Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #4: Books 13-16 (A Dead Cold Box Set) by Blake Banner (best ereader for academics .txt) 📕

“We don’t know, but it is not a huge stretch of the imagination, and it is not beyond the bounds of possibility that if she did, that could be a trigger for his rage.”

She had finished stacking the layers of meat, eggplant and potato, and now set about making a béchamel sauce. As she did it, she nodded and said, “That is very plausible, Stone, but I am not sold. If I had come up with that, you’d have told me it was all speculation and we needed some hard evidence…”

“And I would have been right.”

“But I am almost sold. It is a very compelling scenario. I still prefer Fernando and Giorgio, but I can see where you are coming from.”

I drained my glass. “As soon as we have spoken to the witness across the road, we need to talk to Cyril’s sister.”

“I agree, we can call her before lunch…”

“No. I need to be there and look into her eyes. I need to know what kind of childhood they had together. I need to see the house where he grew up and see photographs of his mother and father. I need to be there.”

She laughed as she pulled open the oven and shoved in the dish. “You just want an excuse to go to Cali’ and get away from the cold.”

“I am outraged. Outraged, I tell you. Come here, woman. You need to be severely punished for such scandalous slander against your lord and master!”

And after that, things got complicated.

* * *

Bob Smith was in his sixties. He had a broad, Caribbean face with warm, brown eyes and tightly curled black hair that was turning gray one curl at a time. He was wearing a mulberry shirt and a sage cardigan, copper corduroy pants and dark blue slippers. All in all, he looked comfortable. Almost as comfortable as the large, black cat he was holding in his arms, which managed to appear both expressionless and disdainful at the same time.

His voice was rich and resonant. He stood back as we showed him our badges and said, “Come on in out of the cold. It ain’t a day to be outside. I have some coffee on. Have you had breakfast?”

We stepped through the white door into a small hallway where he hung up our coats. Then he led us into a warm living room with a large bow window overlooking Patterson Avenue. From that window, there was a direct view of Sue’s house on the corner across the road. Dehan eyed the view and said, “We had breakfast, but we wouldn’t say no to some coffee. Thanks.”

He chuckled. His chuckle, like everything else about him, was comfortable. He dropped his cat on the large, cream sofa and spoke over his shoulder as he went to the kitchen.

“Make yourselves comfortable, Detectives. I won’t be but two minutes.”

Dehan went over to the window and I sat in one of his large, cream calico chairs. A New York Times lay in pieces on the sofa, and the cat was in the process of turning it into a shredded nest. On the heavy, oak coffee table there was a copy of Catch-22. By the look of it, he had read it several times.

After five minutes, Bob Smith returned with a tray bearing a coffee pot, three cups and saucers, a dish of brownies, sugar, milk and cream. He set it on the table, sat himself on the sofa and smiled. He did both things comfortably.

“It was twelve years ago last Halloween,” he said as he poured a black stream of brew into a cup and handed it to Dehan. “Please help yourself to sugar and cream, and a cookie.” He picked up another cup and poured. “But when you telephoned this morning, I sat and thought about it and I am pretty sure my memory is accurate.”

He handed me a cup and I sat back while he poured his own and kept talking.

“I am an amateur mathematician,” he said. “After I studied mathematics part-time at NYU.” He sat back and sipped. “I am not a mathematical genius or anything like that. Just an aficionado, but I have always liked to keep my mind agile and strong: attention, concentration, observation. I am very observant, and I retain what I observe.”

I smiled. “Admirable. So what did you observe that night, Mr. Smith?”

He pointed at his windowsill. “I had a pumpkin in the window, to signal to the children of the neighborhood that they could come and trick or treat at my door. I usually keep the drapes open on Halloween until about one AM, as a lot of the children around here stay up late that night.

“However, that particular night I had been reading, and I had dozed off. I was awakened at about two twenty by a woman shouting. I went to look and saw my then neighbor, Sue, with a young man. They were at the top of her stairs—you see that she has a steep flight of thirteen steps leading up to her door on the second floor—he was speaking quietly. She seemed to be a little inebriated and kept shouting, ‘No means no!’ and knocking his hands away as he tried to take her shoulders…”

Dehan frowned and pointed at the window. “You could hear her? Only I see you have triple glazing.”

He nodded. “Oh, yes. When I saw what was happening, I opened the window, intending to call to her and ask if she was all right. But then, when I saw that he wasn’t taking no for an answer, I went to get my telephone. It is wireless, but I don’t use a cell anymore. One of the pleasures of retirement.” He smiled, comfortably. “When I got back, the man had descended the stairs and was walking away. She was gone and her door was