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 a 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.”