Page 541 of Cold Case, Warm Hearts

She’s probably reeling, trying to find her footing, like me.

“We should interview people, see if anyone saw anything,” Burke says as I join him. He glances up at the crowd, as if searching.

Onlookers have assembled, just a handful of them this early in the morning, and God help me, I suddenly don’t rememberanything. Did we interview anyone before? Did we track down the employees, cross-reference any of them with the other store? Did we discover commonalities?

Did we suspect that this was all connected? It’s a strange deja vu because I know I’ve been here before, but my memory is liquid.

“You see anyone watching?” Burke says, his voice cut low.

I glance at the pictures, casually, then scan the growing crowd. This area of town is rife with young professionals, many on bicycles, a few standing at the bus station. Neighbors congregate on porches, at the doors of their homes. A few cars have drivers standing with their doors open.

I’m going to need help.

I find Eve, still struck by the scene, judging by the look on her pale face.

“We need crowd pictures. Lots of them.”

She turns, her eyes wide. My tone is dark, brusque, but this is no longer a what-if.

“Now.”

She frowns, and I know that face. The one I get when I’ve pushed her, when she’s debating a retort. But we don’t have time for feelings, not when the suspect could be vanishing into the crowd.

I feel the passionate, darkly focused Rembrandt I’ve left behind working his way to the surface.

Good. Frankly, I need him.

“Right.” She has her camera and she starts snapping shots, along with Silas.

I return to Burke. He’s interviewed a couple spectators, written down names, and now he’s leaning against the car, staring at the crowd, then back at the pictures, comparing.

“Anything?”

He glares at me, his eyes dark.

“Tell me, right now, that you don’t know anything about this,” he says, low and nearly under his breath. But his tone contains enough of an edge that it leaves a mark.

“Of course not. I told you, it was—is—a hunch.”

He nods then and holds up a picture to the crowd assembled behind the fire trucks.

Whythiscoffee shop? My question to Booker needles me. It’s not a chain store, rather an artsy hole-in-the wall. I remember donuts being served from the back patio during an art show I attended shortly after I moved to the neighborhood. Donuts and organic coffee.

The explosion has littered said coffee—beans and grounds—along with glass and debris onto the street. A piece of burlap is soaked and tattered on the pavement. My gaze lands on it, and something about the logo—four leaves, four beans—nudges me.

I’m not sure why I pick it up, but a memory sloshes through my brain.

It’s cut off by the sight of a woman advancing on the scene. She’s young, dark hair and with a jolt, I remember her. Only, not from the past, but from my present. Myreallife.

Mariana Vega, real estate investor and current mayor of St. Louis Park, my district. She’s younger, of course, her hair long and in tangles, but she still possesses the take-no-prisoners approach she lives by in city council meetings.

The kind of stance that can deny a guy a building permit—appeal pending—for a second story on his garage, an addition that would make the perfect office. Maybe a place where a writer’s words wouldn’t get tangled, stuck?—

“She looks upset,” Burke says.

She’s yelling at Booker, gesturing to the shop. Her face is streaked with tears, however, and she’s almost sympathetic.

“She’s the owner.”

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