No Unturned Stone

by David James Warren

  “How…what?”

  He draws in a breath. “I started to suspect something during the bombings. You just…” He shakes his head. “Rem, there’s no way you followed the hunch in your gut to that third location.”

  Remember, I was undercover for a while. So, I angle him a look. “What are you talking about? Eve and I made the connection between the coffee suppliers—”

  Booker cuts me off with a compound word I’ve rarely heard him say.

  Okay.

  “How long?”

  I’m still not following, although a slow creep in the center of my gut is telling me—

  “You have it, don’t you?”

  “What?”

  He stares at me for a full ten seconds before answering. “My watch.”

  I look down at my wrist. Swallow.

  “How long have I been dead?”

  I stare at him, my eyes wide, blown apart. “I—”

  “Did you give me a good eulogy?” He grins and I’m frozen. Because what am I going to do? Confess that I’m from the future? See, even to me it sounds crazy, and I’m living it.

  He holds up his hand. “Okay. I get it. You don’t want to tell me. And probably that’s right, because I shouldn’t know.”

  Now, I want to tell him. Please, don’t track down Leo Fitzgerald at his house. Don’t go inside. You’ll set off a trigger line and…

  “How’d you know?”

  “You kidding?” He grunts and chuckles at the same time. “It’s written all over your face in block letters.”

  I sigh. “I have questions—”

  Booker holds up his hand again. “In time. I’m going to tell you only what you need to know, what Chief of Police Greg Sulzbach said to me when he gave me the watch.”

  My eyes widen because I remember him. He died of cancer a few years before I joined the force.

  “I looked just as wild-eyed when I realized that…well, that I could go back and get justice.” He raises his eyebrows and I nod, my first acquiesce to the truth.

  But, Booker knows. He knows, and maybe, suddenly, I have an ally.

  “I have to tell you something, Chief—”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “But—”

  “Here are the rules. The biggest one, the one that is never, ever to be broken…Don’t change the past.”

  Oh.

  “You don’t know what else you could change, and what chaos you could cause.”

  I look away, my mouth pursed, because I could have used this conversation, well, a couple days, one month and twenty-plus years ago.

  Before I overwrote my life.

  But really, I couldn’t let people just…die, right?

  He gave the watch to the wrong person if he expected me not to get involved.

  “The watch was created to find answers, bring closure. To solve cases. And keep people from suffering.”

  Now I understand. Booker gave me the watch because, out of all his detectives, I had an upfront and center view of suffering, thanks to my brother.

  And here I thought he believed in me.

  “The watch can only take you back to the moment a crime has been committed. And you have forty-eight hours to solve it.”

  “What if I don’t solve it?”

  He sighs. “Then it never gets solved.” His mouth pinches. “Try not to let that happen.”

  Yeah, baby, I knew it. I mean, at this point, we all knew Booker could go back in time also, but remember, I guessed it back at the Foxes’. Some sort of smug satisfaction shows on my face, because Booker frowns at me.

  “What?” he asks.

  “That’s why you have such an amazing record of closed cases. Because you went back in time and solved them. That is cheating.”

  He cocks his head, narrows one eye.

  I am still grinning at him.

  “Fine. You’re right, kid. But it was never about the record. It was about justice.”

  Right. Yes. Justice.

  And maybe Eve. And fixing the wounds of our past.

  “Listen, if you have the watch, you also have your cold cases. Solve them. Methodically. One by one. Don’t skip any. And by the way, you can only solve your cold cases—no one else’s. And don’t ever forget that you have people’s lives, their futures, in your hands.”

  That’s a little heavy, but my mind goes to Art, and I can’t shake the idea that something I did landed him in that chair. I feel a little like I did when I took my oath of honor. On my honor, I will never betray my badge, my integrity, my character or the public trust.

  Oh, man.

  But what if… “Chief. I know about a shooting—”

  “Don’t—”

  “But it’s someone—”

  “Do you know who killed him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then your job is done.”

