No Unturned Stone

by David James Warren

  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?

  My gut says that Danny has already figured this out.

  I close the paper and shove it back in the rack.

  Burke is finishing up, Teresa gesturing with her hands. “And then the Lexus just drove away, about twenty minutes before you all showed up.”

  “And Gretta was how late for work?”

  “She wasn’t. She usually came early. I didn’t expect her for another half hour.” Now, her gaze lands on me. She’s applied fresh red lipstick, but it doesn’t help.

  “And you didn’t see Gretta get in the car?”

  “No. It was parked against the curb, but I’m sure I would have seen someone get out of a Lexus…”

  I turn around and look at the view through the front. “Not from here.”

  “No, in the kitchen, there’s a back door. And my office window faces the street.”

  My guess is that her testimony might be easily swiss-cheesed under cross-examination, but I don’t push it. No need for hostility here. But I file the information away.

  “Do you remember seeing any other cars?”

  She lifts a shoulder. “Not really. I wasn’t looking. Nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe a caravan, or a couple sedans. The usual crowd.”

  “And the man she is often here with…what can you tell us about him?”

  “Seemed nice. Not a boyfriend, but someone who cared. He paid for her meal, sometimes. He drove a nice car—a corvette.”

  I don’t remember that from before. This is where I pull from Eve’s information. Credit card man. “Robert Swenson?”

  “I don’t know.” She makes a face. “But…oh, maybe. She called him Rob sometimes.”

  I hope Burke caught that. I’ve already updated him on the report from Eve.

  Teresa runs her hands up her tatted arms. “She was a good person. Just…hurting.”

  “How?” Burke asks.

  “You know. Rough home life. Demanding parents. The sense that she never measured up.”

  Burke and I both nod, for our own reasons. He gets up and hands her his business card. “Thanks, Teresa.”

  “You’re welcome. If you ever need breakfast, it’s on the house.” She winks at Burke.

  Oh boy. But better him than me.

  We walk out and Burke is standing on the steps, trying to visualize the attack, maybe, but my mind is two hours ahead, to the shakedown. “I need to go downtown and talk to a lead.”

  Burke is looking at me. “What about the Lexus?”

  “I think we need to chat with Robert Swenson about how he knows Gretta.” And since I already know the answer, I don’t need to go, do I? He’s her softball coach and owns a string of apartments in the area. Gretta stayed at a nearby apartment over the past three months. He’s a legitimate businessman with a soft spot for the girls he coaches. And I know what you’re thinking, but he has an alibi for the time of Gretta’s murder—he was at home with his wife and fourteen-month-old son.

  “Do you think Eve might have an address for Swenson from that stolen card?”

  “Probably.” For sure. I head toward my Camaro. “I’ll meet you later.”

  “I have that gig tonight,” Burke says. “The band is playing at the St. Paul Taproom.”

  Right. Burke is a drummer for a local jazz band, a hobby that’s earned him the name, Sticks. Jazz doesn’t do it for me, but I follow his gigs sometimes. Tonight, however, I’m out.

  “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me?” Burke frowns. Maybe he’s right, especially after my earlier diatribe, so—

  “I do—but I have to follow up on a lead Booker gave me today.” And that’s sort of true, right? Booker did hand me the case files, did give me the watch…

  I know I’m stretching it, but I don’t like lying to Burke.

  “Is it about your brother’s case?”

  It’s about a cold case, so yes, in a way…

  “Mmmhmm.”

  Don’t judge me because you know you’d do the same thing.

  Burke gets on his phone as he climbs into his car—probably calling Eve. I head back to the downtown precinct.

  I park on the street, a little Aerosmith in my veins, telling me to Dream On, and I will, thank you. Across the street from Eve’s building is the Adult Detention Center, and it’s there that I ask about Jamal and Ari.

