Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #3: Books 9-12 (A Dead Cold Box Set) by Blake Banner (read with me .TXT) 📕

If we’re off the case, you need to know: we talked to Chiddester and his wife about this mysterious Jewish Mr. X that Sadiq was talking about. They have no idea who he is, though Fi was pretty sure that Katie was involved with somebody, but she was keeping quiet about who he was.”

He nodded. “Thanks…” He looked embarrassed again. “Um…”

I laughed. “When are we going to leave?”

“Yeah, sorry…”

“Well, let us shower, pack, have dinner tonight. Next available flight tomorrow? Will that satisfy your DCI?”

He raised his hands. “Yes, of course, and there is no need to rush. You’re not being kicked out or anything like that. It’s just…”

Dehan leaned forward and slapped him on the shoulder. “Hey! No sweat, Harry. We need to get back anyway. It’s been great, but I’m missing the Bronx.”

He stood. “OK, thanks for being understanding. I’ll see you before you go…”

I said, “Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“I need the DNA report.”

He stared at me for a long moment, then reached in his pocket and pulled out his cell. He tapped at his screen a few times and my phone pinged. “That’s it now. You’re here on holiday, right?”

I gave him the thumbs up. “You got it, pal.”

We watched him walk away, through the exquisite lobby and out into the muggy, midday glare outside.

Dehan crossed her legs and sat tapping her fingers on her knee while I stared absently at the door where moments before, Harry’s hazy silhouette had vanished. After a moment, she said, “I guess you were pretty badly out of order.”

I nodded. “Mm-hm…”

“We’d do the same, if a British cop came over and did that…”

I laughed. “Depends. I can think of some PDs where they might offer to hold the suspect down while Inspector Watkins gives him a damned good thrashing, what!”

She laughed at my attempt at an English accent. Then her laugh trailed off. “Still, he was under a lot of pressure…”

“Drop it, Dehan. It’s not our case. We’ll telephone Chiddester and…”

As I was saying it, my phone started to ring. It was a London landline.

“Yeah, Stone.”

“Detective John Stone of the NYPD?”

“This is he,” I said, rather grandly, and smiled at Dehan.

“I am calling from Justin Caulfield MP’s office. He was wondering if you would be kind enough to come in for a chat. We would be happy to send a cab for you.”

I drew breath to say that I was afraid we couldn’t, but heard my voice saying, “Yeah, sure, but we are on the clock, so it would have to be right now.”

“I’ll have a taxi pick you up in ten minutes, Detective Stone.”

“That’ll be fine.”

Dehan spread her hands and made a ‘What?’ face.

“Justin Caulfield’s office. Would we mind popping in for a chat?”

* * *

Justin Caulfield’s office was two hundred yards around the corner from where we had seen Lord Chiddester the day before. It was a similar, terraced, Georgian house in dark gray brick with modest white stucco around the door and windows. We were met by a young man in a double-breasted suit who led us up a flight of stairs to a broad landing, where he tapped on a door and then pushed in without waiting for a reply. “Detectives Stone and Dehan, Mr. Caulfield.”

He nodded, turned to us and gestured us in. It was a spacious office, sparsely furnished, and it clearly wasn’t his. There was a modest, wooden desk beside a closed, white door, a couple of chairs, a bookcase with anonymous volumes on law and parliamentary procedure, and a complete absence of anything personal like photos, paintings, ornaments or trophies. He stood as we came in and came around the desk to greet us.

He was tall, reedy, with un-brushed, short, graying hair. He had a scraggy beard, a tweed jacket and no tie, but a glance at his shoes told me they cost him at least three hundred bucks. He held out his hand, a man of the people.

“John, Carmen, may I? I am always more comfortable on first name terms.”

Dehan took his hand. “Well, that depends, Mr. Caulfield, on why you invited us here. Why don’t you tell us that, and then we’ll see about what we call each other.”

He threw back his head and laughed loudly. You got the impression he was observing himself doing it and approved of his own bluff, rugged honesty: a man’s man who was sensitive enough to be a woman’s man too.

He gestured us to the chairs at the desk and spoke as he sat. “One of the things I find so refreshing about America. The directness and the honesty…”

I offered him a sweet, honest American smile and said, “That’s funny. I was reading in the paper only yesterday that you had had just about enough of our American hypocrisy.”

“Taken out of context, I promise.”

“I am sure it was. But I am wondering, Mr. Caulfield, what a shadow cabinet minister wants with two cops from the Bronx spending more than they can afford on their honeymoon.”

“Congratulations. Even if it is an outmoded institution, it has its romantic charm. But I have to say, that is not an entirely accurate description of your position here at the moment, is it?”

Dehan said, “You’re talking about the fact that DI Harry Green asked us to consult on the Katie Ellison murder?”

He nodded.

“How is that any of your business?”

He looked startled.

Dehan spread her hands. “Forgive my direct American honesty, Mr. Caulfield. I don’t mean to be rude, I am genuinely asking. If I were back home and a congressman called me into his office to ask about a homicide I was investigating, I’d ask him the same question. What the hell are you doing calling me into your office to ask me about an ongoing investigation?”

He