don’t say that, though. Instead, “I’d appreciate it if you just forgot what you saw tonight. At least for now.” I look at him. “We need to figure things out.”

  My own words make me want to wince, the line feeling fresh off the set of Friends. But he lifts a shoulder. “I don’t care. It’s your funeral.”

  I frown, but I don’t exactly want to know what he means, so I flip on the radio.

  Oh great, a little Bad Company rolls on with Feel Like Makin’ Love.

  Great.

  He’s looked out the window and I think I see a grin.

  I flick off the radio and pull onto his street. Stop a few doors down. “Thanks.”