No Unturned Stone (The True Lies of Rembrandt Stone 2)

I meet Burke’s gaze, something of defiance in it.

He frowns. “Neither would I.”

I feel like there’s a promise embedded in there, and I nod.

A smile curves into Burke’s face. “There you are. Finally.”

Huh?

“After you got stabbed, you sort of, I don’t know, walked out of your life for a while. As if you’d been sidelined. You seemed to be phoning it in, and I started to wonder if we were still in this together.” Burke slaps my shoulder. “Maybe you have a chance with Eve after all.”

“Of course I do,” I say, but his words have found a place inside that unnerves me.

What happens to me, the other me, when I leave?

By going back in time, rewriting my consciousness, am I turning my gray matter to pulp?

I get in the car and follow Burke back to the station. The hour is late, and I need more information on the stakeout and events of tonight’

s shooting.

The shooting that leads to the drive-by gang response.

I remember this case better, of course. Danny had been the head of a drug-related, gang-centered task force. After his murder, I did a search on the Buick station wagon and unearthed roughly four thousand hits. I turned to my network of informants and hit a dead end.

Not a whisper of who had put out a hit on Danny and Asher.

Over the years, I’d fielded false leads, and a few informants who wanted to trade, but nothing unearthed solid evidence on who had shot them.

But I knew who was behind it.

Like Eve said, it’s Hassan Abdilhali, a Somalian warlord who’s applied his skills to the disenfranchised, disparate refugee population. How do I know?

Because his brother’s death, on this night, makes tomorrow’s headlines.

I just can’t remember where it goes down.

I’m desperate for something to jog my memory as we pull up to Lulu’s. Burke goes in, and I follow him, my stomach stopping to beg as the smell of greasy french fries hits me. The place is decorated fresh out of the fifties, with metal stools at the malt counter, and red vinyl booths lined up along the side of the joint.

Elvis is singing All Shook Up on the jukebox in the corner, and the menu board matches the waitress’s pink dresses. A malt machine fires up, and my stomach whines.

I should have had an ice cream cone.

Burke slides onto a stool and asks to see Teresa.

She’ll ignore him, mostly, and talk to me, standing a little too close, touching my arm, so this time I’ll let Burke do the talking.

In the meantime, I wander over to the rack and pick up the newspaper. Paging through the police beat in the back, I scan for recent arrests.

I hear laughter and Teresa is standing close to Burke now. Touching his arm.

Sorry pal. I turn back to the paper, and an article in the back, page twelve, catches my eye.

Two young men had been arrested in north Minneapolis for petty theft. They had mug shots. And yes, I’m profiling, but they look Somalian. I read the names.

Jamal Gabeyre and Ari Kamas.

What if they weren’t just thugs, but small-time dealers? And what if they could lead me to the bigger operation?