Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #1: Books 1-4 (A Dead Cold Box Set) by Blake Banner (best thriller books to read .txt) 📕

“His office is in Manhattan, but he’s at home today. Harbor Road, Oyster Bay, Long Island, I called and they are expecting us.”

I opened the car. “I guess we can assume he isn’t doing pro bono work anymore.”

“Seems a safe bet.”

We took the Bronx Whitestone Bridge and then, at Cunningham Park, we turned east onto the Long Island Expressway and followed that as far as Jericho. The Jericho Oyster Bay road was long and straight and leafy in the dappled sunshine, and there were cute houses hiding among the trees, with chimney pots poking out and leaded bow windows. It was like driving into a chocolate box.

We arrived at Oyster Bay and crawled through a sleepy town where it seemed almost everybody lived in a mansion, and the small houses were the ones with only five bedrooms and no tennis court. It was a tasteful place but none had the gaudy ostentatiousness of Manhattan. You had the impression that poverty was not allowed here, not because it was immoral, but because it was in bad taste, like stretched limos and tie-pins.

As we turned into Harbor Road, Dehan was looking around her with a kind of rueful air. “Jeez, I bet even the muggers here wear Ralph Lauren and say please and thank you.”

“We have become cynics, Dehan. We devote our lives to fighting crime, but have you ever thought what it would be like if we won?”

She didn’t answer for a moment, staring out at the rows of sweeping lawns, white picket fences and rambling houses. “It never crossed my mind,” she said at last, “that we might win.”

He had an ample driveway, so I pulled in and parked beside his Porsche. As I climbed out and Dehan walked towards the front door, I glanced at the two cars. I thought mine fit better than his. It was less gaudy. Maybe I needed a house to go with my car.

David Foster had a polite Latin-American housemaid who opened the door to us. We told her who we were and she led us out to the pool. It was not warm enough to swim yet, but it was pleasant enough for tasteful pre-prandial drinks on the patio. David was sitting at a white, wrought iron table reading some documents, with what looked like a bone dry Martini by his elbow.

He looked up as we approached, smiled agreeably, and stood to greet us. We showed him our badges.

“I am Detective John Stone, this is my partner, Detective Carmen Dehan.”

We shook and he gestured toward the table. “Please, take a seat. Can I offer you a drink? You are on duty, so perhaps some homemade lemonade?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but turned and said, “Rosalía, dos vasos de limonada, por favor.”

She gave a cute little bow and walked back toward the house. We all sat. He was handsome in an Anglo-Saxon sort of way, with sandy hair and blue eyes. He smiled at Dehan and said, “When you called, you mentioned that you wanted to discuss Sean O’Conor with me. I haven’t seen Sean for about twelve years. I am not sure what I can tell you about him, but may I ask what your interest is?”

Dehan glanced at me.

I said, “You worked together at the Drop In Center, on Sheridan Avenue in the Bronx, is that right?”

He smiled. “Yes, there were three of us. They were good times. There was me, Sean and Arnav… Arnav Singh!” He said it as though remembering their names was an achievement of some sort.

Dehan gestured around her. “It seems a long way from this.”

“Oh, it is! But my uncle insisted on it. If I was going into his firm, he wanted me to experience life, and the law, at the sharp end. I’m glad I did it, and I’m glad it’s over. But your interest is in Sean, not me, I gather. And I am still not sure why.”

I asked him, “Do you recall what cases Sean was involved in back then?”

He frowned. “Only vaguely, and I am not sure I would be allowed to discuss them with you. If he discussed them with me in a legal capacity…”

“Privilege would extend to you, I understand that. The thing is, Mr. Foster, Sean was murdered, and we believe it may have had something to do with a case he was working on at that time.”

His frown had become incredulous. “Murdered? Sean? But that’s…grotesque! Poor Sean. What on Earth happened?”

Dehan said, “That is what we are trying to find out. I’m not a lawyer, Mr. Foster, but if he was murdered, surely you could be a little flexible.”

He nodded. “Of course.” He stared hard at the tabletop for a while. “Sean was a bit stereotypic, you know, very much the Irish firebrand. Always ready—a bit too ready if you ask me—to take on the big boys and strike a blow for the underdog.” He looked at me and frowned. “That was what always surprised me. One day he just didn’t turn up at the Center. Arnav and I stuck it out to the end of the month, but the driving force behind that place had always been Sean. So we just closed up shop and went our separate ways.”

“Can you remember any particular cases he was working on just before he disappeared?”

He stared at me. “Is that why he disappeared? Because he was murdered? Twelve years ago?”

I nodded.

“Jesus…!” He sighed. “Yeah, his big thing at the time was a squatters’ rights case. You should talk to Singh. He and Sean were thick as thieves. He was going up against a big construction company that wanted to evict, or was in the process of evicting, a bunch of people who were squatting in a building. The company wanted to knock down the site