No Unturned Stone

by David James Warren

  I’m now, apparently, a member of the Cleaver family. “Sure,” I say and head out to the barn.

  Once upon a time, my father and I, along with Mikey, would spend Saturdays covered in grease, rebuilding engines, taking apart carburetors, and changing the oil in whatever beaters my father was currently rebuilding. He had a fling with a few VW bugs, then upgraded to Audis.

  No wonder I fell in love with Porsches.

  All of my memories include sweaty cans of grape Fanta, my father’s cloth-covered Panasonic radio screaming out Seger, and Mikey trying to sword fight me with one of my father’s Pittsburgh 1/2 inch torque wrenches.

  I step into the shadows of the barn with some trepidation.

  He’s got the tarp off the Porsche, the trunk is up and he’s leaning inside, looking at the motor. “What happened to this thing anyway?”

  “The engine died after a high-speed chase.”

  “It’s running rough. Sounds like it’s hitting only a couple cylinders.”

  The familiar smell of engine oil mixes with the scents of dirt and age in the barn, and I almost hear the echo of Mikey’s voice. Ghosts. I stick my hands in my pockets, fighting a shiver.

  “Yep. The timing belt is loose.” Dad leans up. “My guess is that it jumped a tooth on the right bank. We’ll have to loosen it up and take a look.”

  Dad is wearing a pair of old work pants, an oily flannel shirt and his cap on backwards over his thinning hair. He goes to his work bench and lifts a cup of coffee from the ancient green thermos. “It’s a pretty car, though. I can see why you like her.”

  It’s like we’re continuing a conversation I can’t remember. “Thanks.”

  He returns to the car. “Hand me a 10mm ratchet.”

  I walk over to his standing toolbox and pull out the drawer with the ratchets. My father is an electrician, but he knows cars and keeps his tools immaculate.

  I find the ratchet and hand it to him. The transistor is belting out a little Steely Dan—Do It Again—and suddenly I’m twelve.

  “You look like you took one on the chin, Rem.” He takes the bolts off the timing belt cover and removes it.

  “Had a little scuffle chasing a suspect last night.”

  “Give me the 22 mil.”

  I find it and he uses it to turn the crank shaft to align the timing marks on the pulley with the engine pointer.

  “Are the left cam shaft timing marks aligned?”

  I stick my head into the engine. I know he can see these for himself, but maybe he also thinks I’m still twelve. “Yep.”

  “So, did you get him?”

  “Nope.” I don’t want to tell him the rest. “He’s still at large. The right timing marks are off.”

  “It’s what I thought—timing belt’s jumped. We’ll have to re-align it.”

  It occurs to me in a not-funny way that that’s why I’m here—to realign time. Or, rather, to make it run better.

  “Funny that just one tooth off can make a car run so rough and send it out of commission.”

  I stare at him. That’s it, of course. One tooth is off in my spectacular plan to fix time. Maybe I already fixed it, though. If Hassan doesn’t know Danny is the shooter, then maybe he never sends the drive by.

  As for me, well…I’ll just have to watch my back. Funny, the chill of death seems to have dissipated with the sunlight.

  Dad glances at me. “You okay?”

  “Yep.”

  “You working on any big cases?” He’s loosening the timing belt tensioner to allow slack.

  “A murder case. A young woman—runaway, we think. Her parents have been searching for her for three months.” The words are out before I can snake them back, and I’m suddenly keenly aware of my father’s own fruitless search for Mikey. But he just nods as he slides the belt off the right cam shaft sprocket.

  “The poor parents. It’s terrible to wonder every night where your child is. You spend all your time trying to figure out if you could have done something different, rewriting your responses, imagining a different outcome.” He loosens the timing belt tensioner to get slack, then turns the cam shaft back a tooth. “At least now they know.” He puts the belt back on and I watch in silence, my heart a fist in my chest.

  I take a breath, not sure if I want to ask the question.

  Frankly, not sure if I want the answer either. “Would you do things differently, Dad? Now that you know.”