  “He’s not dead yet!”

  “For you, he is.”

  “But he’s…he’s a cop.”

  Booker freezes, and he’s shut down, his mouth a grim line.

  “Book. Please. Just this once.” And okay, twice, because, you know, Ashley. But by then, maybe I’ll have rewritten time, and Booker and I might not have had this conversation. Or maybe we will have and…

  I’m seriously confused. But we all know that there are some promises we can’t keep, some rules that must be broken, right?

  He swallows. Then looks at me and shakes his head. “No, Rem. You don’t understand. You can’t win against time. You aren’t here to save people. Changing history…you don’t know what you’re messing with. You don’t know that the tiniest change could, well it could destroy lives.”

  I feel like he’s seeing inside my soul to my sins. I tighten my jaw, try and keep an even stare. Me? Change history?

  His mouth tightens. “This…gift…is to help give people closure. To let them live in peace. Nothing more. Just solve the crime for which you’re here and leave the rest to history.”

  One could argue…

  But that’s enough of a gray statement for me to nod, without guile.

  “Good.” And then he smiles, something warm in his eyes. “I knew I could trust my gut on you.” He clamps me on the shoulder. “I do hope we ended well.”

  We will. I vow it in my soul.

  9

  Gretta Holmes deserved justice, and with every bone in her body, Eve would find it for her.

  Even if she starved to death doing it.

  While Silas categorized all the items taken from the crime scene, Eve had gone down to the Hennepin County Medical Center to pull fresh evidence and take pictures before Gretta’s body was sent to the Office of the Medical Examiner. Silas had already left for lunch by the time Eve returned from the morgue.

  Now, she stood in front of the cork board in her lab, studying the array of photographs. The sun cast bare shadows through the window of her downtown office, across the stainless steel counter tops, her workstation, a cold cup of coffee, and the collected crime scene evidence, categorized by Silas. Backstreet Boys crooned As Long As You Love Me from a boom box shoved beneath her metal desk.

  Her stomach growled, but she ignored it.

  Knowing the victim by name only deepened the tragedy and urge for justice that burrowed inside Eve. She’d dissected plenty of crime scenes since joining Booker’s precinct a month ago, but for some reason, this crime latched onto a place deep inside.

  Gretta was young, and the parallel scars on her arm bespoke a profound pain that triggered a memory Eve didn’t want to revisit.

  She’d been a teenager, too, once upon a time, who didn’t know where to put her grief, her loss, her guilt. Who turned it inward to her body and left a few self-inflicted scars.

  She wasn’t that troubled teenager anymore—long from it—but seeing the scars on Gretta’s arms galvanized Eve.

  Who hurt you?

  Stone was a good detective to have identified Gretta so quickly. But Eve already knew that—after all, he’d tracked down the third coff
ee shop bomber with only fragments of clues.

  She should have been with him, helping him.

  Eve turned away from the pictures and headed out to the hallway toward the vending machine.

  This time, she had every intent of solving this case, or at least helping, before Rembrandt walked into an ambush with a knife-wielding bomber.

  She stood in front of the vending machine, perusing her choices, and settled on a Diet Coke and a Snickers bar.

  Why does a woman run?

  Rembrandt’s voice clung to her, and it felt more like a real question than rhetorical, because of course he’d know. Like she said. Fear. Hurt.

  Gretta probably fled from both. She’d skinned her knees and her hands, so maybe she’d actually fallen from the car. A button had popped off her jacket, as if it had been grabbed. Maybe to stop her? Eve hadn’t found a button at the scene, but it might be worth a return visit.

  Fingerprints pressed Gretta’s throat in three perfectly formed bruises. Eve had tried to lift prints from her skin, but it was too rigid and oily.

  The only other possession, besides her clothing, was a twenty dollar bill Rembrandt had found stuck in her grip. She’d tried to find prints off it too, but she couldn’t find anything clear. Money usually passed too many hands to be conclusive.

