Cast the First Stone Page 9

  “And there’s nothing else there but the backside of the grocery store,” Silas said.

  “So, he was standing outside, watching?” Eve heard Rembrandt’s words pinging inside her. “He thinks the bomber is trying to make a point. The early time suggests he wasn’t as interested in massive casualties as he was in making a point.”

  “Which means he wanted to make sure it went off.”

  “Let’s see if we can pull DNA off this. Could be nothing, but if whoever the cup belongs to was in the store, he or she might have seen something. We may have a survivor here who we missed.” She handed him the baggie. “Tomorrow. Go home, Silas. It’s been a long day and it’s late.”

  “You first.” Silas glanced at his watch. “Pizza?”

  She scrubbed her hands down her face. “I just want to climb into my bathtub and see if I can put myself back together.”

  “You don’t have running water,” Silas said.

  “Thanks for that.” She followed him to the door, grabbing her satchel from the rack. “Samson promised he’d turn the water on.”

  Silas pushed open the door, out into the night. Overhead, stars spilled across a dark and desolate sky, pinpricks of hope, the moon an eye upon the city. She followed the puddles of street lamps out to her Escort. Silas stood at her door and hung a hand on it as she opened it.

  “You sure you don’t want pizza?”

  He stood there, his blond hair swept back and tucked behind his ears, hazel eyes imperative.

  “I gotta tell you something.” He shifted, blew out a breath and adjusted his shoulder strap on his backpack. “I don’t think you should be hanging out with Stone.”

  “I’m picking that up. Calm down, it was just lunch—”

  “He didn’t reveal all his secrets in that memoir of his.”

  She slowly rose from her seat. “I’m listening.”

  Silas stepped back from her door, and she closed it, then leaned against it, arms folded.

  “Listen, I’m not trying to get him into trouble. It’s just—”

  “Tell me.”

  He ran his hand across his jaw. “Okay, so there was a case involving this missing four-year-old girl.”

  “We talked about it today, over lunch. She was kidnapped from Minnehaha Park.”

  “Yeah. Took them three days to find her—and when they did, she was dead.”

  “Sad—”

  “Horrifying, because she’d also been raped. And when the coroner found that out, rumor is that your friend Rembrandt sort of lost it.” He blew out a breath. “See, it was after they picked up the perp, and when the semen analysis came back, it was from…well, her father. And although there was nothing to tie the father to the kidnapping, he had contact with her either before or during the abduction. But the guy alibied out for the entire time, so…”

  A chill had started in her core, begun to wring through her.

  Silas seemed to be considering his next words, the way he stared out into the street, watching late night traffic cruise down the strip. The heat of the day had released from the sidewalks, now simmered in the air, mixing with the dirt and must of the city. A siren shot through the silence, whining in the distance.

  “What happened?”

  Silas met her eyes. “No one can prove it, but…well, the father was found beaten, nearly to death, outside a bar in St. Paul. One witness said they saw a Camaro parked on the street, but retracted it later.”

  “A Camaro?”

  “Black.” Silas’ eyes narrowed. “Stone drives a black Camaro.”

  His words dropped through her like a stone. “You don’t think…”

  “I absolutely do think. Everyone knows he’s a fighter—works out with his partner all the time at a local boxing ring.”

  She just stared at him. “He wouldn’t…” she said softly.

  He shrugged. “IA did some investigation, but rumor was Burke confirmed his alibi. Of course.”

  She made a non-committal noise. Then, “I might be on his side, just a little.”

  Silas raised an eyebrow. “No doubt it strikes a nerve in all of us to think about that little girl…and…” He shook his head. “But he nearly killed the guy, Eve.”

  “Supposedly.”

  “Really?”

  “You don’t know. And he was cleared.”

  Silas held up his hands. “All I’m saying is that the guy has a dark side. Don’t get too close, okay?”

  Huh. But she nodded.

