Cast the First Stone, David Warren [dark books to read .TXT] 📗

the suburbs, and so would Eve. She loves heading up her own gritty crime scene investigation department downtown, and she might not admit it, but in her own way, she’s picked up where her dad left off.

I win a spot with a still flush meter across the street from American Vintage Watch Repair, listed on a tiny door wedged between a Mediterranean Grill and a Deluxe Smokes, e-cigarettes. Following a dim hallway, I discover an office that looks more like my grandfather’s old workshop, wooden bench, dim lighting and a thousand crazy screws, washers and tools included.

A giant magnifying glass is mounted to the surface, and at the top, what looks like surgical instruments are fitted into a tray, ready to be plucked for use. Solder equipment, canisters of oils and grease, and over a dozen watches, all antique, hang on a dowel under a hanging fluorescent lamp.

A man sits at the desk, a monocle wedged into his eye, leaning over to examine the finite gears on a pocket watch.

I clear my throat as I stand at the door.

He ignores me.

“I’m wondering—”

He holds up his free hand, cutting off my words, and I watch in silence as he reaches out and grabs, clearly from practice, a pair of tweezers.

I hold my breath as he reaches in and plucks out the offending gear.

Then he sets the gear and the monocle on the desk. He’s Asian, dark-skinned, and looks at me as if I’ve annoyed him.

“You fix watches?”

He stares at me.

I know I sound like a moron, so I pull Booker’s watch from my pocket and simply hand it over.

He still says nothing, but takes my watch, turns it over, then back and frowns.

“I can’t fix this.” He shoves the watch back at me.

“What do you mean? You barely even looked at it.” I find myself rubbing my thumb over the inscription.

“I can’t fix.” He shoos me away with a flick of his hand. Reaches for his monocle.

I’m not quite dismissed, thanks, pal. “Why not?”

“It’s not my specialty. Besides, it’s not broken.”

“What do you mean it’s not broken? You can’t wind it, see?” I give him a little demonstration, but he shakes his head.

“Okay, fine. Do you know anyone who can fix it?”

He puts down his monocle. Purses his lips and reaches for a business card. He writes something on the back and hands it to me.

I turn it over.

It’s an address in Stillwater, a tiny town an hour south from here. I know because Eve and I spent our honeymoon there, nearly eight years ago, camped out at a bed and breakfast that overlooked the river.

She was three months pregnant, still nauseated with morning sickness, and even the smell of the gourmet blueberry pancakes sent her running to the bathroom. Not a great start to our life together, and the next six months weren’t much better, with her bed rest and a couple of miscarriage scares. We spent the weekend watching old movies on a tiny television set, me running out for special order ice cream.

I’d love to have another go at the whole thing, starting with the fact that it took me nearly a decade to propose. What was I so afraid of?

I glance at the front of the card, mumble a thanks and head back to the street. I climb into the Porsche and sit there for a minute, debating.

I should go home and work on my manuscript.

A slightly better option would be to finish staining the baseboard in the dining room.

Or, I could strike the jackpot and get a call from one of the moms at Ashley’s school, and get invited for a play date.

As if my mood has conjured it, my cell rings and I look at caller I.D.. I scowl. My agent. Great. But I’ve been avoiding him way too long, so, “Frank. How are you?”

Frank Rydlebower hasn’t had a publishing triumph in nearly a decade. I know he keeps me around because of the lure of my former success, The Last Year, settling in the top ten of The New York Times over twenty years ago. He still thinks he can shine me up and sell me to the highest bidder.

We’ve gotten a few bites, my history at the Minneapolis Police Department still a decent calling card. But apparently, publishers want a finished book.

Of all the gall.

“Rembrandt. How’s the writing going?”

A convertible eases past me down Lake Street, pumping out Taylor Swift’s “Shake it off.”

“Making progress.” I can lie like a criminal when I need to.

“Good.” He hesitates, and suddenly I have the urge to lean my head against the steering wheel and sigh.

“What?”

“I clear my list every year, Rem, and it’s been three since you signed with me…”

Aw, shoot. “I’ll have something to you by the end of the week,” I say, praying this time it’s not a lie.

Silence. Then, “Okay, good. You’ve got another bestseller in you, I know it. Looking forward to reading it.”

Yeah, me too. I hang up, knowing I gotta head home. I’ve got an empty page waiting for me. It can wait a little longer.

I pull out and point the Porsche to the highway, heading south.

It’s a gorgeous day, made even more so by the free and easy vibe of the highway, and I crank up my radio. Sure, I grew up in the late 80s, but my music tastes were cut from a staticky Panasonic radio propped up in my dad’s garage, pumping out classics.

I queue up my play list. I might have a vintage car, but the sound system is top of the line. The Eagles are singing “Hotel California” as I head south.

For the next hour, I’m free, and cruising, twenty-six and leaving it all behind. I barely look at the map, motoring into Stillwater from memory. I pull into a coffee shop and get out, finding my bearings.

The address is a couple blocks away, so I decide to walk. Never hurts to get the lay of the land.

It’s a house. An old white-stucco Tudor with