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CHAPTER SEVEN

I can’t shake this eerie voodoo. It isn’t quite like déjà vu, but close enough, the hiccup inside that says you’ve said that, seen that, heard that, done that before. And you have , it’s just…

I just burned my mouth on the bitter, too hot coffee.

You don’t dream that, do you? The fatness of your tongue as it absorbs the heat?

Or the way it burns my hand as I jerk back, the liquid sloshing over the edge of my Styrofoam cup.

Burke looks over at me, frowns. We’re standing in the community room of the shiny new 3rd Precinct, with the bullet proof, floor to ceiling windows that overlook 31st Street. Our usual haunt, located downtown in the ancient City Hall building, is under renovation. Along one wall of the community room, I’ve pinned all the faces of the deceased, some of them already identified. Seven total. Two of them are men, who carried their identification with them. The rest are women. And one toddler. I grit my teeth.

Melinda Jorgensen is the third picture in, on the top row. She hasn’t yet been named, and it’s a gut punch to see the word “unidentified” next to her picture. Down below, on the bottom is her towheaded son, and with everything inside me I want to unpin him, place him next to his mother.

Weird, I know.

Everything about this is weird, though, right? In the gathering crowd, I recognize faces, men I haven’t worked with in years. Including Jim Williams, the beat cop who I lost—will lose?—my job over in about seventeen years. And in the far corner, in the back, Inspector Danny Mulligan, who’s come over from downtown to help us sort this out.

It’s exactly like seeing a ghost. Danny, Eve’s dad, along with her brother, Ash, were murdered just a few weeks after we met. A Fourth of July shooting that forever shut down that holiday for us. We never shoot off fireworks, never barbecue hot dogs.

I caught Danny’s gaze on me today as I walked in, as if sizing me up. I don’t remember that from before, but maybe I’m not as shook up this time around.

Or maybe I just know that all this chatter won’t matter. Not unless it leads to a perp in the next sixteen hours.

We’ve interviewed twelve witnesses, just Burke and I, and I’ve outsourced the rest of the interviews to others in my department. None of the witnesses, so far, saw anything unusual, but this is before the if-you-see-something, say-something era, so no one is actually looking.

Wow, we thought we were safe back then. Or now. Whatever.

I’m standing off to the side, holding up a wall with my shoulder while the fire chief gives us an update. On the overhead is a diagram of the attack, and Dayton is drawing on the view film, indicating the preliminary scene reports.

“The arson investigators will confirm, but we believe the blast came from inside the shop.” He points to the layout of the store. “Given the damage to the front of the store, the bomb was probably placed near the brewed coffee machines.”

He draws a line across one side of the store. “There was a row of help-yourself coffee thermoses here, with overflow under the counter. The current theory is that one of those might have been a decoy.”

“And housed the bomb?” Burke asks. “So, how did the bomber get it there?”

“Could have been someone who works there,” says Danny from the back where he’s standing, his arms folded and hands tucked under his armpits. He’s radiating a sort of fury fed by the energy in the room. We’re all angry, and getting more so with every victim identification. “Maybe a disgruntled employee?”

“We’re running down the backgrounds of all the current employees, but it would need to be someone who knew explosives, like a Gulf War veteran, perhaps?” Booker interjects this from his position near the windows.

We tracked down every surviving employee over the course of the year after the final bombing—no one had the background that Booker is suggesting, but maybe we missed something, so I stay silent.

However, I’m antsy, because none of this conversation hastens the suspicion that the bomber was on a timer. That he might have been nearby.

We don’t know to look at the…photographs. The photographs Eve took. This time, we can get them developed.

“This is taking too long,” I say under my breath to Burke. I dump my coffee in the trash bin and am pushing out the nearby door when I hear Burke stifle a word and fall in behind me.

We’re out in the hallway when he grabs my arm. “Where are you going?”

Because this is just a dream—a very rich, vivid dream, for sure, but a dream nonetheless, I say, “We’re running out of time. There’s another bomb out there, and we have to find it.”

Burke’s mouth opens, and he stares at me like I’ve just told him the Vikings are going to win the Super Bowl.

Burke drags me toward the men’s room. He pushes me inside, and I sort of bounce off the tile, rounding on him fast. “What’s your problem?”