  He let her climb in her car, and stood there watching as she backed out. Waved before heading to his own car.

  She pulled out, driving through the darkened streets toward Lake Street, then past Lake Calhoun, glistening under the moonlight in Technicolor with the lights of the city.

  When she pulled up to her house, Samson’s truck was parked out front. Moths played kamikaze with her lit porch light as she opened her door.

  Inside, the kitchen light beckoned her and she found Samson sprawled under her sink, in his stocking feet and grout-splattered jeans. But along her kitchen counter, below the cupboards and along the back splash of her new stove, ice-blue tiles lined the walls, grouted with a foamy blue. And shoot, but Sams was right.

  “Nice,” she said, dropping her satchel on her countertop. Samson climbed out, knocking his hat sideways.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey,” she said.

  “I have beer in the fridge.” He climbed to his feet.

  “I just need a bath. Please, please—”

  “The water will be on in a jiffy. I need to finish connecting the new faucet.”

  She noticed it now, a stainless goose neck. “The place looks good, Sams.”

  He disappeared again under the sink. “Thanks. I know you had a rough day, so I wanted to finish it for you before you got home.”

  Sweet. She opened the fridge, grabbed a couple beers and when he slid back out, handed him one. He opened it, then hers and tapped their beers together.

  They drank in silence.

  “Is it okay if I crash on your sofa?”

  She grinned. “Yeah. Or in the second bedroom upstairs.”

  “Great. Because I’m bushed.” He picked up his pipe wrench, dropped it into an open toolbox, then closed it. “I’m going to put this in my truck.”

  She followed him to the door and walked out onto the porch as he went down the steps, then strode out to his Ford.

  Sinking down onto the steps, she stared at the skyline in the distance, the purple lip of the IDS Tower, the shiny white of First Bank Place, and the glass curtain wall of the Piper Jaffray Building. A wall of clouds had moved in behind it, now starting to clutter the sky, and the scent of rain stirred in the hush of wind. Gooseflesh rose on her arms, despite the scrub of heat.

  Samson returned and sat next to her. Took another drink, staring into the quiet neighborhood.

  “I keep thinking about all those people today. They go in to buy coffee…and their lives are over, just like that.” Eve touched the bottle to her lips. “It could have been me. I go into that place off Lake almost every day.”

  “Yeah. Think of their families, their spouses,” Samson said quietly.

  She picked at the label on the bottle. “There was a kid—two years old.”

  “Aw, man.”

  “I know. And…well, I had lunch with Inspectors Stone and Burke today. Rembrandt thinks it’s just the beginning.”

  Samson glanced at her. “Rembrandt?”

  She didn’t pick up the bait, despite his smile. “What if he’s right?”

  “Why does he think there’s gonna be more?”

  “Instincts, he says.”

  Samson made a non-committal sound. Then, “Just do your job, sis. And let Stone do his.”

  She nodded. Took another sip of her beer, Rembrandt’s v
oice in her head. He’s not getting away with this…not on my watch.

  Yeah, well not on hers, either.

  Chapter 11

  "I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish, Rem. This is stupid.”

  Burke has been muttering that for the last two hours as we’d driven up and parked outside one, after another, coffee houses in the West Minneapolis area.

  I’m drawing a complete blank and that fact has me wanting to bang my head against the steering wheel. I try to picture the file, the names, but only the shots from the first bombing—and perhaps the last—stand out. The last was so much more devastating. Three other buildings evacuated, an entire city block destroyed, and eight lives lost.

  I still can’t remember where either of them took place, however, and I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because I focused so hard on the victims, their faces deep wounds etched into my soul.

  I do remember snippets—a German Shepherd running the length of a chain link fence, barking. An ice cream truck—strange, right? Tiny bells, ringing as if oblivious to the sirens, the flames licking the sky.

  I also remember mannequins littering the destruction. We panicked when we first arrived and thought they were bodies.