  Jamal has been sprung, but Ari is a repeat offender and his bail is higher this time around. I wait for him in a small interrogation room with windows and he joins me, safely in chains, a young, rail thin twenty-something Somali man, wearing a wispy beard, his eyes reddened. I can recognize drug use when I see it. Ari is trembling, probably coming down hard from some high.

  “Can we get him a glass of water, and—” I pull out a dollar bill. “A Snickers bar?” I ask this of the female security officer and she leaves us to retrieve it.

  “Ari,” I say. “How’re you doing?”

  “Do I know you?” He has an accent, his verbs pinched, tending toward the British slant.

  “Nope. But I can help you. See, I’m looking for a guy named Hassan Abdilhali, and my guess is that you know him.”

  Ari looks away, his mouth tight.

  “Did you know your buddy Jamal is already out?” I lean in. “Why is that, do you think?”

  Ari lifts a shoulder.

  The security officer returns with the water and candy and I put it in front of me. “Thanks.”

  She leaves again. We’re being monitored, through the glass, and via a camera. That’s fine. I don’t have anything to hide. But I do have things to share. “Hassan Abdilhali is going to leave you here to rot while he builds his empire. Someday, he’ll rule all the Somali gangs, and you’ll be long forgotten, in jail for crimes he made you do.”

  Ari glances at me, then the water. His eyes linger a long time on the chocolate.

  “It doesn’t have to be that way. You tell me how to find Abdilhali, and I can make it easier on you in here.” This is the part where I’m bluffing. I can’t really do that, but I do have some pull with the county prosecutor. Don’t ask me how, because it’s a distant memory, but I’ll do what it takes to get my information.

  To get my life back.

  I push the water toward him. “You help me, I help you.”

  Ari is staring at the water. Spittle has formed at the sides of his mouth, so I know he wants it. Bad.

  He reaches for the cup but I move it back, out of his grip. “Ari?”

  He looks at me. “He’ll kill me.”

  “Not if he can’t find you.” I give him the water and he takes it, gulping it down.

  Droplets glisten on his beard. A tiny spark has entered Ari’s eyes.

  I touch the candy bar. “I know you feel like no one cares about you. I know you’re afraid. You come to this country hoping to find freedom, and instead you find more oppression—from inside your community, and out. But hatred only brings you more pain. Traps you in a cycle where you’ll never break free.” I push the candy toward him. “You gotta learn to trust people. To let them help you.”

  He’s opening the candy bar.

  “All I want to know is where I can find Abdilhali.”

  He’s eating the candy bar now, but stops to look at me. “I want it in writing.”

  “I’ll do better than that. I’ll get you moved to a private cell. And tomorrow, I’ll talk to the Wit-Sec program. You could start over. Would you like that?”

  He takes a breath and inexplicably, his eyes fill. He looks away, and I do too.

  This, I did not expect. But then again, when you find yourself too far down a path, rescue feels so improbable that when it shows up, it takes everything inside you to reach out for it.

  Yes, I’m talking about me, too. Because I am starting to get glimpses of the man I was, or left behind in this timelin
e, and I’m keenly aware that I have this one chance.

  No matter what happens, I’m holding onto Eve. I’m reaching out for help to Burke, and I’m going to fight the anger that has clearly overrun my life.

  At least, I hope so.

  “He operates out of a laundry in the Village West Market.”

  Of course he does.

  “Thank you, Ari.” I get up.

  “I get my own cell, right?” He has drawn up one knee, wrapped his arm around it, and is holding on.

  “I got ya,” I say and gesture to the officer to let me out.

  I stop by the warden’s office, a man I haven’t yet met, but I’m in the moment we shake hands. He’s got a copy of The Last Year on his shelves, my New York Times best-seller, and I agree to an autograph for the small favor of putting Ari in a private cell, just for the night.

  Tomorrow, I’ll talk with Booker and see if we can get him better protection. Or better yet, I’ll talk to Danny Mulligan.

  Who is going to so owe me after tonight.

  12

  Her father was going to murder her.