“What’s yours? ” Burke says. “You’re running this investigation, but instead of helming it, it’s like your mind is somewhere else. And I’m starting to figure out where. Did you get a tip that you’re not sharing with the rest of us? About another bombing? Why are you keeping the rest of us in the dark? A toddler died, Rem. If you know something?—”

“Step back.” I give him a shove. “I don’t know anything.” Which, frankly, isn’t a lie. We just didn’t get that far into the investigation before the trail went cold, just like that, nothing else to go on.

We have stop him this time, because I can’t wake up to another case gone frigid. “I just…I have a hunch, okay?”

Burke’s eyes narrow.

And that’s when I get a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

You’ve gotta be kidding me.

I’m staring at the twenty-eight-year-old version of myself.

A very young, bright-eyed, and way-too-confident version, thanks to my New York Times bestseller run. My hair is shaggy and top-heavy, with a oh-so-90s lock over my face. I’m wearing a black suit jacket and a white shirt, but my tie—it’s wide, red and it has baseballs on it. Whose idea was this? Yeah, probably mine, but Burke is wearing a normal gray, striped number that I barely noticed.

I rip off the tie and shove it in the trash, but the next thing I notice is…I have my body back. The one I spent way too much time honing.

I liked this body.

And, I very much like this dream.

Especially the second chance I’m getting. I turn to Burke. “I just have a hunch that this is only the first bomb. And that maybe the bomber was in the crowd, watching.” I close my eyes for a second. “I need to talk to Eve.”

Burke is frowning. I still can’t get over that hair. Or that stupid soul patch.

“Eve?”

“Eve Mulligan, the CSI at today’s scene? She was snapping pictures?—”

“The redhead? Danny Mulligan’s daughter?”

Yeah, the redhead. And if Eve heard Burke call her that, he’d be so very dead.

Burke is shaking his head. “You’d better stay away from that one, Rem.”

I don’t know why, but a spurt of cockiness makes me say, “Naw. I’m going to marry her.” Well, it’s true, isn’t it?

Burke stares at me like I’ve taken a hit too hard. “Right. Okay, Rem, whatever you say.”

I push past him. Because I’ve just come up with a reason to see her. And a way to stop bombing number two. I’ll get the photos, go to the next scene and simply stake it out. Wait.

Stop the carnage and get the bomber.

Unless, of course, I wake up first.

So, right now, I’m sloughing off the eerie voodoo of this dream and diving in, tasting the sweet sense of justice, of triumph.

While I’m stopping the crime of the decade, maybe I’ll also take this body for a spin at the gym, one more time. Climb into the ring with Burke, now that I know his moves. I hide a smile, wishing on stars that whatever took me down and into this dream has me out for a long winter’s nap.

“I’m going over to the crime lab to see if Eve has downloaded her pictures?—”

“Downloaded?”

“Uh … developed. But first, I’m going back to the Cuppa. I need a white mocha with a berry shot.”

“A what?”

I try not to smile. “It’s coffee. Like an upgraded latte.” Oh, the nineties. “Don’t you watch Friends? Man, I forgot how sheltered you are. You need to live larger, dude.”

“Hey—”

I grin, because I’m seeing the Burke I knew, and our friendship is still intact, the sparring fun, the laughter easy. Back when he didn’t consider me a traitor.

“Take a breath, Burke. I’ll text you if I find anything.”

The frown is back on Burke’s face. Deeper this time.

I push past him, unbuttoning the collar of my shirt at the neck as I leave the restroom.

“I’m coming with you,” Burke says, on my heel.

I turn, walking backwards. “Actually, you’re not. I need to talk to Eve alone. You go back in there. Tell Booker I’ve got a lead. And keep an eye on Danny Mulligan.”

Burke stops in the middle of the hallway. “Stay away from her.”

“Not a chance.” I turn back just in time to hit the door, and find myself outside, in the glaring hot sun. A couple of Rollerbladers skate by, along with a car pumping out Puff Daddy’s “Bad Boys for Life.”

Funny how songs come back to you, as if they’d just been tucked away on a shelf.

I head around back to the lot and stand in the middle of the pavement, searching.

My car isn’t here. Sure, I rode in with Burke, in his Acura Integra, but I thought for sure I’d left the Porsche at the station.

