No Unturned Stone

by David James Warren

  “He told me today that he’s not like that anymore.”

  “Please. Rembrandt Stone has about as much ability to change as your father has the ability to stop hovering over you. Stone will always be a loose cannon, and one of these days, he’s going to get someone killed. Like you.”

  She frowned at him, but the conversation wasn’t so different from one she’d had with her father over a month ago when she started working for the 5th precinct.

  When he’d warned her stay far, far away from Stone.

  Instead, she’d flitted around the man like a moth to fire. Maybe her dad was right. All she knew was that if she showed up with him tomorrow night, fireworks would fly.

  Talk about intense.

  Probably she should call Rembrandt and tell him that…their house burned down. She’d moved to California. They’d all developed a case of measles.

  Great.

  “Let me know if we get a call back from Sigma Chi with those names,” she said, and tucked the picture into her notebook.

  Silas glanced at his watch. “You’re leaving? It’s only seven thirty.”

  “You’re as bad as I am. Get a life.”

  She rolled the windows down on her Ford Escort as she headed home, the summer night filtering through her window. She toed off her shoes at a stoplight and drove the rest of the way barefoot.

  Maybe Rembrandt would forget she asked. After all, it was Friday night. She’d simply not call him, and then, on Monday…oh, for the love...

  It would help if the man didn’t make her lose her common sense.

  The buzz of a skill saw fractured the night as she turned down her street, a quaint south Minneapolis neighborhood at the juncture of Webster and Lake. She’d purchased the one-and-a-half story bungalow just a few months ago, in time for Samson, her brother, to decide to quit school and apply his budding remodeling skills to her bathroom, then her kitchen, and now, she hoped, to her backyard deck.

  It was a cute house, with a bay window in front, the upstairs ceilings pitched, and a main floor office. Perfect for one person. Maybe a dog.

  Although, Rembrandt Stone had fit rather nicely into her kitchen, hadn’t he?

  She pulled into the driveway, noticed the fresh cut grass, and followed the sound around to the back.

  Sams wore a pair of cargo shorts, knee pads, his steel-toed work boots and a grimy t-shirt, his hat backwards on his head as he watched her kid brother, Asher, cutting a long piece of pine planking. Asher was dressed likewise, his hair pulled back in a ponytail, longer now, since school let out.

  Fresh cement encased the footings, and an outline of boards formed the foundation.

  Sams looked over at her. “Decided to get started on the deck.”

  “It looks amazing,” she said, holding her hand up against the spray of sawdust.

  Asher stood up, holding the board. “Hey, Sis.”

  “Cheap labor?” She asked Sams as Asher set the board in place.

  “Couldn’t let him sit around in front of his computer all day and get fat.”

  As if. Asher was lean and muscular from his hours waterskiing.

  “I’m going to start painting the living room.”

  “Need any help setting up? Ash and I were just finishing up for the night.”

  “No, I got this.” She stepped through the deck toward the back door. Hoisted herself onto the step.

  “Oh, Mom says not to forget the ice cream tomorrow night for the party. It’s going to be a hot one.”

  Yes, yes it was.

  She stepped inside, to the cool of her kitchen and set her satchel on the counter. Walked through to the dining room.

  “Decided on a color yet?”

  Sams had walked in behind her.

  You might want to try Powell Bluff. I think you’ll like it. For your dining room.

  She sighed. Clearly there was no escaping Rem.

  “Yes, I think I have. It’s a sort of beige color.”

  Sams made a face of half-approval. “Could be good. It’s hard to tell when it’s in the can. You have to get it on the wall, let it dry, and see how it looks from every angle. You can’t tell by the sample.”

  She looked at him. “Sams, that’s just about the wisest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

  He gave her a smile. “That’s because I’m brilliant.”

  She laughed. “Yes, yes you are.” Because maybe it was time for her father to meet the Rembrandt she knew instead of, well, the sample.

  “See you tomorrow night, bro,” she said. “And tell Mom, I won’t forget to bring something delicious.”