  But as hard as I dig, I can’t place the location of either scene.

  “We should have done this in daylight,” I grouse. We spent three hours after dropping off Eve tracking down the off-duty employees of the Daily Grind, interviewing them about other employees. Even had a sit-down with the managers and the owner at the station.

  All the interrogations I know will lead to nothing. No one has a motive, even the means to pull off a homemade pipe bomb.

  So I admit to standing against the wall, arms akimbo as Burke prodded them for clues.

  Through another window, I watched John Booker meet with families—husbands, wives, parents…

  Melinda Jorgenson has a name now, as does her son, David.

  I shouldn’t have had that beer, because it’s been trying to come back up for hours. We finally left—I insisted on driving, and have been trying to jog my memory since then.

  It’s dark, and the city is alive, lights splotching the pavement, the heat rising out of it from the day. A moon rose long ago, but a storm might be blowing in, the taste of it in the stir of the trees.

  I’m tired. Bone weary, which is also weird because does that happen in a dream? The whole day has put me at odds with myself. I’m frayed and fighting a headache.

  Burke’s grumbling doesn’t help. “Take me back to the station.”

  “Fine by me,” I say and turn onto Minnehaha Avenue, heading east.

  “I don’t get it. You practically ignore valuable questioning from potential leads, and now, what, you’re psychically trying to figure out where this guy—if this guy—is going to strike next?”

  “I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “Try and make me, pal, because I’m trying to be on your side here.”

  That throws a little ice on my ire. But I have nothing for him because even in a dream, the truth sounds impossible.

  We drive in silence.

  “Okay, what’s eating you? You’re like a man possessed today, and it doesn’t add up. We’re all a little shaken, but…is this about what happened in Booker’s office?”

  His question jerks me up, lands like a fist in my chest because I’ve forgotten.

  My brother.

  It happened so many years ago, the grief has a thick scab over it now, but twenty years ago, the news knocked me sideways, blurred the two events—the bombing and my brother’s body recovery—together.

  Now, it feels like an old, dried wound that I am reticent to pick at.

  “A couple fisherman found a body of a kid in a lake near Waconia yesterday.”

  Silence, then, “And Booker thinks it’s your brother?”

  I nod.

  He looks away, and releases a curse under his breath. Really, it’s how I should be feeling, but like I said, the old wound has scabbed over. I’ve done my grieving, although I suppose when it comes to grief, it just keeps circling back around because a heaviness builds in my throat.

  “Sorry.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And there was that kid today, at the scene.”

  David Jorgenson, which, for some reason, feels like a fresher wound, and the heaviness descends to my chest.

  “Do your parents know?”

  “I’m waiting for the DNA to come back before I talk to them, just, you know, to be sure.”

  “I suppose, having some closure will help,” he says.

  It will, and it does, but I just nod.

  We pull up across the street from 5th Street Java and I stare at the stand-alone brick building. It has a green awning, the windows dark, the chalked specials on the window shrouded. Across the street, a twenty-four hour laundromat beams lights onto the pavement.

  I roll down the window and turn off the car, trying to get a feel for the place.

  “What are we doing, man?”

  I sigh. And really, what does it matter? It’s just a dream. It’s not like Burke is going to wake up tomorrow and suddenly think, hey, remember when you went off your rocker twenty-four years ago, and claimed that you were in a dream and predicted a bombing?

  So I turn to him. He’s hidden in the darkness, just his eyes, white and confused on me as I shrug.

  “I’m having a dream. A very vivid one where I’m reliving my—our—first cold case. It’s three bombings. One today, one tomorrow and one the next day. And I’m trying to stop them.”

  He is silent, just blinking at me. Then, “What?”

  “I know, but—listen, it’s not the first time I’ve had this dream, although usually it stops right around the time of the first bombing, when Melinda Jorgenson goes into the coffee shop. I don’t know why I’m not waking up but, as long as I’m here, I have to try and stop—”

  “Are you high?”

