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

long and hard about this. Have you any idea what they do to men like you in prison?”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, he said, “I am not going to prison, Stone.”

He hung up. I played it back and we listened to what he said with care. When it was finished, Dehan shook her head. “It’s not enough. He doesn’t want to incriminate himself.”

“I agree. We’ll see what we get this afternoon. Right now, there is one thing we have to come out with from his office.”

“What?”

I lifted up my hand and wiggled my fingers. “Prints.”

She nodded once. “Yes…”

“I am going to scare the bejaysus out of him. I am going to make crazy demands and blackmail him. While he’s focusing on that, I’m going to get his prints.”

She nodded and said, “It’s a good plan.” Then she climbed out of the car, slammed the door and walked inside.

Twenty-ONE

When I got inside, she was sitting at her desk. She was on the phone and writing something on a piece of paper. I dropped into my chair.

She said, “And he is willing to talk to us…” She nodded a couple of times, then said, “Thank you Mr. Foster. That’s very helpful.”

She hung up. She drew breath to tell me what it was about but I interrupted her.

“Have we got a problem?”

“Yes.”

“Is it going to jeopardize the investigation?”

She stared at me hard and seemed about to say something, then stopped herself. Finally, she said, “I don’t know.”

I tried to keep the anger from my voice but didn’t do a great job.

“How long is it going to take you to find out?”

She sighed. “That was David Foster.”

“I know who it was.”

“He managed to track down…”

“Arnav Singh and he is willing to talk to us, I got that.”

I saw tears spring to her eyes and she gestured at the paper in front of her. “I have his number…”

I watched her face a moment. I felt a sudden rush of irritation, which was probably more fear than anger. “You going to call him, or shall I?”

She picked up the paper and tossed it over to me. Then she stood up and walked out. She might have gone to the toilet or she might have gone to the captain. It was impossible to tell. I dialed the number. It rang twice and a very pleasant, cultured voice that could almost have been English said, “This is Arnav Singh.”

“Mr. Singh, this is Detective John Stone of the NYPD.”

“Ah, David said you might call. Look here, I’d rather not have this conversation over the telephone.” He laughed in a self-deprecating way and added, “And please don’t use any buzz words. I am a little paranoid, let’s meet.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in Washington. Can you come here?”

“Yeah. Tomorrow?”

“Good. Do you know the National Gallery Gardens on Madison Drive NW?”

“Sure.”

“There’s a café, the Pavilion. I’ll meet you there. One PM.”

He hung up.

I spent twenty minutes tapping a pencil on my desk and spinning it in my fingers. Dehan came back with two beef sandwiches and two cups of coffee. She put one of each in front of me and started to eat. I looked at mine a second and felt sick.

“Are you coming to see the bishop?”

“Of course.”

“I thought maybe you’d gone to see the captain.”

She shook her head.

“I phoned Arnav Singh.”

“What did he say?”

“He’s in DC. I arranged to go and see him tomorrow at one PM. I figure on the I-95 it should be four hours, four and a half at most.” She nodded and ate in silence. “So I thought I’d leave about seven, beat the traffic and have a look around before he arrives. It’s not likely to be a trap in such a public place, but still, with two witnesses dead, I’d like to see him arrive, and see who arrives before him and with him.”

“Makes sense.”

“You going to be there?”

“Yes, of course. Stop asking that.”

I sighed and picked up my sandwich. I didn’t feel like eating but I forced myself.

Bishop Robert Bellini’s offices were on the top floor of a large, gothic building on Beach Avenue, beside the Church of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. We were led up six flights of stairs by a lackey in a black hassock who tapped reverently on the huge, studded oak door and opened it to announce us. As he stepped in, he said, “Your Excellency, Detectives Stone and Dehan to see you.”

I heard him mutter something and the lackey stepped aside to let us in.

Bellini was handsome the way Italian men are handsome. He was short and had tight black hair that was graying at the temples. He was dressed in a black suit that was probably from Armani’s Bishops line, a black shirt from their Mafia line, and a dog collar from their special Sub-Dom line. He was standing by a window that was considerably taller than he was, and watched us come in. He studied Dehan with prurient eyes.

“I thought you would come alone.”

“Did you deal with Mick, or with Mick and Kirk?”

He didn’t answer, but strutted behind his vast mahogany desk and settled into an equally vast black leather chair.

“Michael Harragan was a well connected man. I have made some inquiries about you, Detective Stone. You are not a well connected man.”

“Yeah? Who did you ask, the Pope?”

“People who take an especial interest in the affairs of the Bronx. There is a long-standing Italian community in the Bronx, Detective Stone. Somebody has to look out for their interests, keep an eye on them and protect them.”

“The way the girls at Father O’Neil’s orphan’s program were protected?”

“That was very lamentable.”

“Lamentable?” It was Dehan.

He