Cast the First Stone by David Warren (i have read the book a hundred times txt) 📗

Huh? “It’s…” Not yet repaired. Because now I remember. At the time of the bombing, I’d parked the car in my father’s garage, on his hobby farm out in Waconia, because I live in a one bedroom apartment four blocks off the lake, in a three-story walk up brownstone on Holmes.

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