  Everyone just had to calm down. Rembrandt Stone wasn’t the off-the-hook guy they cast him to be. Everything was going to be just fine.

  13

  In my timeline, the Phillips neighborhood still has a bad rap. Agreed, it has one of the highest murder rates in the city, and the gang activity has thrived here since the mid-sixties. But it’s also the home of a private school, a block of gilded area historical mansions, the Minneapolis Heart Institute and St. Mary’s University. More, it’s the hub of immigration and a thousand delicious hole-in-the-wall restaurants with excellent take out.

  My stomach is still whining as I pull up outside the Village Market. Thick in the air are the smells of turmeric, coriander and cumin, deep fried sambusas filled with ground beef, and I could easily eat a tray of Sabaayed slathered in honey.

  Eve would be angry if I arrived home empty handed after a trip to Village Market. Although, in this time, the influx of Somalis is still young, many of them struggling to make ends meet (I suppose they still are in my time), and the gang activity is in its infant, dangerous and volatile stage.

  And, in spite of our efforts, much of the violence is headquartered here.

  The Village Market is a massive two-story warehouse that covers an entire city block. Inside, the place is an under-roof market, with dozens of merchants hawking clothing, jewelry, pots and pans, household goods, bedding, shoes, cell phones, electronics and in every corner, food. Not just cafes, but coolers filled with goat meat and basmati rice, curry and fresh ginger, plantains and frozen grouper.

  At the far end of the building is a Muslim prayer room, one for the men, and another, smaller one for women. And located at the other end, the laundromat where Hassan Abdilhali has set up shop.

  In my time, Abdilhali owns half the market, (probably running some sort of protection service for the other half), as well as over two-dozen laundromats throughout south Minneapolis.

  He’s just a young thug now, however, and if Danny can take him down, he’ll save countless lives. I hum to Fleetwood Mac, who is reminding me to go my own way—and turn into an alleyway off E 22nd street, a straight shot to the back door of the Market.

  In the long shadows of an oak tree, Danny sits in his unmarked Ford Taurus, and I have to give him props for not driving a Crown Vic. Still, could he be more obvious? I don’t know, but I get out, creep over to his vehicle, and tap on the passenger side.

  He jerks his head toward me, a hint of fear on his face, but he recovers almost instantly. The look he shoots me could turn a man to dust, but I grin and motion for him to unlock.

  His mouth pinches as I get in.

  Because, you know, I’m going to save his stinkin’ life tonight. He will like me, just you wait.

  “What are you doing here?”

  An empty coffee cup sits in the holder between the console seats. The cup is seated inside another cup, so maybe he’s been here for a while. Might be a little overcaffeinated, if you ask me.

  “Booker sent me.” Lie, I know. “Said you might need backup.” Oh, the Chief will kill me if he ever finds out. But he won’t.

  Hopefully.

  I’m not sure, suddenly, if my actions might cause Booker to repeal my chronothizing activities. What if he takes the watch away, in the future, as some kind of punishment? Or worse, never gives it to me in the first place? Would things revert to the beginning? Or would I be stuck in the worl
d as I know it—?

  Can’t think about it, let it cloud my mind. I’m just going to stick to my plan.

  “What?” Danny asks to my explanation. “How does Booker—”

  “We’ve had our eye on Jamal and Ari,” I say, and I’m such a smooth liar after years undercover, it can scare me. “When you tagged them last night, and then sprung Jamal, Booker got wind of it and sent me.”

  Danny stares at me a long moment, and I suddenly wonder if he can see right through me, all the way to my fifty-two-year-old, lying, bones.

  “And he sent you?”

  I raise a shoulder.

  “Fine. Okay. Just. Don’t. Talk to me.” Danny settles back into his hundred-yard stare at the market building.

  “So, what’s the plan? Do you have Jamal wired? Sent him in to talk to Abdilhali? Aren’t you worried Hassan is going to figure him out?”

  Danny looks at me. “I guess now I am. What, are you psychic?”

  Did I give away too much? I don’t think so, I mean… “It’s what I would do. Find an informant, get him close to the source, have the source give up some key information—like an upcoming drug shipment, right? And then…” I lift a shoulder.

