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

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 on this.”

He raised one dark eyebrow and admittedly, her heart gave a little start.

He was better looking than his book jacket. Especially with his collar unbuttoned, the tiniest grizzle of whiskers across his chin. Those blue eyes skimmed over her, checking her out.