  He pauses for a sec, then stands as he gingerly pulls his wrench out, relaxing the tension on the old motor.

  “I don’t know, son. As a father, you can’t ever give up. It’s in your bones. You can’t stop caring. The only way you survive is to hang onto hope. Otherwise, your life becomes despair.”

  He bends back over the engine. “But I also believe that everything happens for a reason, and to ignore that reason and start over is to miss the lesson.”

  I shake my head. “What lesson can be learned by Mikey’s death, Dad. C’mon.”

  He glances over and meets my eyes. “Even in tragedy there are lessons, Rem. Everyone has something in their past they'd like to redo. It doesn't mean it should be redone. Our mistakes, our tragedies, our suffering make us better, stronger, more compassionate people. And those are lessons we learn by going through the pain, not around it.”

  He leans up again, grabs a rag to wipe the wrench. Looks away. “But if I had to do it over, I might not have obsessed so long on finding the son I lost, to the detriment of the one I still had.”

  A hand has pressed my chest and I can’t breathe. I nod, and also look away—

  “I’m going to crank the engine over a couple times, then align the marks again. Take a look and see if all three line up.”

  Somehow, I do, although my eyes are blurry. “Yep. All aligned.”

  “Let’s fire it up. You left the keys in the ignition.”

  I get inside and crank the engine over. It catches, but sputters and hiccups, as if trying to die.

  Dad comes around. “I think we have a bigger problem here.” He wipes his hands. “We’ll have to pull the spark plugs and do a compression test. But I’m fresh out of coffee and I’ll bet your mother’s cinnamon rolls are ready.”

  I have a vague memory of those, and it’s enough for me to climb out of the car.

  “We can tackle it after breakfast.” He turns to put his tools away. And for the first time I notice that he still has hair, blonde and thin, yes, but sticking out the back of his hat. Blue eyes, but they hold a peace that I don’t recognize.

  “It’s a good thing you didn’t get one of those new fancy Lexus models. Toyota.” He shakes his head. “At least a Porsche has good bones.”

  His automotive prejudices coming through. But I grin and nod.

  His words from before, however, ping back to me. It’s terrible to wonder every night where your child is. As a father, you can’t ever give up. It’s in your bones. You can’t stop caring.

  In my head, I’m getting out of the Camaro at HCMC, noticing a Lexus in the lot.

  The one that belongs to Jeff and Karen Holmes.

  And I’m remembering Jeff’s strange behavior at the morgue. Despair? Or something else?

  Maybe a desire not to live in limbo anymore.

  Enough to park his Lexus outside Lulu’s? Maybe force his daughter to come home?

  “Dad. I gotta go.” I take him by the shoulders and give a quick squeeze. “I’m so sorry. Tell mom I’ll give her a call later.”

  He stares at me, still holding the rag. “Thanks for coming by, son. We’ll get your car running, even if we have to take out the head, replace the valves, and rebuild it from the bones up. It’s just a matter of staying the course, reading the clues the car is giving you.”

  What he said.

  I stalk toward my car, pulling out my cell phone.

  Burke picks up on the fifth ring, his voice groggy. That’s right, he had a gig last night.

  “We need another go-round with Jeff Holmes. I think I know why he looked l
ike he wanted to murder someone.”

  I just hope it wasn’t his own daughter.

  16

  I’ve not only figured out the case by the time Burke arrives at the Edina home of Jeff and Karen Holmes, but I’ve worked up a serious head of steam, too.

  The Holmes’ place is nice. An older white colonial, with black shutters and a circle drive. The tall cedar trees flanking the yard suggest money.

  In my time, we’d be looking at a 1.5 mil retro fixer upper. Now, it’s a cool million, and I’m wondering what went on inside to cause Gretta to run.

  I have some ideas, and they’re dark, so I don’t want to entertain them. But a guy in my line of work can’t rule anything out.

  So, I’m sitting in my car, my arms folded, just barely resisting the urge to stalk up the driveway and take Jeff Holmes apart.

  Asia’s, Heat of the Moment isn’t helping. And yes, it’s the young, impetuous me inside roaring to life, but it’s the old me, too, the me who has lost a daughter.