  That might be going a little far. He was going to murder Rembrandt Stone. He’d just disown her.

  What had she been thinking, inviting Rem to her family’s Fourth of July party?

  “Are you done with this sandwich?”

  The voice jerked her back her microscope, where Eve was examining the cufflink she’d found on the street at Gretta’s murder scene.

  Silas picked up her bag, the other half of her ham sandwich inside. “Is this from that new deli down the street?”

  “Yes,” she said, then walked over and took the bag. “And no, I’m not finished.”

  “Looks good. What is it—ham?”

  “Minced Ham Salad, my new favorite.” Funny that Rembrandt knew that—it was such an odd filling for a sandwich. But he’d dropped it on her counter like he brought her lunch every day, the gesture familiar and easy.

  Strange, but she felt exactly that way with Inspector Stone. As if she’d known him all her life, the conversation between them fitting like an old shoe. Except, she barely knew the man, save for the hours and hours she’d invested in his memoir.

  So maybe that was it—she knew him from his book. And perhaps their countless imagined conversations.

  And one very delicious kiss.

  Stop it.

  She opened the bag now, and fished out the other half of the sandwich, aware of the beast inside her awakening with a frightening ferocity. What had Rembrandt said about being obsessed? 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.

  Yes, well, she’d spent most of her life focused and it had netted her a dream job with the Minneapolis Police Department, so maybe that wasn’t a terrible crime.

  More, her focused work had unearthed more than a few clues about Gretta’s recent history. She unwrapped her sandwich and took a bite.

  “Fine. I’ll have to settle for a stale donut,” said Silas. He had poured himself the last dregs of coffee and was now reading over the updated evidence board. “You tracked down the credit card in her possession.”

  “It wasn’t hard.” She came over to the board where she’d tacked a list of the charges. “It was registered to Robert Swenson, who owns property off of 41st Avenue South, just a few blocks away from Lulu’s Diner. And, there’s quite a few pizza delivery charges from Station Pizzeria, which is about four blocks to the east.”

  She’d printed out a map of the area and noted the locations with a marker. “My guess is she was renting out the place, or maybe just using it, but that’s where she was living for the past three months.”

  “Who is Robert Swenson?”

  “I ran his name, and of course we got about 726 hits in the Minneapolis area. But, when I ran his address, I found a Robert Swenson who coaches the Edina Hornets, a female fast-pitch community softball team.”

  “Do you think—”

  “Yep. I did some digging and found an old picture of Gretta Holmes in uniform for St. Mary’s Prep. She played shortstop.”

  “So, her coach found her a place to live.”

  “Looks like it.” She took another bite of her sandwich. The afternoon sun hovered just over the horizon on its slow slide into the night, which put the time after dinner. Maybe she should head home.

  Not be quite so, you know, obsessed.

  Huh. She hadn’t really noticed that about herself, but maybe Inspector Stone was onto something.

  Funny, he almost knew her better than she did.

  Funny, or creepy.

  “Do you think they were…you know…” Silas raised an eyebrow.

  It took her a second. Oh, Robert and Gretta. “Having a relationship? I don’t know. He’s married with a kid, so…let’s hope he was just sincerely trying to help.”

  “Any updates on the cufflink?” Silas asked.

  She finished her sandwich, wiped her hands on the napkin. “Yes. They’re bronze cast, with nickel backings. Commemorative, with the crest of Sigma Chi, a Norman cross topped with an eagle holding a scroll in the middle. Their motto, In Hoc Signo Vincese is inscribed underneath.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “In this sign, you will conquer.”

  “You looked that up?”

  She frowned. “No. Didn’t you study Latin?”

  “Not even a little.”

  “How do you—never mind. The important part is the Sigma Chi at the top, and the year at the bottom—1855, the year they were founded.”