  Except, in the current version, something goes south and Danny ends up killing Abdilhali’s brother.

  Not tonight. I’ll arrest the brother before Danny can end him. Let the courts handle the rest. “Ever had the sweet fry bread here?”

  Danny glares at me, and frowns. “No.”

  “It’s really good. Like a donut—”

  “Stone?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Stop talking.”

  Danny has taken off his suit coat and tie, and rolled up his sleeves, like me. He has his window down, the smells of the evening wafting in, everything from the dust on the street to the lingering deep-fried smells from the nearby market. Now I notice that he’s got an earpiece connected to a transceiver.

  Whoops. But there’s another earpiece wound up in the cup holder, so I take it and plug it in and in a moment, the voices are in my ear, too.

  The conversation is in English, all tinged with that sharp Somali accent. Probably on purpose, although it’s odd they’re not speaking Somali, or even Arabic. I’ve heard that even in Somalia, Arabic is the primary language.

  But English is the primary language of Minnesota, so…

  There are four distinct voices in the room. I wonder which one is Jamal’s until he says, “I just want to know where to meet, and then I will go.”

  Jamal. Worried, a hurry-up in his voice.

  “What’s your hurry, Jamal?”

  The little hairs raise on the back of my neck because I recognize Hassan Abdilhali’s voice. Deep, resonant and he’s simply a younger version of the thug he will become.

  He ran for city council last year and won. I remember watching the news wondering how many votes he paid for.

  “No hurry. It’s just—”

  “I thought you were arrested last night.” A different voice.

  I cut a look at Danny.

  “My sister posted bail. But I owe her. I need my money—”

  “Where is Ari?” The voice has dropped, and this is again Hassan’s.

  “I don’t know. Still inside, I think,” Jamal says. “I…I’ll go. I just…I just need my money, Hassan—”

  “Where is my money, Jamal? The money you owe me for getting your family here, setting you up, taking care of you. I owe you nothing.” And it’s the lowering of his voice that has Danny—and me—taking a breath.

  “He’s in trouble,” I say to Danny.

  Danny cuts me a look. “He’s okay. We just need the location—”

  A gunshot, and Jamal’s scream pierces through my brain. I yank out the earpiece—Danny does the same—and I’m out of the car. “You go around front!” I say to Danny, because if I were Hassan, I’d take the quickest exit out, and according to my mental blueprint, the laundromat is in the back.

  I sprint for the back, past the ATM machines and into the building.

  The place is still abuzz with activity, men and women shopping, a few merchants eying me as I slow to a walk and head straight for the Laundromax.

  Hassan steps out into the aisle.

  He doesn’t know me, yet. And maybe never will. I was undercover for years in our previous life, trying to get close to the core of his operations. We took down a number of his cohorts, in a combined effort with the Chicago police department.

  It’s time for his rule to end, before it even gets started.

  Now, in the shadows of the market, Hassan looks at me and I am angry enough to meet his eyes.

  He takes off in a sprint. Because he’s young—still in his late twenties—and doesn’t have the clout to stand his ground.

  I hate the idea of Jamal bleeding to death in the Laundromax—and that’s when I spot Danny, huffing in behind me. “Get Jamal!”

  We’re off to the races. Thank you, O twenty-eight-year-old body.

  If I can stop Hassan now, this whole thing ends. And maybe I change the world a little bit for the better for the Phillips neighborhood, too.

  He cuts down an aisle with dresses hanging from the ceiling, but I’m just as young and fast—and frankly, as desperate—as he is. “Hassan, stop!”

  A woman in his way goes flying, and another pulls her daughter from the path. They glare at me as I run by, as if this is my fault.

  Hassan turns another corner—I mentioned that the market is like a maze, right?—and pulls down a display of pots and pans. They scream along the cement floor, skidding in my path, but I kick one, then another and plow through. “Hassan!”

  I don’t know why I’m yelling. It’s not like screaming his name is going to slow him down.