I turn, baffled and I see Burke come out. I ignore the fact that he’s ignored me , and say, “Where’s my 911?”

He raises an eyebrow. “I hope, in the junkyard, where it belongs.”

Huh? “It’s…” Not yet repaired. Because now I remember. At the time of the bombing, I’d parked the car in my father’s garage, on his hobby farm out in Waconia, because I live in a one bedroom apartment four blocks off the lake, in a three-story walk up brownstone on Holmes.

It’s vintage, has some charm with its wood floors and ancient knocking radiators, but mostly was a cheap place in the city I could rent back before the book sales started adding to my nest egg.

Actually, the entire place needs a remodel, but I only know that now.

I currently drive a…that’s right, a 1984 Camaro and something inside me ignites when I see my first love waiting for me in a spot near the edge where no one can hurt her.

I head toward her, but Burke catches up to me. “Listen—I don’t know why you’re acting so weird, but Booker wants to see you. Says it’s urgent.”

Shoot. But in this dream, I still work for him so I route back inside and find him sitting in his office. Mulligan and a couple other precinct investigators shuffle out. Danny gives me the dark eye, but I ignore him and poke my head in. “You wanted to see me, Boss?”

He frowns, and maybe I haven’t started calling him that, yet. “Come in, Rembrandt. Shut the door.”

Hmm.

He gets up, and gestures to me to sit down, which is a little weird, but I do, on the sofa shoved against the wall.

He leans against the desk and blows out a breath. “Okay, I got some news, and I know it might be just another dead lead, but…”

The way he’s acting, the grim look…oh, no, in all the bombing clutter I’d forgotten ?—

“A fisherman found a dead body a couple days ago over in Swan Lake, out in Waconia. They hauled it in and sent it to the M.E’s office. I got a call this morning—it’s on the machine.”

He’s reaching over to play it for me, but I know what it says. My body goes numb.

“It’s my brother.”

Suddenly, I desperately want to wake up. Because I remember this part of my past too. The fact that I was so busy with the bombings that someone else went to talk to my parents.

Someone else, not their detective son, who’d become an Inspector for exactly this reason—to find my brother.

I should have been there when they got the news.

I will be, this time.

“It’s not for sure. It takes a while to get back the DNA evidence, but it was a kid, and there was a backpack…”

“It’s a Return of the Jedi pack, isn’t it?”

He nods and while I know it’s coming, the gesture hits me like a fist.

“I just thought I should give you a heads up. I know the timing stinks?—”

“I’ll tell my parents.” I get up.

“It’s not conclusive yet,” he says. “Wait until the DNA comes back. But…I’m really sorry, Rembrandt. I know that you probably knew he was dead, but there’s always that hope, right?”

I shake my head. “There are no happy endings, boss. I’m used to it.”

The words dig in and now I’m annoyed and frustrated as I head back out into the heat. If I really could dream myself into the past and make some changes, I’d start with the day my brother went missing.

The day I left him behind.

Burke is waiting for me, leaning on his car, his arms folded as I come out. “You in trouble?”

“No,” I snap. But, he doesn’t deserve that, so I add, “Chief just wanted to talk to me about an old case.”

He nods and follows me over to my car. Only then do I notice the flattened back tire. Really?

I give it a kick. “When did this happen?”

“Last night. I gave you a ride home. Remember?”

No, I want to say. Because yesterday was twenty-four freakin’ years ago, and even in my subconscious I don’t have that kind of memory.

But that accounts for why he picked me up this morning.

I pop the trunk and find my jack kit and tire in the back. Taking off my coat, I set to work, and twenty minutes later, the spare is on.

“Can you follow me to the garage? There’s Speedy’s off Lake, and Rusty will have me back in action in a couple hours.”

He’s about seventy-four now in my time, and we’re still good friends. I throw the tire in the back, close the trunk.

“Yeah. Sure.”

I dust off my hands. “Then we need to get a list of every coffee shop in the Minneapolis metro area.”

“What are we going to do, stake out every single one?” Burke raises an eyebrow.

“If I have to.”

“That’s some hunch, pal. I hope you’re right.” Burke stalks over to his car.

I slide into the sweet leather of my Camaro, roll down the window, start her up, and the stereo kicks in. My play list, at least, hasn’t changed in years.

I pull out to Boston’s, “More Than a Feeling.”