“An employee?”
“Or at least someone who had access. Although, according to Burke, he and Rembrandt interviewed all the employees and they all alibied out.”
“Rembrandt. As in Inspector Stone.” Her father’s eyebrow went up. “You’re working with him?”
She grabbed a nearby stool and slid onto it. “Dad. I work in the Minneapolis Police Department. So does he. Of course I’m going to run into Inspector Stone. He’s lead on the case.”
He ran a hand under his chin. “And does that include eating dinner together?”
She gritted her teeth. This was why she needed to move to another state.
“I ate with Inspector Stone and Burke.”
Her father’s mouth tightened into a grim line. “You heard what happened today, at the scene, right? With Rembrandt?”
“That he ran down a possible suspect?”
She hadn’t just heard about it, she’d watched as he tore past her, lean and quick and fierce, the expression on his face sending a spark through her she couldn’t identify.
Not fear, really, but perhaps, well, warning.
The kind that said she might have glimpsed a layer of Rembrandt that accompanied Silas’s accusation.
“He attacked the guy. John’s thinking he might file police brutality charges.”
She sighed and ran a hand behind her neck. Squeezed a muscle there. “The scene was awful, Dad. I’ve seen burned bodies before, but…it’s a terrible way to die. It’s different, you know, to be there. To see it. Again. And to know…well,” She caught her bottom lip in her teeth.
“To know?”
“It’s just…Stone had this hunch that it was going to happen again.” She didn’t want to betray him, but maybe they should all pay a bit more attention to his instincts.
Her father gave a quick frown, just a flicker. “What kind of hunch?”
“He made me print off all the pictures from the crowd yesterday and was studying them. That’s why—well, probably that’s why he went after this guy. Burke said the guy was at the bombing yesterday.”
Her father’s frown returned.
“And Inspector Stone just ran after him?”
She lifted a shoulder.
“Rembrandt Stone is a hot-head, who’s impulsive decisions are going to get other people killed.”
She opened her mouth, not sure what to say. Closed it. Then, “I blew up the pictures from today, too.”
Gesturing him to follow her, she walked over to a whiteboard where she’d pinned up the pictures. Today’s on one board, yesterday’s on the one beside it.
Her dad studied the pictures. “You think that the bomber stayed to watch.”
“Yes, I do.” The voice came from behind them; a quiet, deep tenor that made her turn.
Rembrandt might have had a worse day than both of them. His cheek boasted a purpling bruise, his eyes tired, reddened. And he must have been wrestling a hand through his hair, one side of it rucked up. He dumped his jacket on her worktable and unbuttoned the sleeves of his grass-stained shirt, rolling one sleeve, then the other, up past his elbows. No tie today, and his suit pants hung low on his hips, also stained.
“Ramses was at the first scene. He said he was getting coffee, but why would a guy get coffee from a different location if his mother ran a coffee shop?” He came right up to the boards, crossed his arms over his chest.
He had nice shoulders, powerful forearms, and she sort of wished she’d seen that fight, especially after the rumors of how he’d tackled the suspect and kept him down.
Apparently the sluice of warning hadn’t taken hold.
Or perhaps her own instincts simply detected a different kind of danger.
“These are the shots from today?”
She nodded. “We spent the day looking for similarities.”
“Why don’t you run them through a facial recognition program, see if the computer can find a match?”
She stared at him. “I’ve heard about that. The Bochum system, out of Germany. I think they’ve developed a similar program at USC. I’d love to get my hands on it.”
He glanced over at her, gave a quick frown, blinking. “Yeah. Maybe someday.” Then, “I’m going to need copies of these.”
“I already made them.”
She didn’t miss the glance from her father before she walked across the room, to her makeshift desk, to grab the manila envelope.
When she returned, she caught the tail end of her father’s words, low and clipped. “…her into trouble.”
She should have moved to Duluth. Or maybe Anchorage. “Inspector Mulligan?” she said, and her father glanced at her without even a hint of embarrassment.
He just smiled at her. “Stop by the house tomorrow. Your mother worries.” He leaned in and popped a kiss on her forehead.
Now she felt fifteen.
Rembrandt wore a strange, almost soft expression watching her father stride from the room.
Then he turned back to the boards. “He thinks I’m going to get you into trouble.”
“I’m just doing my job. Which is to follow the evidence.” She handed him the envelope. “And help you catch this guy.”
“I appreciate it.”
Rem appeared so wrung out that she quelled the strangest—and inappropriate—urge to touch his arm. Maybe suggest a beer.
Still. “You okay?”
He glanced at her. “You ever think about it?”
“About what?”
“You walk into a coffee shop, on your way to work, and order a latte, and then, boom. It’s over. Your life, done.”
She drew in a breath. “No. Or, not usually. Today, however…”
“Right?” He walked over to her table, leaned on one of the metal benches and crossed his arms. “What would you regret?”
She had followed him over, sat on the chair from where her father had retrieved his coat. “Regret?”
“You know—do over again, if you could? With what you know now.”
She considered him, the way he was studying her. He had amazing eyes, deep blue, the kind a girl could fall into and never come up for air. “I don’t know. Maybe I’d tell my friend, Stefanie, not to trust the cross-country coach.”
His eyebrow went up. “That’s who you think killed her?
