Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #2: Books 5-8 (A Dead Cold Box Set) by Blake Banner (types of ebook readers txt) 📕

Dehan laughed, put her arm around her and shook her head. “I know, easily pleased.”

“We must go,” I said.

“And you never had your tea.”

“It’s an excuse for me to come back.”

“Ooh, you’re a charming divil, so y’are!”

“You won’t say that when I come back.”

She laughed again and we left, stepping into the cold evening air. The door closed behind us and we made our way to the car, with our breath fleeing before us like urgent ghosts. And it wasn’t even Halloween yet.

Twenty Three

October had finally decided to start moving toward winter. It was nine thirty in the morning and there was frost on the road and on the lawns, giving the green grass in the front gardens a silvery glint. Dehan and I climbed out of my Jag as the uniforms climbed out of the two patrol cars: Karen and Bret, Sean and Lou. Even the echoes of the slamming doors sounded icy. There was some foot stamping and hand rubbing, and with hunched shoulders we climbed the steps and rang at the door.

Dehan had with her a shoulder bag.

Mel opened the door with her usual big smile, but as she caught sight of the four cops behind me and the paper in my hand, her smile faded into incomprehension. “Detectives, for the love of God, what is it?”

I handed her the warrant. “Mel, I have a warrant to search your house and the shed in your back garden, and to seize any evidence pertinent to my case.”

She looked stunned, then stepped aside. “Surely you could have just asked…”

The uniforms filed in. Dehan sent Karen and Bret upstairs and told Sean and Lou to wait. I paused a moment with Mel. “I’m sorry, Mel. It has to be this way. I called Mo last night and asked him not to go to work. Are they here…?”

“I’m here, so’s Anne-Marie. What is this all about?”

He was in the kitchen doorway, staring at me. I turned to Dehan. “Can you gather everybody in the parlor, Detective Dehan? I’ll join you in a moment.” I turned back to Mel. “This won’t take long. I just need to ask you all some questions. Where’s Sinead?”

“She’s at the nursery, God love her…”

Pat appeared on the stairs, accompanied by the two cops. She looked even more pale and scared than she had the evening before.

“Mom? What’s going on?”

Mel’s face was bitter. She looked me over from head to foot, like she was seeing the real me for the first time. “It’s all right, love. It’s some kind of misunderstanding. They’ll be gone soon.”

Anne-Marie appeared at Mo’s elbow and everybody was shepherded into the parlor. I turned to Sean and Lou. “Go in there with them. Nobody leaves.”

“You got it, Detective.”

They stepped inside and closed the door.

“Karen, Bret, get Pat’s cell phone and her laptop and take them over to the lab. Tell Frank to go through her social media, her emails, her calls and text messages, everything. We are looking for communication between her, Greg, Sly, and Coyote. Then come back.”

“Got it.”

“OK, Detective Dehan, you are with me.”

I took the key from where I had left it the previous evening and we crossed the garden to the shed, with the morning frost crunching under our feet. We let ourselves in and pulled on our surgical gloves. Dehan took a large, plastic evidence bag from her pocket.

The machete was where I had left it, in its canvas sack at the bottom of the crate. I laid it on the workbench, withdrew the blade and laid it on top. In the morning light, it was clear that the steel blade still had gore on it. Dehan reached in her shoulder bag and pulled out a camera and a bottle of Luminol. She set up the camera on a small tripod on the bench and I closed the door and the shutters on the window, then dowsed the light. She sprayed the blade and as it started to glow blue, she took a long exposure photograph.

“It’s blood,” she said.

“Next thing is to prove it’s hers, and that his prints are on the handle.”

“Why the hell would he keep it? Why didn’t he ditch it?”

I shook my head. “You’d need a psychologist to answer that one, but I’m guessing it’s some kind of trophy. The moment he decapitated his wife, it obviously meant something to him. Some kind of liberation, or triumph.”

She bagged it and the canvas sack separately and we took them inside.

Everybody looked up as we stepped into the parlor. Mo and Anne-Marie were sitting on the sofa together, holding hands. Pat was curled up in one armchair and Mel was in the other. She looked mad, but the other three looked scared.

They had a fire burning in the grate, and opposite it, between the sofa and the two chairs, was a coffee table. I laid the machete on it and looked at Mo. His eyes were like saucers and he was very pale. I glanced at Anne-Marie, then at Mel and Pat. They were all staring at it with no expression at all. Then they all looked at Mo.

“That’s blood on the blade, Mo. That’s a nice Micata handle, composite of linen and paper. It’s expensive, but it looks good and it’s comfortable, right?” He was staring at me. He didn’t answer, so I went on. “It will also hold a fingerprint for years. In about half an hour, Officers Bransen and Murphy will return, and they will take this machete, and the canvas sack, to the lab for analysis. I am willing to bet they are going to find the blood is Kathleen’s and the prints are yours. Have you anything to say, Mo?”

The entire room seemed to have gone into