  They’d walked over to her microscope. “I was looking for any evidence, like skin or hair, but it’s clean.” She picked up a cloth and used it to retrieve the cufflink. “It looks hand cast, and I did some digging.” She dropped the cufflink into a baggie. “Sigma Chi celebrated one hundred and sixty-five years of history last summer in a big nationwide to-do. All the living loyal life Sigmas who attended the event received a set of cufflinks.”

  “How many is that?”

  “They’ve initiated over three hundred thousand members since inception, and about thirty-six thousand are categorized as lifers.”

  “How many in Minnesota?”

  “I’m still trying to nail that down—I’ve requested a list of their current roster. There are three chapters in Minnesota, with over three thousand living loyal life Sigs according to their director. They had a local event as well as a national one. But I did track down an online picture of the group that attended here in Minneapolis.” She lifted a color picture she’d printed. “I’ve asked for names of those who attended that, too.”

  “Is it an academic organization?”

  She looked at him. “Silas. Did you ever walk frat row down at the U?”

  “Only if I wanted to get ridiculed.”

  She knew him back then, skinny, glasses, the kind of guy who stayed indoors on weekends to study. “It’s a big brick building next to Beta Theta Pi, and Phi Kappa Psi.”

  He gave her a blank look.

  “Across from Folwell Hall.”

  “The foreign language department.”

  “And, Latin,” she said, grinning.

  “Right. I used to meet you there on Wednesday, right before we went to Stadium Subs in Dinkytown. And now I’m really hungry.”

  “Sorry, I finished my sandwich.”

  “I’ve been meaning to get down to the new deli. Did they have a big menu board?”

  She made a face. “Inspector Stone brought the sandwich for me.”

  Silas gave her a look. “Really? So, after a month of cold shoulder, he suddenly warms up?”

  “It’s really the first time we’ve worked together since the bombing…” And, the thought just slid out. “You don’t think he’s just…”

  “Trying to get on your good side?” He raised an eyebrow. “What do your instincts tell you, Brilliant Eve.” He smirked.

  So, he’d heard that. “I don’t
know.”

  “He’s either Mr. Cold Shoulder, or Mr. I Need Your Help. C’mon Eve, he’s just playing you.”

  “With a ham sandwich?” She gave him a face. “No. He was just being nice.”

  “Eve—”

  “There’s just something about him that makes me want to trust him.”

  “Trust? Or something else.”

  “Stop. He’s smart. And a good detective. I know what you think of him—”

  “What everybody thinks of him. Stone doesn’t exactly have a reputation for his sane thinking. I mean, who goes into a coffee shop that’s about to be bombed?”

  “A guy who is trying to save lives?” She didn’t know why, but Silas’s attack on Rembrandt bristled her. “Did you know they found the body of his brother just a month ago?”

  “The one who disappeared when he was a kid?”

  “He was twelve. They were out biking, and his brother was taken right off the road. They found him in a nearby lake.”

  “That’s rough.”

  “So, maybe cut him a little slack. My guess is that grief like that might make a guy a little obsessed.”

  Silas considered her. Gave a slow nod. “Or a girl.”

  She met his gaze. She hadn’t spoken often of her best friend, Julia Pike, murdered at fifteen. But, “Yes.”

  “Maybe you two are a good fit,” Silas said, giving her a thin smile.

  “There is nothing wrong with wanting justice, right?”

  “Right.” He finished his coffee.

  “Besides, Burke certainly sticks up for him.”

  “Now there’s a guy you should be into. Burke is solid. Honest. Dependable. The kind of guy you could bring home to your Dad without worry that he’ll boot him out of the house.”

  “You sound like you have a crush on him,” she winked.

  “I’m just saying, as your friend, you could find a guy who wasn’t so…”

  “Focused?”

  “Intense.”

  “I’m intense. Maybe Rembrandt and I are a good match.”

  “You’re committed, in a forget-to-eat-dinner, go-without-sleep way. He’s intense, as in, I’ll-run-into-a-burning-building-and-I-don’t-care-what-it-costs-or-whose-lives-fall-apart-because-of-it way. Big difference.”