He raised one dark eyebrow and admittedly, her heart gave a little start.
He was better looking than his book jacket. Especially with his collar unbuttoned, the tiniest grizzle of whiskers across his chin. Those blue eyes skimmed over her, checking her out.
Interesting.
He came back to her gaze with a smirk. Like she should fall at his feet to his offer of coffee.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, not showing a hoot of interest in the coffee.
They were working off site from the crime scene lab, in a warehouse they sometimes used to process and catalog all the evidence.
Silas and other crime scene techs were sorting evidence bags—clothing, pieces of the store, items that looked like bomb casings.
His smirk vanished. “I need your help. What can you tell me?”
She raised an eyebrow at his sudden honesty and took the coffee. “We’re just getting started. If we can isolate the bomb casing in the next forty-eight hours, it’ll be a miracle. The best I can do for you is to focus on the makeup of the explosive residue, see if I can get a signature mix. Bomb makers are artists, and they tend to have a signature.”
She took a sip of the coffee. Shoot, that was good—a hint of raspberry? And vanilla? “What’s in this?”
“Mocha. Raspberry. Vanilla. Told you that you’d like it.”
He had a nice smile. It lit up his eyes, added a dangerous charm to them. So there were at least two layers to Mr. Rembrandt Stone—smolder on his book cover, charming in real life. Interesting.
“Listen,” she said. “We’ll find it—but it’ll take time.”
“Which we don’t have. I think the bomber was in the crowd today.”
She put the coffee down. “What makes you say that?”
“Just…a hunch. But I also think this isn’t the last bomb.”
His words put a fist in her. “What are you saying?”
“I think he’s going to do it again. And soon. Very soon.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know…” He looked away, then back to her. “It’s just…a gut feeling. I think he’s trying to make a point, and it’s not quite made yet.” His lips tightened into a grim line.
Layer number three. The guy really cared.
Unfortunately, “I don’t know how I can help you.”
“The shots you took today—are they developed yet?”
She’d filled up three rolls of her 35mm film taking shots of the crowd, then the scene. She’d handed off her camera to one of the techs and they’d continued shooting every piece of evidence. “I think we have about fifteen rolls of film.”
“I just need the crowd shots.”
“Because you think you can spot him—or her, although bombers tend to be male—in the photos? How will you know who you’re looking for?”
He lifted a shoulder.
“Wait, please don’t say it’s a gut feeling.”
He smiled. “Okay.”
She sighed, glancing over at Silas and the crew. He was watching her, his pale green eyes not missing a thing.
She turned back to Rembrandt. “This isn’t the order we do things in, Inspector. You don’t even know what you’re looking for.”
“I know. And I know I’m jumping ahead, but…please?”
It was the please that did it. So different from the weird, almost invasive man she’d met earlier today, this man had a sweet humility about him.
Shoot, she liked him. And then there was the coffee.
“Okay. But we’ll have to go to the Forensic Photography services at the lab downtown.”
Rembrandt gave a slight nod. “Burke will drive.”
She grabbed the camera, the rolls of film, her bag, and followed him out to the lot. Andrew Burke was leaning against his car, waiting, handsome to the bone.
“Hi again, Detective Burke,” she said.
He glanced at Rembrandt. “Apparently he can’t stop harassing you today. Just Burke is fine.”
She slid into the backseat of his Integra. “We’re going to the photo lab.”
“Have you come up with any theories so far?” Burke asked as he pulled out. Rembrandt sat in the other seat, in front.
“Just that we think the blast came from one of the coffee canisters, given the pattern. It’s concentrated on one side of the building, although everyone sitting in the eating area was killed. Terrible.”
Rembrandt stared out the window, his hand rubbing his watch, his thumb moving over the face. A nervous habit, probably.
“Rough first day,” Burke said.
She shrugged. “I just want to make sure we don’t miss anything. Let this guy slip away. Not catching him isn’t something I want to think about.”
Rembrandt drew in a long breath and nodded without looking at her.
They worked their way into the city, the sun low as it spilled over streets and along the paved sidewalks. Burke pulled up in front of the massive, city-block wide municipal building. “I’ll park and catch up with you.”
“Third floor,” Eve said and followed Rembrandt up the wide front steps.
She always felt as if she might be walking back into history every time she entered the circa 1887, Romanesque building. Its thick granite walls kept the air cool despite the early June heat, the rotunda soaring fifteen stories. Inside, carved pillars encased the ancient elevators, and the huge room was centered by a marble statue of a man leaning against a paddle wheel of a riverboat, holding a cornstalk.
Stone led the way across the marble floor, then up the wide staircase. She almost had to run to catch up.
“You okay?” She didn’t know why, because she hardly knew him, but he appeared rattled. Or maybe that was just his driven personality.
He seemed to almost have forgotten her, because he turned then, his hand on the rail, and nodded. “I think so.”
Huh. “We’ll find him, Inspector.”
He made a sort of grunt of agreement, deep in his chest.
The photo lab was located on the third floor, behind one of the original wooden doors. She greeted a couple familiar faces, then headed toward the dark room. “I’ll need to process these films. If you want to come back—”
“I’m staying right here.” He reached for the film, which she’d dumped onto a table. “Which one of these is it?”
“The canister labeled number one.” She plucked it from
