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

if she said no to him, he would not only hurt her, but also her family and the boy she loved. I tried to advise her that the best thing she could do was to go to the police for help, but she said that was impossible.”

“Did she say why it was impossible?”

The mother superior was pensive for a few moments. Finally, she said, “No… but I got the impression that she didn’t trust the police.”

She gave me a level look, and I said, “Or a particular policeman.”

“That could be the case.”

“What was her surname, Mother Superior?”

“Garcia. But I am afraid that’s all I know about her. She stopped coming to see me. I made discreet inquiries, and the rumor was she had eloped or escaped. But nobody really knew where she was or what had happened to her.”

I met Dehan back at the precinct. I was there doing some research of my own when she came in and dropped into her chair. She looked mad, but like she was trying not to be mad. “A lot of girls go missing from Hunts Point over a period of years, without ever being reported.”

“I got the same feedback.”

“They go into prostitution and die somewhere as a Jane Doe with needle marks in her arm, so nobody ever follows it up because who cares anyway? Or their pimp shoots them, stabs them, chokes them, whatever, and throws them into the Bronx River. Their families and friends never report them missing, because if they do they will end up on a deep-six vacation themselves. Or the lucky ones get out and never write home in case somebody comes looking for them. What the fuck, Stone?” She stared at me. “What the fuck is wrong with this world?”

“People. People are wrong with this world. But we haven’t got time right now for existential passion. Tonight we can drink whiskey and ask each other existential questions. Right now I need to know if you got anything useful.”

She glanced at my face, then for some reason seemed to study my shirt and my arms. “I don’t know right now if you’re an asshole or a nice guy. I have a list of six girls who went missing about that time. One of them is Bulgarian, three are Russian, two were local. One of those two was a hooker, like the Bulgarian and the Russians. They are all almost certainly dead.”

“The one you’re saving till last was called Maria Garcia.”

She narrowed her eyes at me. “I decided. You’re an asshole. Yeah, she was Maria Garcia. Maybe she still is. I tried to talk to her mother, but she didn’t want to know. I left it because she was getting too upset, and I was worried I would draw unwanted attention.”

I told her what the mother superior had told me. “That sounds like our girl. How do we play it?”

I thought about it for a few minutes.

“We need to keep pressuring the family. One of three things is true. Either nobody knows where she is, only her mother knows where she is, or the whole family knows. If we keep pressing them, somebody is going to talk—either her to make us go away, or some member of the family for the same reason. If they are protecting Mick—and thus Maria—from the Mob, the Triads and or anybody else who is after him, the last thing they want is the cops drawing attention to them. So if we start pressuring them, one of them is going to talk.”

Nine

It happened the next day. We were settling down to some associated research that I had started when the phone rang.

“Stone.”

“I got to talk to you. But I can’t be seen.” The voice was Latino from the Bronx.

“What’s it about?”

“My sister. You been askin’ questions about girls who gone missing.”

“What’s your sister’s name?”

“Maria.”

“Maria Garcia?”

“Yeah. She went missing ten years ago, man.”

“What’s your name?”

“José.”

“Listen to me, José, and do exactly as I say. Be at the corner of Longfellow and Randall in twenty minutes. When I talk to you, take a swing at me. Okay?”

“You gonna bust me?”

“You got a better idea? Don’t worry. I won’t charge you.”

I hung up and looked at Dehan. “Let’s go, we may have a break.”

We approached down Hunts Point Avenue, and he was there on the corner, loitering, whatever that is. He was leaning against a lamppost, and when I pulled over and got out, he spat on the sidewalk.

“You José?”

“Yeah, who the fuck are you?”

“Detective Stone. Turn around. Put your hands against the billboard.”

“What the hell for? I ain’t done nothin’!”

He took an ineffectual swing at me, and I gave him a push. Dehan got out of the car pulling her piece and walked over. I pushed him again. “Do it.”

He began mouthing off about motherfucking pigs, but he walked toward the billboard and put his hands up. I said, “Spread!” and kicked his ankles out so he was splayed. Dehan covered him while I patted him down. I reached in his pocket and pulled out some gum. I showed it to Dehan like it was dope, put it in my pocket, cuffed him, and shoved him toward the car. We put him in the back, and Dehan got in next to him.

Back at the precinct, I took him to an interview room, removed his cuffs, and sat opposite him. Dehan came in with some coffee and some sandwiches. She put them in front of him and sat. He looked at them and then at her.

“What? Do I look hungry?”

“Yeah, and malnourished.”

“I ain’t hungry. I ate today.”

I said, “Tell me about your sister.”

He looked at me resentfully. “I ain’t a snitch. I’m tellin’ you this because nobody else