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This is not my reality. How can it be? That thought pulses with every heartbeat, slowly turning into a sledgehammer in my head.
I need coffee, and suggested it on the drive to the precinct, but Burke looked at me as if I’d declared I wanted to stroll naked down Nicollet Mall.
I’m currently drinking the sludge out of the green coffee pot on the side table. I’m effectively holding up the wall, my head leaned back, feeling like something that slept in an alley off Hennepin Avenue.
Booker has procured another whiteboard. Five new faces, two female employees, one male employee, a mechanic from the local body shop, and a Vietnamese woman who ran the Vo’s takeout (I know her son—he runs the place now and it serves excellent Goi Cuon). The music minister at the Presbyterian church on the corner is fighting for his life at HCMC ICU.
The victims were quickly identified by Mariana, a job I don’t envy.
I’m still niggling on the fact that Ramses has so totally fallen off the grid, in my world.
My world. That’s how I’m thinking, as if I’m a visitor here, the precinct not where I spent twenty meaningful years, Burke some cousin of the real Andrew, back in, well, my world.
And Eve. Eve is the younger, easier-going version of the woman I am really starting to miss. Not that I don’t like this Eve, but I need the Eve who can knock me back into play, unravel the knots in my brain.
I need answers, and not just about the second bombing, but…all the answers.
It’s an action from Booker that gives me a lead. He is standing at the front of the room, listing the what-we-knows and results of yesterday’s bombing (pretty much what Eve suggested, a homemade bomb, although I know all that already) when I see him glance at the back. To the clock on the wall.
It’s a quick, almost nonchalant, practiced glance and it occurs to me…why isn’t he looking at his watch?
The watch I’m wearing, incidentally, which is still working, purring along as if it never had a glitch.
“I gotta run an errand,” I say to Burke. Although Booker has assigned us lead investigators on yesterday’s bombing, he’s clearly helming today’s update. We’ll spend the morning interviewing employees and creating files on the deceased.
Burke looks at me, frowns. “Another hunch?”
Touchy. “No.” I say, but yeah, that conversation is looming. I have to give him some reason for my soon-to-commence search for the location of bombing number three, a fact that still eludes me.
Not that I would remember well. Shortly after arriving at the third bombing scene, I got a call from dispatch and spent the rest of the day pacing the HCMC waiting area as my mother fought for her life.
That memory I remember with brutal clarity.
I guess a stroke is a natural reaction to hearing the long-dreaded news about your missing son, especially when one suffers from high blood pressure.
But if I’d been there that morning as my father headed out to the barn with the sunrise, when the sheriff showed up with the news, maybe the blow would have been softer.
Maybe even better if I had delivered it.
I make a mental note to check in with Booker about the DNA results and head outside into the sunshine, the bright, blue-skied day a betrayal to th
is morning’s devastation.
My Camaro is parked in the shade and I slide in, crank down the windows and hang my elbow out as I cruise toward Uptown. I turn on KQRS and find an oldie playing … well, maybe not that old anymore.
Styx, “Come Sail Away.”
I wish.
I turn off Lake to Hennepin and park in front of the Uptown theater. I cut across the road, past the McDonald’s and down the alley to the American Vintage Watch Repair, looking for a younger version of my Asian friend.
Same dim hallway, but at the end I find a small room advertising a coin-operated tanning bed. No sign of the workshop, the wooden bench, the giant magnifying glass, or the not-so-helpful watchmaker.
I walk back into the sunlight, a crazy thought slivering into my brain.
Stillwater.
Please.