  We turn again, past a refrigerated unit of frozen meat, then again, past mountains of bedsheets in plastic that go careening into the aisle.

  Then he sees daylight—a doorway at the end of the hall, propped open in the summer heat.

  I can’t shoot—not with a hundred spectators in every direction. So I dig down and find my forty-yard dash speed.

  He hits the door just steps ahead of me, and I barely repress the urge to fly out and tackle him, but at the last second, I see he’s jumped.

  We’re at a loading dock.

  I fly off the end, arms windmilling, trying to keep from pitching forward.

  Not a chance.

  I land, trip, then duck and roll as I peel skin onto the gravel.

  The wind leaves my body as I come to a stop.

  I’m gulping like an Atlantic grouper, listening to Hassan’s stupid feet pound the pavement. No—

  Then my breath comes back with a whoosh and I gasp, roll over and force myself up.

  The shot comes from behind me, a quick sharp report that echoes through me. It hits my bones and my knees buckle. I grip my chest, where it hurts the most.

  Except, nothing.

  I’m not hurt, no blood seeping between my hands. I gasp again, breathing hard, and turn around.

  Danny is standing in the parking lot, at the edge by the alleyway. Crumpled between us is a man, face down, blood pooling beneath him where a bullet has ripped through him, center mass.

  Not far away, just outside his grip is a handgun—what looks like a 9mm.

  I stare at him, then at Danny, and I’m doing the math.

  One of Hassan’s men had the drop on me.

  Danny Mulligan just saved my life.

  I walk over to the man, lean down and check his pulse. Just because, well, maybe, right?

  Not a chance.

  Danny has walked over. He’s staring past me, to where Hassan has vanished.

  “Jamal?”

  “Dead,” Danny says. He is pulling out his radio.

  I’m trying to get a good look at the man’s face. He took a hard fall, and it’s deformed and bloody. “And who is this?”

  Danny toggles his radio, then pauses and stops. Looks at me, his mouth pinched. “That is Faheem
Abdilhali. Hassan’s first lieutenant and youngest brother.”

  Oh, man.

  And as Danny walks away, I sink to the pavement and put my head in my hands.

  14

  The paint color was perfect. A creamy yellow-beige that lightened up the entire room, contrasted with the dark wood baseboards and the freshly sanded original flooring.

  It was like Rembrandt Stone had crawled inside Eve’s head, taken a look around and knew her tastes exactly.

  She puffed out a breath. No, not weird at all.

  But it did make her feel like he knew her, understood her. That she wasn’t making a gigantic mistake inviting him into her life.

  Oh, she hoped.

  She dropped the roller into the tray and took a step back, the odor of paint slipping out into the dark, fragrant night as she reached for her sweaty beer bottle.

  From the radio on the floor, Celine Dion crooned out her Titanic hit, My Heart Will Go On. Eve had changed into cutoff shorts and a sleeveless shirt, and pulled her hair back. Now she ran her arm across her forehead, the heat of the evening gathering on her skin. She was hungry again, pizza on her mind—

  A knock at the door nearly made her drop the bottle. Who would be here now? She set the bottle on her dining room table and headed through the family room to the door.

  Flicked on her porch light.

  Really? Her stupid heart gave a rebellious little kick at the sight of Rembrandt standing on her porch, half turned away from the door, his hand cupped behind his neck, as if kneading a tight muscle.

  She opened the door, and when he turned, she drew in a breath.

  Blood stained his white shirt, open at the collar and he looked wrecked, a scrape on his forearm, one on his chin, and fatigue, or stress lines around his eyes.

  “What happened!”

  Rembrandt just sucked in a breath through his teeth.

  “Are you okay?”

  His jaw tightened, and he swallowed, then nodded.

  Relief gusted out of her. Then, wait—“Is Burke okay?”

  He nodded to that, too, frowning a little. “Yeah. He wasn’t...he wasn’t with me.”

  She held the door open and he glanced inside, back to her, as if not sure. “Come in, Rembrandt. You can’t sit out here on the porch. The neighbors will start talking.”