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

to push into a shop. It was on the same side as me, so I couldn’t make out the name or the window display. I got out and dodged through the traffic so I was opposite, but still forty or fifty yards away. There was a hot dog stand on the corner. It was a little early, but I bought one anyway and stood behind the stand, where I was hidden from sight but had a good view of the shop.

It was an antiques shop. Henderson & Girt, Fine Antiques. It had a plate glass front, and I could see Baxter through the window. He was talking to a woman. After a minute or two, he took out his wallet and seemed to give her a card. After that, he left.

I stood for a long while trying to fit this new piece into the puzzle. I couldn’t, so I crossed the road and entered the shop. The woman was still standing there, staring out at the street, as though lost in thought. She looked as though she was in her mid to late twenties, fair, with pale skin, and exquisitely dressed. I watched her a moment and thought she was probably one of the most beautiful women I had ever seen. She turned and looked at me. I smiled. She blinked and said, “I’m sorry. I was miles away.”

She was English. She spoke what the English call cut glass English. It was as beautiful as she was. I smiled. “I’m glad you came back. I’d hate to have missed you.”

She liked the compliment but didn’t respond to it. She moved toward me. “Was there anything in particular you were looking for, or were you just browsing?”

She had taken in my clothes and noted they were unremarkable, not Armani and not Savile Row. So she wasn’t real interested. I thought I’d stimulate it a bit and said, “I’m moving into a new apartment down the road, and I was looking for a nice dining table.”

Her pupils dilated and she allowed the pleasure to show on her face. “May I ask where the apartment is?”

“Only if you come to dinner when I get my table.”

“I’d love to. Can my husband come?”

“No.”

Her cheeks colored and she stepped away. “Were you looking for something elaborately elegant, Rococo, or more restrained in the English style?”

I followed her. “I like the English style, but not too restrained.”

“We have this rather lovely Queen Anne. The line of the legs is quite exquisite.”

I stood close to her. “I have a weakness for exquisite English legs, and these are some of the nicest I have ever seen.”

She studied my face a moment, trying to read me, wondering how to respond. “Are we still talking about furniture, Mr…”

“I never was, Miss…”

“Mrs. Girt.”

I pointed back toward the door. She nodded. I smiled. “Henderson lost out.”

“You’re at risk of overplaying your hand.”

“I’m always at risk of doing something. My name is John.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Is that how you make your money? By taking risks?”

“Would that make a difference?”

“It might.”

Her eyes traveled past me to the plate glass window. I turned to follow her gaze. There was a big man of about sixty with a large belly and a yellow waistcoat lumbering across the road.

“Your husband.”

Our eyes met and we read each other loud and clear. Girt pushed in to the chime of a bell and walked past us toward the office in back. I said, “I’ll give some thought to your English legs, if I may…”

“You may.”

“… and I’ll get back to you.”

She picked up a card from the counter where the till stood and scrawled something on the back. She handed it to me and said, “Please do.”

I left the shop smiling, with a bounce in my step. I may even have whistled a little ditty. I looked at what she’d written on the back. It just said “Emma” and a phone number.

Fifteen

I didn’t leave. I sat in my car and waited, as the sun grew higher and the heat got hotter. At twelve thirty, I took off my jacket and loped across the road to get another hot dog. Then, I sat for another half hour, sweating and watching the shop.

She came out just after one. She climbed into a dark blue Lexus and took off up Madison Avenue, headed north. I followed her back the way I had come, over the Madison Avenue Bridge and back up Third Avenue. As I had suspected, she was going to see Baxter.

Sure enough, at the junction with 149th, she turned up Melrose and parked outside his block. I kept about fifty yards back and pulled in to wait and see what happened. She climbed out, ran the three steps to his building, and disappeared inside. She was in there for half an hour. Then she came out, climbed into her car, and did a U-turn, and I followed her all the way back to Madison Avenue. There she got out and went back into her shop.

My phone rang. It was Dehan.

“Where are you?”

“I’m on Madison Avenue. Why?”

“Madison Avenue?” She paused a moment. “Okay, I think we need to take another look at Peter Gunthersen.”

“Okay, I’m on my way.”

By the time I got back to the precinct, it was gone two. I found Dehan at her desk eating a sandwich and drinking coffee.

“What you got?”

She pointed at her full mouth and said, “You foisht.”

I shrugged. “I followed him to an antiques shop on Madison Avenue. He spoke to the owner’s wife, gave her a card, and left. I went in, chatted to her about Queen Anne furniture, and she gave me her card. Then, at one o’clock, I followed her to his office. She stayed half an hour