  The me who can’t imagine a father who would hurt his own child.

  Burke has pulled up behind me. He gets out and walks over to me just as I get out, too. “What’s up?”

  I can’t stop myself. “The father did it.”

  Burke glances at the house, then back at me. “You get roughed up last night?” He’s staring at my chin.

  “Took a spill. Listen, here’s how—”

  “Were you on a case?”

  What? “No—yes, sorta, but—listen to me—”

  “Without me?”

  I give him a look. “I was helping Danny Mulligan with a stakeout. You had a gig. Whatever.”

  Burke frowns, and his jaw tightens. “Yeah, whatever. What are we doing here?”

  Thank you. “The Lexus.”

  “And?”

  “In Lulu’s parking lot. Teresa remembers seeing it, early, before Gretta’s shift.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I think it belongs to Gretta’s father.”

  Burke draws in a breath. “He didn’t mention seeing her—”

  “C’mon. The mom knew where she was. She’d been giving Gretta money for weeks through her softball coach.”

  “When did you—I haven’t even written my report of the interview yet.”

  Shoot. That’s right. We didn’t find that out until after we’d questioned Robert. Or rather, Robert’s wife, Angie. She let that little piece of information slip out after he left the house to attend softball practice for this weekend’s tournament.

  So, what am I going to do? “Karen told us. Remember? Yesterday?”

  Burke narrows his eyes as I hustle on. “My thinking is that Dad found out where she was and tracked down her location from Mom, then went to find her. Maybe he wanted to ask her to come home.” And then it occurs to me. “What if he knew she was pregnant? And they got in an argument—”

  “And she got out of the car, and started to run? But where did the strangling come in?”

  “I don’t know. Eve said the bruises were old.” And now, our conversation rings back to me. 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.

  No. Please no. Because if Jeff Holmes is the father of his daughter’s child—I can’t even think it.

  I turn and stalk up to the house. Burke runs after me. “Rem—what’s going on?”

  “Nothing. I just want to ask him where he was the morning of his daughter’s murder.”

  “You don’t look like you’re in a just asking mood.” He puts his hand on my shoulder, but I shrug him off.

  “Rem—”

  I round on him, hold up my hands. “Chill. I have full containment.”

  But when we ring the door and it opens, I’m not so sure. Jeff Holmes is wearing golfing clothes—a yellow shirt with a green Burl Oaks Golf Club logo on the breast, a pair of white pants, and is clearly headed out for a nice day on the course.

  While his wife grieves their dead daughter?

  I nearly push him into the house while Burke explains that we have more questions.

  I just have the one. “Where were you yesterday morning around 6 o’clock?”

  He frowns at me, probably trying to stir up an alibi. I hope he sees the warning in my eyes.

  “Jeff? What’s going on?”

  Jeff turns to his wife, who has come down the stairs. She’s wearing a yellow summer sweater, a golf skirt, her hair back in a headband and I can barely take it in.

  Who are these people?

  “Detective Stone seems to think I had something to do with Gretta’s death.” Jeff snaps and looks at me.

  Burke’s hand again lands on my shoulder.

  He talks because my words are balled in my chest. “We just need to clear up a few more questions,” he says. “Paperwork.”

  Karen joins her husband. “We answered all your questions.” But wariness hovers in her eyes, as if afraid we’ll pry too deep.

  She’s probably protecting Jeff, and that burns me.

  We’re standing in a living room, just off the entry, with a grand piano, a glass coffee table, flanking white linen sofas, and a wall of pictures. I walk over to the wall.

  “You haven’t answered the one I just asked.” I glance over my shoulder at Jeff. Raise an eyebrow.

  “I was running,” he says. “Every Friday morning, I take a longer run while Karen has a breakfast with her friends.”

  “Anybody see you?” Burke asks.

  “I suppose.” He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

  I do. I turn back to the pictures on the wall. They’re the usual pictures of Gretta at all ages—cute girl, who went through her buck-toothed stage—and some of the entire family. They had a springer spaniel at one time. “Gretta is an only child?”

