She couldn’t shake the bone deep idea that Rembrandt Stone was oh, so much more than the cover of his book, that he meant his words, kept promises, and would track down the perpetrator of this terrible act.
“Okay, Inspector,” she said. And as they left, as they found Burke, waiting for them in the lobby, she made one promise to herself.
She would not let herself fall for Rembrandt Stone.
Chapter 9
I am cheating.
And I don’t care.
I’m sitting in the original, not-overhauled location of one of our—Eve and my—favorite haunts. We only found the pub a few years ago, after the remodel, so seeing the vintage brick walls, the arches behind the mirrored bar, the scuffed wooden floors, and the hanging lantern lights has me in a nostalgic mood.
Zepplin plays through the 90s-sized speakers in the four corners of the pub and I tap my fingers on the wooden table watching Eve as she tears apart her pretzel, one bite at a time, eying me with a smile.
I grin. “I know, right?”
I order a lager—an early version of what will later be award-winning, but is still today, monumental. I probably shouldn’t be drinking on the job, but this is a dream, right?
Besides, Burke has always been the stickler, and nurses a Diet Coke to go with his bratwurst—my suggestion by the way because I know how he’s going to become an addict.
Eve picks up a napkin, wipes her mouth. “Okay, true confession. I read your book.”
I don’t know why this old information warms me to my core, but something about her admission makes me want to be the guy she will someday believe in.
“And?”
“My dad hated it, although I don’t think he even read it. I’ve never seen a copy at the house.”
I’m not surprised by this, but this is fresh news, actually. Remember, I never got to know Danny Mulligan, but I would have liked to. He had a reputation as a good cop, the kind of guy you wanted backing you up. I would’ve liked him to like the book. And, me. “Why does he hate it?”
“He says you gave away secrets, the kind of things only cops know. That you can’t be trusted.” She’s sizing me up, testing me.
I’ve always liked that about Eve—she’s a straight shooter, doesn’t mince words. It’s also the reason why I never let her do the talking when we happened to question witnesses together. It’s good to play a few games, and she hates them.
I frown at her words. “Your dad is wrong. If he’d read my book, he’d know I didn’t betray anybody. It was my story to tell. And I was careful. I didn’t give away any secrets. You can trust me, Eve.” I meet her eyes now, because I really need her to believe this.
She nods, as if taking in my words. “So, why? Whatever possessed you to write a book?”
I feel a sort of freedom in my answer, one that comes with impunity. It’s not like I’m going to wake up tomorrow with a hangover, regretting the previous night.
In other words, it’s my dream, so I’ll do what I want.
I take a gulp of my beer, wipe the foam from my mouth. “I started it as a journal. Just my thoughts, my daily activities. A place to sort it all out, you know?”
“Sort what out? Life?”
I lift a shoulder. “Why, maybe. The reasons people do what they do. Maybe I was looking for insight.” I lean forward. “Or to learn from my mistakes.”
“You had an extraordinary amount of collars for a rookie detective.” Her pretty eyes are on me and Burke raises an eyebrow at me, even as he’s sopping up his fries with ketchup.
“I got lucky. And smarter, perhaps.”
Burke chuckles. “No, let’s just stay with lucky.”
“Instincts, Burke. That’s what it’s called.” I reach over and snag a fry.
“It’s a good book,” Eve says finally. “Unguarded.”
I’m not sure what to do with that. Reviewers called it “gritty, honest, and a raw portrayal of the darker side of crime.” I stay silent.
She is back to tearing her pretzel. “That story of the little girl who went missing.”
Yeah, I remember, because for a long time I couldn’t shake the echo of our own dark years after Mickey vanished. Age four, she went missing from Minnehaha Park while on a family picnic. We searched for days, with dogs and local volunteers. She was found not at the park but ninety minutes north, near a wilderness park in Little Falls. She’d been taken by a coworker of the mother’s.
I nod. “It was a passing comment from the father, during the initial interview that caught my attention. Something about his wife talking to a friend. We tracked down the friend, put a name to him and linked him to a truck spotted at the crime scene.”
“And arrested him back at his job,” Eve says, her gaze holding mine.
Okay, despite the dream, my throat is thick because I wrote about it—not just the case, but the anger that gnawed in my gut for weeks afterward. The nights I roamed the house, or haunted the gym. Maybe those were the secrets Mulligan hated revealed.
I did leave a few things out, however, and I look away. There’s a reason a guy like me can’t believe in happy endings.
All we can hope for are endings we might, somehow, survive.
“I remember that case,” Burke says, reaching for a napkin. “Rem didn’t sleep for three days while we hunted for her.”
I lift a shoulder, but really, how could I? Not with Mickey a ghost in my head. “I promised the family answers.”
“You promise everyone answers,” Burke says, crumpling the napkin and tossing it into the middle of the table. “Someday you’re going to make promises you can’t keep.”
He has no idea. I sigh. “Listen, answers are all they have left. Their lives are permanently shattered and there’s no coming back. If I give them answers, then maybe