  His question knocks me back. “What? No, of course not—”

  “Then, what are you talking about? This is not a dream, man. This is real.” Burke’s voice get intense. “Get out. I’m driving.” The door opens and the dome light flickers on. I can see his face now, and he’s serious, his eyes wide, shaking his head.

  “Burke—”

  “Shut up.” He gets out and I’m not sure what to do because, well, although I expected disbelief, the anger in his voice has rocked me.

  He opens my driver’s door and as I turn, he hauls me bodily out of the car.

  I go without resisting because I don’t want to make a scene, but I give him a hard shove as soon as I hit my feet. “Step back.”

  Burke puts his hands up, a decoy a split second before he slams me into the car. His face is in mine and he’s eying me as if he doesn’t know me.

  And now I’m mad, too. “I’m telling the truth. This is twenty-four years ago for me. The bomber goes uncaught, and we spend the next two decades looking at twenty faces who beg us for justice. And it’s eating me alive, Burke.”

  I walk away from the car, then round on him. “I wake up in the middle of the night, sweating, and Eve—she tries, I know—to tell me to let it go, but I can’t, right? And I know I’ve got everything going right for me—Ashley, and Eve and—geez, we’re still friends, sort of, but—it’s still there, you know? The regret. The fact that I failed so many people. And now, suddenly I’m here, dreaming, and it’s not like the other times and I think, maybe I can fix it this time. And yeah, when I wake up it’ll still be messed up, but at least—at least I’ll know I tried. And maybe I won’t see Melinda Jorgensen’s face haunting me, carrying little David into the coffee shop.”

  Burke has backed away, staring at me like I’m speaking Russian. And he’s shaking his head.

  “I can’t remember, though. Where the second—or
third—bombings took place. You’d think I’d remember the exact location, but it’s escaping me. Sort of like the lyrics to a song I know I should know, but can’t quite put my finger on. So, I’ve been driving around, hoping something jogs my memory.”

  He frowns, a tiny smile playing on his lips. And for a second, I think, yeah, it’s sadly funny. But Burke is on my team, backing me up, my partner.

  He starts to laugh, shaking his head, grinning. “Geez, Rem. Seriously, you had me going there.”

  Huh. I lick my lips, my mouth oddly dry as he slaps one of his big maws on my shoulder. “You and Eve? Right. Yeah, dude, you are dreaming.”

  I just gape at him because, “What’s so crazy about that? We’re married. We have a kid.”

  “Eve Mulligan ain’t ever gonna marry you.” He laughs. “Saying she’s out of your league is like saying Fran Tarkenton was a sorta okay quarterback.”

  I know that, but it hurts a little to see Burke so convinced.

  “I’ll have you know that Eve thinks…she’s a fan. We’re good together.”

  Burke comes close now, is staring into my eyes, searching. “I don’t know why you’re pranking me, but…good one. You sounded as serious as a heart attack.”

  “I am serious.”

  “Mmmhmm. Okay, it’s time to call it a night.”

  He pushes past me and climbs into the driver’s seat.

  “Hey.”

  “What did I just tell you? I’m driving. Get in if you want a ride.”

  I stifle a word and head around to the passenger side. “I have three more shops on my list.”

  “Forget it. I’m taking you home.”

  I shake my head, but he puts the car into drive. “If it’s a dream, you can wake up tomorrow and start over. I know, maybe you can take a look at the file and figure out where the shops were, save us some time, huh?”

  He’s smirking, mocking me, but the words, the idea slips into my head.

  I’ll do exactly that. When I wake up, I’ll go over the case. Then when night hits, I’ll take another sleeping pill, or whatever knocked me into this loop and find myself back in time, starting over.

  And I’ll do things right with Eve, too. I won’t knock coffee on her, but I’ll figure out something witty to say. This time I’ll score a date, without Burke, and figure out a way to fast-track our romance.