Cast the First Stone Page 3

  Then she flicks off the light and leads me back up the stairs.

  And in the silk of the night, she does her best to convince the past to set me free.

  Chapter 3

  I work from home. This is not the same as being a stay-at-home dad, although it can feel the same sometimes when I’m the only one around to bring Ashley’s forgotten lunch to school or show up in the carpool line to drive her home. I’ll even take her to the park, but I bring my iPad with me and spend some time catching up on my Star-Trib reading, (and maybe a little solitaire).

  The mothers talk about me, sitting across the sandy pit at a picnic table, waving occasionally. I can’t hear them, but I know their words.

  Poor man, doesn’t he have a job?

  I do. I will. I refuse to be sucked into the temptation to drop into their laps one of my many garage-storage copies of The Last Year.

  However, I admit to keeping a box in the trunk of my car. Just, in case.

  They invite me over sometimes, and I’m nice, because, like I said, Eve doesn’t burn bridges.

  I do. With a flourish, and plenty of gasoline and explosives.

  Eve’s way might be better.

  I’m not on playground—or even school drop off—duty today. Eve and Ashley are gone by the time I finish my run, 3.2 miles around Lake Calhoun. I brace my hands against the shower tile, letting the cool water sluice between my shoulder blades, trying to work it out.

  He gave you his watch, Rem. When did you ever know John Booker to do anything by accident?

  Eve’s right, I know it in my bones, and the question is a burr under my skin. Forgiveness? Maybe. But like I said, I’m not the one who needed forgiving.

  So, something else then. While John had a little bit of cowboy in him, the kind of guy who, in earlier days might have shot first and asked questions later, he wasn’t vindictive.

  Just, immovable.

  One might say, stalwart.

  I wish there was someone to ask—Burke, maybe, but he left shortly after we cut the cake yesterday, and it’s not like he’s going to disagree with Eve. He probably considers himself on that list of people I need to apologize to, except he knows me, so he’s not holding his breath.

  We’ve managed to find a tenable peace, dodging the what-ifs in our weekly workouts and occasional go-arounds in the ring. We’re a fair match, but I see the satisfaction in his eye when he lands the occasionally bell-ringing shot. I look up at him from the mat and he’s fighting a smile.

  Enjoy it, pal, because that’s all the apology you’re ever going to get.

  The windows are open, the day bright and cheery as I go downstairs, neatly avoiding the office, for now, and head into the kitchen.

  Eve has left me coffee and I fill my cup, grab a piece of cold bacon, soggy on a paper towel near the stove and am mentally checking off my to-do list on the re-staining of the baseboard in the dining room when my gaze lands on a scrap of paper on the counter.

  A torn out yellow page. I walk over and see it’s the watch repair listings. Across the top, Eve has scribbled one word in a black sharpie. Go.

  Maybe I’ll never know why John left me his watch, but something about the word etched in the back, along with Eve’s nudge has me latching onto the idea that this is my chance to find out, maybe lance the festering.

  Not ask for forgiveness, let’s make that clear. But just to seal up the dark ache inside.

  Besides, I can almost hear her. You’re an Inspector, Rem. Figure it out.

  Was. Was an Inspector.

  I pull up a Google map of the first place. It’s just a couple miles away in Uptown, so how long can it take?

  Folding the listing, I shove the paper into my jeans pocket, stop by the office to grab the watch off the desk and head outside.

  I get my passion for vintage German automotive technology from my dad. He had a private love affair with a 1962 VW Bug that we spent years in our garage restoring, but I have more elegant tastes.

  I’m a sucker for the 911 Porsches, especially the 993 GT2 line. Turbos, they’re called, and in 1985 Porsche took the 911 Turbo, twin-turbo, flat-six engine and combined it with a wide-body, rear-drive chassis to create a beautiful machine. Side canards and a massive rear wing with air scoops, it was also upgraded under the hood, it got a bump to 429 hp—which meant zero to sixty in 3.9 seconds, top speed 187 mph. Porsche only made fifty-seven of these beauties, the last of the air-cooled engines and fate smiled down on me the day a guy who called himself Biggie North got picked up on 35W doing a Hasselhoff, as if the three-lane freeway might be the Autobahn. Poor girl was coughing her way down the highway, finally sputtered out and shut down right there in the middle lane. Highway patrol snagged Biggie on a dozen other warrants and my dream girl got hauled off to impound.