  “Oh, so we’re there are we?”

  She turned and hated her stupid heart for its wild thump when Inspector Stone sauntered into her office. He’d clearly been driving with the window down because his dark hair was wild, and he wore a hint of the summer sun on his skin under his open collar and face.

  Shoot, he was handsome and down, girl.

  Except, he had recently called her brilliant, hello.

  “What? Where are we?”

  He set a bag down on the counter and gestured to the candy bar. “Put down the chocolate, Eve.” He reached out to ease it from her hand. Wrapped it up. “I brought you a sandwich. It’s from the Dayton Deli. Ham salad, on whole wheat.”

  He brought her lunch? “I love ham salad,” Eve said, opening the bag. She glanced at him. “Have you been talking to Silas?”

  He ran a zipper across his lips and gave her another of those cryptic smiles and oh, her father was dead on.

  Rembrandt Stone was a mystery she intended to solve.

  He walked over to her wall and stared at it. “What happened to you, Gretta?”

  He went very quiet then, as if waiting for an answer, and Eve didn’t know what to say.

  Finally, he said, “I called her parents. I’m going to meet them at the County Medical Examiner’s office.”

  “Do they know yet?”

  “I told them we had an update on their daughter’s case.”

  “Oh, Rem. You should have gone over to their house and told them personally.”

  She didn’t even realize she’d said the words until he turned, his eyes wide. “Really?”

  She nodded, and made a face, and not just because of her comment, but, Rem? Really? Although, he’d told her to call him Rem, once upon a time. And he hadn’t just corrected her, so…

  He blew out a breath. “You’re right. I’ll remember that.”

  She pulled out the sandwich and broke off half. Joined Rembrandt at the board.

  “So, what do you know?”

  “She has abrasions on her hands and knees, and strangulation marks on her neck, but we’ll wait for the M.E.’s report on any trace evidence on her body.”

  Oh, the tangy pickles and mayo of the ham sandwich went right to her bones and soothed the savage beast inside. She might have even uttered a small sound of appreciation.

  He looked down at her and grinned, his blue eyes shiny.

  She swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat.

  He turned to the evidence table. “Is this the contents from her purse?”

  “Yes. Silas found everything from lipstick to a hairbrush to a wallet, but no driver’s license. She looks about eighteen, however, so maybe she never got one.”

  “What’s this?” Rem had picked up a plastic bag with a credit card inside.

  “It was in her wallet.”

  “Robert D. Swenson.”

  “Silas is running a stolen card check on the number.”

  He set down the card. “We ran a check on Gretta. She’s been missing for three months, according to a report filed by her parents.”

  “So, a runaway.” Eve debated, then, “She had old scars on her arms—cutting.”

  Rembrandt’s face twisted. “Really? Self harm?”

  She nodded.

  His gaze flickered down to an old—very old—scar on her arm. One she had truly forgotten about until today.

  She had the weirdest urge to cover her arm with her hand, but it was already covered by her shirt, so…

  He couldn’t possibly know.

  “Yes. So maybe that was why she ran away.”

  “It’s usually caused by a very deep pain,” he said quietly, and met her eyes. “One the victim doesn’t know how to carry. Sometimes, they hurt themselves on the outside to match the pain on the inside.”

  Huh.

  “I can’t imagine how much pain someone has to be in to hurt themselves.” He wore so much compassion in his expression, she had to look away. “No pain is worth that.”

  She didn’t know why she had the sense he might be talking to her. But, “Yeah, I know.”

  Oh, she didn’t know why she’d said that, either. But after a moment, “She lost a button on her jacket.”

  That sounded lame.

  “Really?” Rem said, as if it might be vital information, although maybe he’d just sensed, suddenly, the way too intimate conversation. He looked back at the pictures. “Have you ever recently, uh, seen any more victims with this same…well with a twenty dollar bill in their hand?” He was staring at the picture of the bill, extracted at the hospital, but with the crime scene evidence.

