Page 527 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

“Rough first day,” Burke said.

She shrugged. “I just want to make sure we don’t miss anything. Let this guy slip away. Not catching him isn’t something I want to think about.”

Rembrandt drew in a long breath and nodded without looking at her.

They worked their way into the city, the sun low as it spilled over streets and along the paved sidewalks. Burke pulled up in front of the massive, city-block wide municipal building. “I’ll park and catch up with you.”

“Third floor,” Eve said and followed Rembrandt up the wide front steps.

She always felt as if she might be walking back into history every time she entered the circa 1887, Romanesque building. Its thick granite walls kept the air cool despite the early June heat, the rotunda soaring fifteen stories. Inside, carved pillars encased the ancient elevators, and the huge room was centered by a marble statue of a man leaning against a paddle wheel of a riverboat, holding a cornstalk.

Stone led the way across the marble floor, then up the wide staircase. She almost had to run to catch up.

“You okay?” She didn’t know why, because she hardly knew him, but he appeared rattled. Or maybe that was just his driven personality.

He seemed to almost have forgotten her, because he turned then, his hand on the rail, and nodded. “I think so.”

Huh. “We’ll find him, Inspector.”

He made a sort of grunt of agreement, deep in his chest.

The photo lab was located on the third floor, behind one of the original wooden doors. She greeted a couple familiar faces, then headed toward the dark room. “I’ll need to process these films. If you want to come back?—”

“I’m staying right here.” He reached for the film, which she’d dumped onto a table. “Which one of these is it?”

“The canister labeled number one.” She plucked it from his hand. “I really don’t need help.”

“I know that, Eve.”

But he didn’t move away.

“Are you going to be like this for every case?”

“Probably, although I promise, I’ll grow on you.”

“Like a wart?” She walked into the dark room, and he followed. But she heard a huff that sounded a lot like a chuckle.

She flicked on the purple light, waited for him to close the door, then took the film picker and tugged the film from thecartridge. “This shouldn’t take too long. We just got a new developing machine.”

He stood with his back to the door, blocking it, as if afraid someone might come in. “There’s a little light that tells people we’re in here. And it locks from the inside.”

He’d taken on a purply hue, looking downright sinister standing there.

“So, what’s your story, Inspector?” She cut the film square, then taped it to a plastic leader card.

“I wrote my story,” he said. “Didn’t you read it?”

Every page, cover to cover. “Naw. I’m not a reader.”

Silence and when she glanced at him, one side of his mouth had quirked up. “Mmmhmm.”

She frowned. “Okay. I read parts. I like the story of how you found the murderer of the old dentist through the killer’s bite marks.”

“Yeah. It was a burglary gone wrong. The dentist surprised the perp, they got into a struggle, and he bit the dentist. We nailed the guy from the bite marks on the dentist’s arm—right there in his files.”

“Clever.” She printed out a sticker with the identification marker and pasted it to the film.

“Thanks.”

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