  A month later, she auctioned off at exactly the spare change in my recently flush savings account.

  I spent the next year under the hood, replaced the timing belt, rebuilt the carburetor, got her purring, then turned to the interior where I ripped out the red carpet, replaced it with utilitarian black, shined up the leather seats and since then she’s been a guy’s best friend.

  Always hot, always ready to go. I know I sound about twenty-six, but a guy needs a way to remember who he was.

  Eve hates the car. Makes me drive the Ford Escape when I take Ashley to school, even though Ash would choose the Porsche every time.

  I slide in, open the T-roof and turn on KQ92 as I pull out.

  I tap out Haddaway’s, “What is Love,” on the steering wheel as I cruise around the lake. There are still a few runners out as the sun climbs the sky, the lake rippling under the brush of the wind. I like the energy of Uptown, the specialty delis, the mix of vintage theaters and shiny new gyms and eclectic whole food cafés. There’s something for everybody, and it never bores.

  I’d die a slow death in the suburbs, and so would Eve. She loves heading up her own gritty crime scene investigation department downtown, and she might not admit it, but in her own way, she’s picked up where her dad left off.

  I win a spot with a still flush meter across the street from American Vintage Watch Repair, listed on a tiny door wedged between a Mediterranean Grill and a Deluxe Smokes, e-cigarettes. Following a dim hallway, I discover an office that looks more like my grandfather’s old workshop, wooden bench, dim lighting and a thousand crazy screws, washers and tools included.

  A giant magnifying glass is mounted to the surface, and at the top, what looks like surgical instruments are fitted into a tray, ready to be plucked for use. Solder equipment, canisters of oils and grease, and over a dozen watches, all antique, hang on a dowel under a hanging fluorescent lamp.

  A man sits at the desk, a monocle wedged into his eye, leaning over to examine the finite gears on a pocket watch.

  I clear my throat as I stand at the door.

  He ignores me.

  “I’m wondering—”

  He holds up his free hand, cutting off my words, and I watch in silence as he reaches out and grabs, clearly from practice, a pair of tweezers.

  I hold my breath as he reaches in and plucks out the offending gear.

  Then he sets the gear and the monocle on the desk. He’s Asian, dark-skinned, and looks at me as if I’ve annoyed him.

  “You fix watches?”

  He stares at me.

  I know I sound like a moron, so I pull Booker’s watch from my pocket and simply hand it over.

  He still says nothing, but takes my watch, turns it over, then back and frowns.

  “I can’t fix this.” He shoves the watch back at me.

  “What do you mean? You barely even looked at it.” I find myself rubbing my thumb over the inscription.

  “I can’t fix.” He shoos me away with a flick of his hand. Reaches for his monocle.

  I’m not quite dismissed, thanks, p
al. “Why not?”

  “It’s not my specialty. Besides, it’s not broken.”

  “What do you mean it’s not broken? You can’t wind it, see?” I give him a little demonstration, but he shakes his head.

  “Okay, fine. Do you know anyone who can fix it?”

  He puts down his monocle. Purses his lips and reaches for a business card. He writes something on the back and hands it to me.

  I turn it over.

  It’s an address in Stillwater, a tiny town an hour south from here. I know because Eve and I spent our honeymoon there, nearly eight years ago, camped out at a bed and breakfast that overlooked the river.

  She was three months pregnant, still nauseated with morning sickness, and even the smell of the gourmet blueberry pancakes sent her running to the bathroom. Not a great start to our life together, and the next six months weren’t much better, with her bed rest and a couple of miscarriage scares. We spent the weekend watching old movies on a tiny television set, me running out for special order ice cream.