  “No. Why?”

  “It’s just strange, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe the guy she ran from was a John, and he was paying her.”

  “I don’t think so. I think Gretta was pregnant.”

  “Why do you think that?” She finished off the first half of her sandwich.

  “Look at the contents of her bag. Where are her tampons? I don’t know a woman alive at this age who doesn’t have tampons.”

  Huh. “Right.”

  “And that clinic was an abortion clinic.”

  Oh. “Did you talk to the M.E. yet?”

  “No. And I’m not going to ask if she was pregnant in front of her parents.”

  “The M.E. said the strangulation marks looked old, at least by a day. What if the guy in the car was the father of her child? Maybe she told him she didn’t want an abortion, and they got in a fight.”

  “And she got out and ran and slipped…”

  Pregnant. “How awful. To lose a child—and a grandchild. Her parents will be devastated.”

  Rem took a breath. Nodded.

  “I don’t know how you get over losing a child. I mean, no one is supposed to outlive their children…”

  Beside her, Rembrandt had drawn in a breath, held it.

  She wanted to give herself a smack. “Oh, Rem, I’m sorry. I didn’t even think…”

  He looked at her, stricken, his eyes wide. Then, he blinked. “Oh, you mean my brother.”

  Who did he think she meant?

  “Yeah. My parents struggled for a very long time. It nearly took them apart.”

  “I don’t know how they survived.”

  “I think you’d have to hold onto each other. Otherwise, what else do you have?” He seemed to be looking clear through her when he spoke, as if he could impart some wisdom to her soul.

  Her voice turned small under the weight of it. “Yeah.”

  He looked away, blinking, and oh, why had she brought up his brother? Almost, without thinking, she touched his arm. “I’m so sorry, Rem, for your loss.”

  When he looked at her again
, his eyes had reddened.

  And there he was, the man she’d met a month ago, before the stabbing. Shelby could just shut up about Rembrandt and his toughened heart. The man was sweet and considerate and…

  Had she learned nothing over the last few brutally quiet weeks? A smile, a ham sandwich and a little flattery and she was ready to throw herself into his arms?

  Please. She turned away and picked up the cuff link. “Sigma Chi.”

  “I think that’s a fraternity at the University of Minnesota.” His voice sounded a little funny, but she didn’t comment.

  “I’ll see if I can track down when these were cast.”

  “Thanks, Eve. I knew I could count on you.”

  Oh boy. She glanced at the sandwich bag. “Thanks for the grub.”

  “Yeah, it’s easy to get focused on a case, right?”

  He said it like he knew what it felt like to have a case burrow in your mind and never leave, itch you with questions until they were answered. “Yeah, it is.”

  “You have to learn to take breaks, let your mind think. You get so focused on something it can keep you pinned to it, and then it will derail your entire life. And your life has to be bigger than the work, the questions, the frustration, right?”

  She nodded, but, “Don’t you get obsessed? I mean…there’s this reputation—”

  He put up his hand. “That was the old me. The new me knows how to let go, get some perspective, and how to keep the questions from taking over my life.”

  She supposed a life-threatening injury might do that.

  His phone buzzed and he pulled it off his belt. “I gotta go, but…um. I was thinking. You might want to try Powell Bluff.”

  She had nothing. “What?”

  “It’s a paint color. Sort of a beige. I think you’ll like it. For your dining room.”

  “Oh. Okay…”

  He was heading toward the door.

  “Rembrandt?”

  He turned. And for the life of her, she didn’t know why the words simply formed and bubbled out of her, as if she had unstopped a geyser, but, “We’re having a party on Saturday night. A Fourth of July gig with my family. On the lake. Would you like to join us?”

  He stood there in the silhouette of the doorway, dressed in his suit, tall and wide-shouldered, powerful, shadowed, something about him both familiar and yet deliciously mysterious and a smile crept up his face, chasing all her doubts from her brain. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”