  Karen walks over. “Yes. She was adopted. We couldn’t have children of our own.”

  “She looks like a good girl,” I say. “Did she get into trouble?”

  Karen is quiet. “Until recently, she seemed very happy. Then, she started acting out. Getting moody. I think she was depressed. She ran away three months ago, after a terrible fight.”

  “But you knew where she was.” I’m still looking at the pictures. There’s one with grandparents, a picture taken on the lake. And another with her standing by a grand piano, in a gold-gilded room. “This one. Where was it taken?”

  “At orchestra hall. She was a gifted pianist, and she and a few other students had a private concert. She only invited one other couple to the event.”

  “Who?”

  “Her softball coach and his wife.” Karen touches the picture, and her voice turns low. “They’ve been very good to us.”

  “They gave her a place to stay, didn’t they? At one of their rental units.”

  She meets my eyes. Nods, something of fear in her expression. My gaze flicks to Jeff. He’s watching us, his mouth tight.

  “That’s how you knew where she was,” I say quietly to him.

  He swallows. “No,” he says. “I didn’t know where she was.”

  He’s lying. I turn back to the wall.

  “Then why was your Lexus at Lulu’s yesterday morning?” Burke asks.

  There are more pictures, of Jeff and Karen in their youth, little Gretta on Karen’s lap. And their wedding picture, Karen looking young and pretty in a flouncy dress.

  My gaze lands on another picture.

  Jeff Holmes, undergrad, sitting on the steps of his fraternity at the University of Minnesota.

  Sigma Chi.

  My gut tightens because I knew it. I was an idiot to not see it the first time, but we didn’t have the cufflink, or the Lexus sighting, and somewhere in the back of my mind, maybe we didn’t even dig into the alibi—I don’t want to know where we screwed up.

  I just know we did.

  I turn, my eyes hard on Jeff. “You went to Sigma Chi.”

  He nods, his gaze hitting the picture.

  I take a step toward him. “Did
you know Gretta was pregnant?”

  His mouth opens, and he looks at Karen, then back to me. “What?”

  Of course, I don’t know she was pregnant, not for sure, but just in case— “She visited an abortion clinic the morning of her death. And you knew it. Because you were waiting for her in the Lulu’s parking lot. Probably saw her coming down the street from the clinic. And maybe she saw you and because your wife had been giving her money, she was probably relieved to see you, hoping you’d shown up to help her, to rescue her…except, were you?”

  Jeff is just standing there, his mouth closed, his Adam’s apple dropping in his throat.

  I know guilt when I see it. “You went to see her, didn’t you? What, to tell her to come home? Or maybe…maybe you gave her money to have that abortion.” I haven’t mentioned the twenty dollar bill in her grip.

  His breath hiccups, and I don’t care. I take a step toward him. “Why did she run away from home, Jeff? You said it was because you two fought over her boyfriend. But was it really because she didn’t feel safe? Maybe…because you were the father of her child?”

  I should have expected the right hook, given the dark look in the man’s eyes. The punch is flimsy at best.

  It barely stings, and I step back, ready to round on him.

  But he roars and leaps on me, and suddenly, I’m back peddling and slamming into the glass coffee table.

  The thing shatters, and Jeff is on top of me.

  I let him have another lick because I can’t figure out a way to get him off me without tearing myself to shreds.

  Then Burke is on him, pulling him up.

  I find my feet and he breaks away from Burke and comes at me again. This time, I bat his hand away, the wimpy golfer that he is, grab his other arm, twist him around and in a second, he’s against a wall, his arms behind him, in cuffs.

  “No!”

  Karen might have been screaming this entire time, but I haven’t heard her until now. She is crying and shouting as she rushes Jeff.

  Burke catches her. “Calm down. He’s not under arrest—”

  “Yes he is,” I say. “He attacked me—”

  “It wasn’t him!” Karen is trying to unlock Burke’s arms from around her waist. “It wasn’t him at Lulu’s—it was me!”