Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #2: Books 5-8 (A Dead Cold Box Set) by Blake Banner (types of ebook readers txt) 📕

it? You like Angela and you want her for yourself? That’s why you’ve been giving Moses a hard time? Maybe…” She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “Maybe you thought that Sebastian was getting it on with Angela while Moses was away.”

“I don’t know who Sebastian Acosta is.”

“He’s the guy you shot five times in Angela’s car the night before last. Shortly before three in the morning, you walked up to the car outside her house and you shot him through the window, twice in the head, three times in the chest.”

He took a moment to study her face. His expression would have been one of curiosity if he hadn’t looked so detached. Eventually, he said, “At three o’clock in the morning, the night before last, I was in bed, at my house.”

I said, “In the apartment over the Lotus Garden, on Randall Avenue and Bryant?”

“I don’t live there. I have a house on Crotona Park. That is where I live.”

“Why is your car registered there?”

“I have not got around to changing it.”

Dehan raised an eyebrow at him. “Is there anyone who can confirm you were at home in bed at that time?”

His eyes were hooded, half closed. His smile was one of the most unpleasant things I had ever seen, and he held it on her for a long time. “Of course,” he said. “Three of my girlfriends can confirm that they were with me.”

“What are their names?”

His eyes glazed, like she’d made an unreasonable request. “I cannot remember every name… July, Zoe…” He did what should have been a leer, but lacked the necessary humanity. “Maybe Carmen?” He shrugged. “They are at my house now. You can go there and get them to make a statement.”

I looked at her and nodded. “Send a car over. Get them to take detailed statements, twelve hours between seven PM and seven AM.”

She nodded and left the room. The door closed and we were left in silence. He watched me with a complete absence of any kind of emotion or expression. I decided on a different tack.

“You have any family in New York, Akachukwu?”

“I have no family. They are all dead.”

“Friends…?”

“I am not a refugee, Detective. I am not looking for a green card. I am a business man. I live here because it is good for my business. I bring a lot of money into the U.S., and I pay my taxes.”

“What kind of business?”

He leaned forward, focused hard on my face, and there was death and pleasure in his eyes. “I buy and I sell, Detective Stone. That is what all business is. Buy and sell.”

“What do you buy and sell?”

“Whatever will give me a profit.” He sat back, and now his smile became a huge grin. “If it is legal.”

“You have a long record of arrests, Akachukwu.”

“But no convictions. A businessman like me, in Africa, has many opportunities to make a lot of money. But he must tread a very fine line between what is legal and what is not legal. Tell me something, Detective Stone. Why do you call me Akachukwu?”

I frowned. “Because that’s your name.”

His face went dead again, but there was an indefinable danger in his expression, and I found myself glancing at his cuffs to make sure they were still on. “My name,” he said, “to you, is Mr. Oni. I do not call you John and Carmen, so why do you call me Akachukwu? For the same reason you assume I am a refugee, an immigrant looking for one of your green cards. But I am a very rich, successful man, Detective Stone, and I pay my taxes like I told you, so you should show me some respect and call me Mr. Oni.”

“Do you trade in drugs and weapons, Mr. Oni?”

“Only if it is legal.”

“Were you ever in the army… Mr. Oni?”

“I was in the Nigerian army, and after that I was a mercenary for six years. I made a lot of money, killing people legally, Detective. And then I started my business, buying and selling all kinds of marketable goods, all over the world, as long as they were legal.”

“Do you sell services as well?”

He shook his head slowly. “No. No services.”

“Mr. Oni, somebody fitting your description was seen by a witness approaching Angela’s car the night before last, at shortly before three, and opening fire into that car, killing Sebastian Acosta.”

“A lot of black men are big, tall, and strongly built. Tell me something, Detective, this man who was seen, was he wearing a ski mask?” I didn’t answer. He smiled again. “If he was, that would make him very hard to identify, and you saying he fit my description, just makes you sound racist.”

“How did you know he was wearing a ski mask?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t. But I have seen my fair share of violence in life, Detective. The killing you described sounds like a professional hit to me, and most people doing a professional hit in a populated area, even late at night, will wear a ski mask. Wouldn’t you agree? So, it was a fair guess.”

I had a couple of uniforms take him down to the cells and went to look for Dehan. I found her halfway up the stairs, leaning against the wall and talking on the phone. She gestured me to keep going and fell into step beside me. “…and this was the night before last? At what time…?” She glanced at me. “Around two AM. Thank you, ma’am. If you don’t mind, we’ll send somebody over to take a statement… Thank you.”

We’d arrived at our desks. She sat, screwed up her face, and rubbed it furiously with her hands. I waited till she’d opened her eyes again and said, “What?”

“That was Lynda Graham’s next