  I’d love to have another go at the whole thing, starting with the fact that it took me nearly a decade to propose. What was I so afraid of?

  I glance at the front of the card, mumble a thanks and head back to the street. I climb into the Porsche and sit there for a minute, debating.

  I should go home and work on my manuscript.

  A slightly better option would be to finish staining the baseboard in the dining room.

  Or, I could strike the jackpot and get a call from one of the moms at Ashley’s school, and get invited for a play date.

  As if my mood has conjured it, my cell rings and I look at caller I.D.. I scowl. My agent. Great. But I’ve been avoiding him way too long, so, “Frank. How are you?”

  Frank Rydlebower hasn’t had a publishing triumph in nearly a decade. I know he keeps me around because of the lure of my former success, The Last Year, settling in the top ten of The New York Times over twenty years ago. He still thinks he can shine me up and sell me to the highest bidder.

  We’ve gotten a few bites, my history at the Minneapolis Police Department still a decent calling card. But apparently, publishers want a finished book.

  Of all the gall.

  “Rembrandt. How’s the writing going?”

  A convertible eases past me down Lake Street, pumping out Taylor Swift’s “Shake it off.”

  “Making progress.” I can lie like a criminal when I need to.

  “Good.” He hesitates, and suddenly I have the urge to lean my head against the steering wheel and sigh.

  “What?”

  “I clear my list every year, Rem, and it’s been three since you signed with me…”

  Aw, shoot. “I’ll have something to you by the end of the week,” I say, praying this time it’s not a lie.

  Silence. Then, “Okay, good. You’ve got another bestseller in you, I know it. Looking forward to reading it.”

  Yeah, me too. I hang up, knowing I gotta head home. I’ve got an empty page waiting for me. It can wait a little longer.

  I pull out and point the Porsche to the highway, heading south.

  It’s a gorgeous day, made even more so by the free and easy vibe of the highway, and I crank up my radio. Sure, I grew up in the late 80s, but my music tastes were cut from a staticky Panasonic radio propped up in my dad’s garage, pumping out classics.

  I queue up my play list. I might have a vintage car, but the sound system is top of the line. The Eagles are singing “Hotel California” as I head south.

  For the next hour, I’m free, and cruising, twenty-six and leaving it all behind. I barely look at the map, motoring into Stillwater from memory. I pull into a coffee shop and get out, finding my bearings.

  The address is a couple blocks away, so I decide to walk. Never hurts to get the lay of the land.

  It’s a house. An old white-stucco Tudor with a decaying brick chimney climbing up the front, a quaint rounded top door, with dark stain. I guess I notice those things now—the color of stain, the hosta around the walk, the vintage Japanese maple in the front yard. I’m going to blame my improved home decorating eye on Eve and her laundry list of house upgrades.

  I check the address against the metal numbers on the lintel, notice the bars on the tiny square window, and the outer door, then press the bell. A Gothic chime bullies the place and I don’t hear the footsteps.

  The door opens, and I’m sized up by an elderly gentlemen, so thin his bones protrude from a lined, saggy face. Fraying white hair, gnarled hands, but his eyes bore through me as if, once up on a time, he was somebody that understood what trouble looked like.

  Or maybe that’s just the bars on the door telling his story.

  “Yes?”

  I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or intrigued, so I offer my name, adding, “I was sent here by the Vintage Watch shop guy in Uptown.”

  He frowns.

  “I was hoping…” I pull out the watch.

  He stretches out a hand, through the bars, and I hesitate only a moment before dropping it into his grip.

  He comes alive as he runs his thumb over the inscription, not unlike I’ve found myself doing. He fiddles with the dial, then with a quickness that startles me, shuts the door.

  What—?

  “Hey!” I grab the bars, knock on the door, but it’s locked. I lay on the doorbell. “Give me my watch back!”

  I’m debating circling around the back when the door pops open and Grandpa is back, holding my watch, a stethoscope hanging from his ears.

