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

“No, that won’t be necessary.”

“Shall we say half an hour?”

He said he thought he could manage that and we headed back to the 43rd.

I took the long way home, via Eastchester and Silver Street. I had never liked the original theory on Sean’s murder. It was too easy and left too many unanswered questions. But the photographs had confused the picture even more, and I was having trouble putting the puzzle together in my head. As we turned onto East Tremont Avenue, Dehan said, “You were pretty tough on Father O’Neil back there.”

“You think I was wrong?”

“No, I’m just curious.”

I nodded. After a moment, I said, “You weren’t real warm toward him yourself when we went to see him.”

“You answering my question with a question of your own?”

I smiled. “He’s hiding something. He’s scared of Hagan. I want him to be more scared of me than he is of Hagan. So what’s your beef with him?”

She didn’t answer straight away. She stared out the side window at the red brick and concrete desolation, the steel, roll-down shutters sprayed with unoriginal graffiti, and the broad, open spaces of blacktop and sidewalk that nature had intended for meadows and woodlands, but Man had decreed should be artificial desert. She spoke suddenly, without looking at me.

“My Mom went to him for help and guidance, a long time ago. Everything he said this morning was an echo of what he said to her back then. Don’t fight, don’t defend yourself or your family, accept your fate and surrender to those who abuse you. Pray for forgiveness.”

I turned into Castle Hill. A few small leaves tinged the dead branches with green in the fragile sunlight of the early afternoon.

“What happened?”

She shook her head.

I glanced at her. That was the only answer I was going to get. I said, “That about sums it up. With a man like Father O’Neil, you can be pretty sure he’s in Hagan’s pocket. He is influential enough in the community to be of use, and scared enough not to face up to him. The million dollar question is, what is the point beyond which Father O’Neil will not go?”

“You think there is one?”

“Sure. I don’t read him as a bad guy, do you? I think he’s weak, but I think he’d rather do good than not.”

She shrugged.

I followed Castle Hill down to Bruckner Boulevard and turned right over the bridge. Five minutes later, I was pulling up outside the station. As Dehan was opening the door, I said, “You going to be okay in this interview?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“We both know there’s stuff you are not telling me, Dehan. You have an issue with Father O’Neil. I’m not pushing you to tell me what it is, but I need to know you’re going to be objective.”

“I’ll be objective.”

Father O’Neil was already there. He’d been shown into an interview room and was sitting there fiddling with a paper cup of coffee. He looked up as we came in and smiled nervously.

“Detectives, I must confess I am a little surprised…”

He probably expected me to apologize and explain. Instead, I sat, dropped a file in front of me and waited for him to finish his sentence. He didn’t. He trailed off and glanced at Dehan, then back at me. When he didn’t say anything, I asked him, “Father, what is the nature of your relationship with Conor Hagan?”

He frowned. “My…” He turned to look at Dehan again, as though he suspected the question had been her idea. Then he looked back at me. “My relationship…?”

“Is there something about the question you don’t understand, Father?”

“Well, I have no relationship with Conor Hagan.”

I shook my head. “No, you have some kind of relationship, Father. I am asking you about the nature of that relationship. How long have you been the parish priest here?”

He felt he was on safer ground here and smiled.

“More than thirty years, Detective. And if you want to talk about relationships, the relationship I have built up with the parish over those years is one of mutual love and respect. We have run many, many programs, with the help and support of the parishioners, to assist the needy and the homeless, to…”

“I am aware of that, Father. Is Conor Hagan one of your parishioners?”

He nodded. “Yes, indeed he is.”

“He must have been a young child when you took over as parish priest. You may even have christened him.”

He was silent for a moment, studying his coffee. “Not quite,” he said at last, “but he was a very small boy. His parents were, and still are, devout Catholics and I have watched him grow into a man.”

“Not quite accurate to say you have no relationship with him?”

He sighed and met my eye. “I have the same relationship with Conor that I have with any one of my parishioners, Detective.”

I nodded. “I see. I’d like to know a little more about these programs you run. What is their main focus?”

He was a little more cautious this time, but again he felt on safer ground. He didn’t like the subject of Conor Hagan.

“Mainly it’s the children. Not exclusively, there are many, many lost souls in the Bronx, Detective, as I am sure you are well aware. We care for the homeless as best we can, providing shelter and clothes and food. We provide help for women who…”

He hesitated and Dehan said, “Whores.”

He stared at her, a little aghast, then nodded and said, “Women who have lost their way. Many are addicted to drugs, or live in fear of their boyfriends, or the men who…”

“Their pimps.”

“Yes, thank you, Detective Dehan, but our main concern must be the children. For them, we have shelter, clothes and food, and we also do