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

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.