Page 518 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

Shoot—and that’s what she got for being irreverent of the dead. “I’m on my way.”

She was hanging up when she saw smoke pluming across the downtown skyline. She dropped the phone onto the seat and got off 394 at Dunwoody, over to Lyndale, then south to Franklin.

Firetrucks jammed the streets, the air thick with spray, the odor of smoke, rubber and metal melting under the heat of the flames. She parked at a shopping center a block away, reached for her ID, hung it over her neck, grabbed her new Canon EOS-3, and got out, quick walking through the crowd.

Her heart dropped as she got closer. Where had stood a Daily Grind, one of the many coffee shops popping up around Minneapolis, now remained only a burned shell, the windows blown out into the street, the trees in the sidewalk ripped to shreds, bicycles and cars scorched, mangled.

And bodies. She counted five with body sheets draped over them, strewn in the street, not all of them intact. EMTs attended to a few victims, and an ambulance closed their doors, the sirens giving a burp before it started through the crowd. Three firetrucks sprayed their hoses on the now doused, charred skeleton of the building, but it would be an hour or more before they could get inside to assess the damage.

For now, they had to get the people back, keep anyone from touching the casualties in the street, cordon off the area to protect the evidence, and secure the site.

She found Silas standing next to a group of other CSIs. He was ungarbed, just wearing his jacket, staring at the chaos. He wore a CSI cap over his blonde hair.

“Hey.”

Silas glanced at her, his mouth grim, a defeat in his pale green eyes. “Hey.” He turned back to the scene. “This is rough.”

A fireman carried out a child, no more than two, his body horribly burned, his light brown hair almost untouched. Theman set him on the street on a body bag, pulled off his helmet and pressed the back of his hand to his mouth.

She flinched, hating the sight of a grown man crying.

Blowing out a breath, she lifted her camera and started shooting. Just to get some crowd scenes. Who knew but if it was arson, the perp could be lingering in the crowd. She kept shooting, turning?—

“Hey!”

She’d bumped soundly into the man behind her. Dark hair, deep, pensive blue eyes, he wore a suit and had shaved, his dark hair wavy, a lock of it falling away, as if tempting her to reach out and curl it around her finger.

The force of his presence loosened Eve’s grip on her camera and it slipped from her hands.

He caught it, his reflexes lighting fast, an almost miraculous save.

“Oh—I’m sorry!”

He handed her camera back to her. She checked it—all intact. “Thanks, wow. This is a?—”

“Five thousand dollar camera. I know.”

Huh. “Yeah.”

He was staring at her, his mouth a little open, blue eyes latched on, his expression almost white, as if he’d seen an apparition. “It’syou.”

She raised an eyebrow. Oh. She wasn’t sure what he’d heard, but, “Yeah. I’m here to work the scene. Eve Mulligan, CSI.”

He took her outstretched hand, and swallowed, as if a little undone, and if she thought Rembrandt Stone could land on a calendar from fifty feet away, meeting him up close, with those blue eyes on her as if he might be drinking her in?—

It sent a hot ripple right through her. No wonder they called him a lady killer. An eye-rolling nickname, but she felt her own breathing start to seize up, so there was that.

“Sorry. Uh, I’m Rem.” He held out his hand. “I…wow. I forgot this part.”

She frowned at him. “What part?—?”

“Last—no, I mean. I had coffee before.”

“Before what?” Then— oh no. “Were you in thecoffee shop?”

“No—I mean. Yes. But not that one.” He blew out a breath, his gaze landing behind her, on the carnage. “No. I was at a place called the Cuppa. It’s?—”

“Ilovethat place. In Uptown? It’s just a few blocks from my new house.” Oh, and now she was babbling. Sheesh.

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