“Hey.”
Silas glanced at her, his mouth grim, a defeat in his pale green eyes. “Hey.” He turned back to the scene. “This is rough.”
A fireman carried out a child, no more than two, his body horribly burned, his light brown hair almost untouched. The man set him on the street on a body bag, pulled off his helmet and pressed the back of his hand to his mouth.
She flinched, hating the sight of a grown man crying.
Blowing out a breath, she lifted her camera and started shooting. Just to get some crowd scenes. Who knew but if it was arson, the perp could be lingering in the crowd. She kept shooting, turning—
“Hey!”
She’d bumped soundly into the man behind her. Dark hair, deep, pensive blue eyes, he wore a suit and had shaved, his dark hair wavy, a lock of it falling away, as if tempting her to reach out and curl it around her finger.
The force of his presence loosened Eve’s grip on her camera and it slipped from her hands.
He caught it, his reflexes lighting fast, an almost miraculous save.
“Oh—I’m sorry!”
He handed her camera back to her. She checked it—all intact. “Thanks, wow. This is a—”
“Five thousand dollar camera. I know.”
Huh. “Yeah.”
He was staring at her, his mouth a little open, blue eyes latched on, his expression almost white, as if he’d seen an apparition. “It’s you.”
She raised an eyebrow. Oh. She wasn’t sure what he’d heard, but, “Yeah. I’m here to work the scene. Eve Mulligan, CSI.”
He took her outstretched hand, and swallowed, as if a little undone, and if she thought Rembrandt Stone could land on a calendar from fifty feet away, meeting him up close, with those blue eyes on her as if he might be drinking her in—
It sent a hot ripple right through her. No wonder they called him a lady killer. An eye-rolling nickname, but she felt her own breathing start to seize up, so there was that.
“Sorry. Uh, I’m Rem.” He held out his hand. “I…wow. I forgot this part.”
She frowned at him. “What part—?”
“Last—no, I mean. I had coffee before.”
“Before what?” Then— oh no. “Were you in the coffee shop?”
“No—I mean. Yes. But not that one.” He blew out a breath, his gaze landing behind her, on the carnage. “No. I was at a place called the Cuppa. It’s—”
“I love that place. In Uptown? It’s just a few blocks from my new house.” Oh, and now she was babbling. Sheesh.
“I know.” His eyes widened. “I mean, I know it’s in Uptown.”
Huh.
His hand cupped his neck. “This was supposed to play out differently.”
She was starting to get a strange vibe. “Like…how?”
His eyes widened again and he shook his head. “Nothing.”
“We have witnesses.” The voice came from Inspector Andrew Burke, as he walked up to them. He shot her a smile. “Eve Mulligan. I heard you’d moved over to our precinct.” He held out his hand.
She shook his hand, found it warm and solid. It seemed to calm her racing heart.
“Glad you’re here,” Burke said, and his gaze lifted past her, to the horror, his mouth a tight line. “C’mon. I found a woman who missed the bomb by two minutes. She’s a little shaky, but she might have something that gives us a start.”
Stone didn’t move. Just stared at Eve, and the look on his face sent an eerie tingle through her. “I forgot how beautiful you were—are.”
Eve just blinked at him. What?
And now he had Silas’s attention because he’d turned.
“Oh brother,” Burke said, and pulled him away.
But before he walked away, Stone stopped, looked up at the coffee shop, then back at Eve. “This time we’ll catch him.”
His words raised gooseflesh on her arms.
“What was that all about?” Silas said.
She watched him as he disappeared through the crowd with Inspector Burke. “I don’t know. But that was weird.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve heard stories about that guy. Trust me on this—the last thing you need is to get tangled up with him. You never know when you might end up in a book.”
Stone had emerged near the sidewalk, and kneeled down next to the distraught woman. He put his hand on her shoulder, his expression softening.
Maybe. But she had the distinct impression that there was more to Rembrandt Stone. And she wouldn’t mind figuring it out.
Chapter 6
I’m trying to focus, really, I am. On the scene, taking in the crowd, on the activity of the firefighters. And especially on the witness statement of the middle-aged woman seated on the curb, her eyes rounded as she keeps glancing at the shell of the building, still sizzling, the smoke graying the sky. I’m listening to Burke ask her the pertinents—when, where, what did she see—but frankly, I’m reeling.
Everything feels so real. The odor of creosote, the acrid pinch of burned metal and rubber. The wind picks up ash and blows it at our feet. The air is thick with smoke and the humidity of the firemen’s spray.
The crowd is still murmuring, some people crying. Firemen are shouting, and sirens rend the air.
We interviewed her before, Laura Stoltenberg, a pretty blonde who looks like she might shatter, so I put my hand on her shoulder to keep her together. I don’t offer platitudes, but Eve has told me how sometimes it’s good to connect with people, to show them kindness, and while I know that, it’s taken me a few years to let it out.
I give her shoulder a squeeze of comfort.
Burke glances at me when I do this, and frowns, but turns back to her.
“Do you remember the people in the shop, anyone who might have looked out of place? Or was acting suspiciously?”
Bombings are still rare in 1997. It’s been two years since the Oklahoma bombing, only a year since the Olympic Park bombing in Atlanta, and it’s the current thinking that bombings are personal, that the perpetrator
