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

I talk like a man who is not caught in a dream, but the actual past. Like I’m not going to wake up any moment, a scream on my lips, my body covered in sweat.

“I interviewed a man on a bicycle who was riding past,” Burke says. “He didn’t see anyone standing outside, watching the place. And I talked to the fire chief. He can’t be sure—they’ll get the arson guys out here, but he says the blast looks like it originated from inside the building, as opposed to one of these charred cars. I’ve got officers talking to other witnesses.”

I know all this, but I nod, because I’m not sure if I’m supposed to let on that I know it. If it’s a dream, does it matter? Maybe I should simply mention that we need to track down the next location, camp out and wait.

But for whom?

Burke. He doesn’t seem any different than twenty years ago. Sure, he has hair now, but when it comes to investigations, he’s still the all-business, let’s-get-it-done guy who follows every rule, crosses every T.

Me, I’m more of an instinct fella, and right now I’m scanning the crowd. Because I’ve always felt like the bomber was a voyeur—that he stuck around to watch his handiwork. In fact, there was evidence the bomb was on a clock, a situation that gave him time to find the perfect location.

Eve is taking pictures of the crowd. That fact lodges in my brain and sticks there. I know she took pictures before, but the bombings happened so fast—three within forty-eight hours—we didn’t have them developed in time to use them. CSI barely had the evidence bagged from the first, only a few of the families notified when the second happened—tomorrow morning, early.

I can’t remember exactly where. I know it’s in the Uptown area, but it’s not a Daily Grind.

I’m wracking my brain for the place when I spot John Booker.

The sight of him turns my mouth dry. He’s exactly how I remember. And he’s heading my direction.

It’s always been my contention that Booker was born a century too late. He reminds me more of a gunslinger than a detective, the way he sizes up a man before he speaks. He doesn’t look like a cowboy, not dressed in his uniform; it’s more the sense of him, the aura of the long arm of the law reaching out to strangle the truth from you.

He’s tall, solidly built, keeps a regular appointment with his barber for his graying brown hair, stands six foot four, and although no man has ever scared me, a stare from John Booker’s gray eyes comes close.

He finds me and I am shaken with a strange rush of emotion. Wow, I miss him.

“You’re lead on this, Rem.”

This ancient, pivotal conversation is slowly coming back to me. I try and act surprised. “Why?”

“Because you’re ready—you and Burke. Run your investigation by me and I’ll give you my input, but we gotta find whoever did this, and fast before the city freaks out.”

Not to mention, stop the next one. I’m seriously debating adding that, but I’m not sure if that will emerge quite the way I intend it.

I might get a look from John like I did from Eve. The one that suggests I didn’t make a stellar first impression.

But, yes, this time, we’ll catch him. I make that promise to myself and, in an amended version, to John who nods and walks back to the horror.

I take a breath, keenly aware that I’m back to the beginning.

And this time, at least in my dreams, everything will be different.

Chapter 7

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I can’t shake this eerie voodoo. It isn’t quite like déjà vu, but close enough, the hiccup inside that says you’ve said that, seen that, heard that, done that before. And you have, it’s just…

I just burned my mouth on the bitter, too hot coffee.

You don’t dream that, do you? The fatness of your tongue as it absorbs the heat?

Or the way it burns my hand as I jerk back, the liquid sloshing over the edge of my Styrofoam cup.

Burke looks over at me, frowns. We’re standing in the community room of the shiny new 3rd Precinct, with the bullet proof, floor to ceiling windows that overlook 31st Street. Our usual haunt, located downtown in the ancient City Hall building, is under renovation. Along one wall of the community room, I’ve pinned all the faces of the deceased, some of them already identified. Seven total. Two of them are men, who carried their identification with them. The rest are women. And one toddler. I grit my teeth.

Melinda Jorgensen is the third picture in, on the top row. She hasn’t yet been named, and it’s a gut punch to see the word “unidentified” next to her picture. Down below, on the bottom is her towheaded son, and with everything inside me I want to unpin him, place him next to his mother.

Weird, I know.