Page 523 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

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 watchFriends?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 ignoredme, 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?”

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