Cast the First Stone (The True Lies of Rembrandt Stone 1)

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?”