  Seriously?

  He’s listening to the watch as if it might have a heartbeat. I stand there awkwardly, waiting for the prognosis.

  This is stupid.

  But when he hands the watch back to me, I’m oddly hopeful.

  Until, “There’s nothing wrong with the watch.”

  Here we go again. “What are you talking about? It doesn’t work, see?” I do a demonstration for him, winding the dial, holding it up so he can see the dead-in-their-tracks hands. “Nothing moves.”

  Grandpa has removed his stethoscope, draping it around his neck. He looks at me with a sort of shake of his head. “The watch is working exactly as it is intended. Didn’t anyone show you how to use it?”

  I blink at the old man. “No. Actually, I sort of inherited it.”

  One untrimmed eyebrow goes up. “Certainly you’ve seen it used.”

  This rocks me back. “Of course. It was…well, my boss had it, and he gave it to me when he died. But he wore it for years.”

  This has elicited a response, something of understanding because Grandpa is nodding. “I see.”

  “But I don’t!”

  “Just use it like you saw him use it, and it will do its job.”

  “It doesn’t work! It’s job is to tell the freakin’ time!”

  “You’re wrong. It’s working exactly how it’s intended.” And with that Grandpa closes the door.

  Leaving me to stand on the steps in hot sun.

  And now I want to hit something, so maybe it’s time for the gym. Because Eve’s right. I’m a detective and I want answers.

  Chapter 4

  Quincy’s Boxing Gym is located in north Minneapolis in an old warehouse, with a rolling garage door for the entrance. It’s hip, with exposed piping, metal beams and tiny boxed warehouse windows that give it a vintage feel. With two sparring rings, ten hanging bags, a free weight room, pull-up and dip bars and plenty of graffiti, the place smells of cement, sweat, and raw, hard work.

  The Who is playing at ear piercing volumes as I walk in.

  I’ve been coming here for twenty years, and frankly, it’s not for the atmosphere, or the music.

  It’s because Burke shows up every day at exactly 4:12 p.m., after his day shift ends and once upon a time, it was the one place where we could work off
the day.

  Now, like I said, I want answers.

  It’s early so I change, do a few sets with the jump rope, popping a sweat.

  I drop for a set of polymeric push ups, flip over and add in some sit ups, then end with a few squat thrusts.

  I’m sweating, my body buzzing and I’m ready to hit something.

  I tape up and work the speed bag. The Doors sing about lighting my fire, and I’m breathing hard when I see Burke stroll in.

  He glances at me, nods, and heads to the locker room.

  I finish my speed bag sprint and do some shadowboxing. Then I glove up and I’m at the heavy bag when he emerges.

  He steps up to the bag, just to tame it.

  I imagine the bag is John Booker and land my fist in the center. I’ve been at this enough to know how to keep my balance, but I’m still a little unfocused, maybe, so I dig down. I lean in and feel the sharp smack of my fist against the bag, a snapping punch, not a push.

  I’m not trying to take myself out, just work off those words. Because what can a watch do if it doesn’t tell time?

  The bag swings hard, back at me, and I keep my feet light, following it. I don’t wait to throw the next punch, because that’s for beginners, but dive back in.

  I feel Burke at my side before I see him. He catches the bag. “My turn.”

  I’m breathing harder than I thought and sweat saturates my shirt. Burke works off my mitts, tosses them aside and gloves up.

  “What I don’t get is why Booker gave me the files. And his watch—did you know about that?”

  I don’t need a preamble with Burke. He nods and says, “I wondered what this was about.”

  “Why couldn’t he just leave it?”

  Burke lifts a shoulder, throws a punch. I’m aware that he hasn’t warmed up, but his hit stuns the entire bag, a massive force, and I’m sorta glad we’re not sparring.

  I’m clearly out of shape and that makes me even more perturbed.

  “I’m surprised you’re surprised,” Burke says, dancing with the bag. “Clearly, he thinks you have unfinished business.”

  “Half those files are yours.”