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

for murder, flying off to Europe. Why do you think I simply stopped listening to him? Every word that came out of his mouth was some kind of stupid fantasy.”

Dehan sighed and sat forward, with her elbows on her knees. The gesture was loud in the silent house. “Do you keep his bedroom ready for him to return?”

She shrugged. “It’s his bedroom.”

“Has he anything in there like a hairbrush from which we might be able to get a sample of his DNA?”

“Certainly not!”

“Certainly not, you won’t let us, or certainly not there is nothing of that sort?”

“Certainly not, there is nothing of the kind. This is a clean, respectable house, Detective. Do you honestly think I would have a dirty hairbrush hanging around for twelve years?”

Dehan sighed again and muttered, “Certainly not.”

“I should think not.”

I said, “Would you allow us then, Ms. Browne, to take a sample of DNA from you? We would be able to establish from that whether the samples at the scene were from a relative of yours.”

“Not,” she said, “under any circumstances whatsoever. And if you have finished with your absurd questions, I would now like you to leave. This ridiculous situation has gone on far to long. Now, please.” She stood. “Leave, and leave me and my family alone!”

I sat watching her a moment, then stood. She was almost as tall as I was. Dehan stood too and I said, “How did your parents die, Mary?”

“It was a car crash. Why?”

“Did Cyril witness it?”

She hesitated before answering. “He was in the car, if you must know. What is this, some psychological nonsense? God saw fit to take them. We accept His will and get on with it.”

I offered her a sad smile and nodded, like I knew what she was talking about only too well. “Sure. Thank you for your time, Ms. Browne. I am sorry if we’ve brought up distressing memories.” I pointed at the embroidery on the sofa. “That is quite lovely.”

She was taken aback. “Oh, thank you.”

I laughed. “You’ll think me stupid, but I have a small request. I have had a splinter in my finger since yesterday. I can’t seem to get rid of it. I wonder if I could borrow your needle…”

“Oh, good heavens! Of course!”

She reached for her sewing basket, but I stepped over and removed the needle from her hoop and put it in my pocket. “Thank you so much. You have been extremely helpful and kind. My apologies once again for disturbing you. We’ll see ourselves out.”

We stepped back out into the gentle, Californian sunshine and closed the door behind us. We walked back toward the car. It bleeped loudly as we approached, and Dehan asked me, “So that was weird. You want me to pick out that splinter for you?”

I stood staring across the road and shook my head. “No, thanks…”

“So what do we do now?”

“We go to church, Dehan. We go to church and pray for guidance…”

Nine

Across the road from Mary Browne’s house was the school where she taught. Next door to it, and apparently attached, was the Good Shepherd Catholic Church. It was huge, and set in the middle of a large parking lot, resembling more a vast, modern conference center than the traditional idea of a church.

We crossed the road, and then the parking lot, and pushed through the large, plate glass doors into a cool, shaded reception area with high ceilings and marble floors. There was a desk, with leaflets on it, and behind the desk there was a smiling woman in a dark blue suit. I returned her smile and said, “I never saw a church with a receptionist before.”

“This is the twenty-first century! And after all, isn’t St. Peter Heaven’s receptionist?”

Dehan made a noise that might have been a laugh but sounded more like a gurgle. I said, “I had never thought of it like that. I was wondering if we could have a talk to whoever is in charge…”

Her eyes twinkled with religious humor. “I think the Lord might be a little busy at the moment, but I’ll see if Father Cohen is free.”

I watched Dehan’s eyebrow climb all the way up to her hairline. “Father Cohen?”

The woman beamed. “Do you know him?”

Dehan shook her head. “No, I never met a Father Cohen before.”

She picked up an internal phone and said, “Whom shall I say…?”

I showed her my badge. “I’m Detective Stone and this is Detective Dehan, we are here making some inquiries about a case in New York. We would like to ask Father Cohen a couple of questions about a parishioner of his.”

She made an ‘O’ with her mouth, put the phone down and tapped across the large, echoing reception to disappear through a couple of doors at the far end. Dehan said, “I guess there is no reason why not.”

“None at all.”

“You could have a rabbi called O’Malley, couldn’t you?”

“Or an atheist called Dehan.”

We stood in silence for a moment, and I had the strange sensation that even the silence was echoing in the vast space. After a moment Dehan whispered, “What are we doing here?”

I whispered back, “Trying to understand.”

“In a church?”

I nodded and the doors across the echoing hall opened again and the receptionist reappeared, accompanied now by a tall man in his sixties with curling red hair not yet turning to gray and a vigorous stride. He was dressed in jeans with a checked shirt and walked toward us smiling, with his hand held out. It was a gesture he had to abandon half way because it was such a long distance to cover before he got to us. When he did arrive, he stuck out his hand again and shook mine, then Dehan’s.

“Father Cohen,” he said. “And