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

“What about it?”

“Did you try it out?”

“What, lie there? You know I didn’t.”

“I did. It was really uncomfortable. There were sharp rocks embedded in the earth, there were a million small, sharp stones and there were prickly shrubs and nettles. There was no way he was lying there.”

She made a face. “OK, that’s odd, but it was May, and warm, so maybe he was lying on his jacket.”

“But why go there at all? The obvious place to lie, which has easy access, is the soft turf where Angela was killed. It is completely invisible from the road. That’s why the killer chose that spot to kill her.”

She sighed. “OK, you have a point. It is odd, but it is not conclusive.”

“Another thing. When we took Wayne to the scene, he didn’t follow the track to where he said he’d been lying. He paused, got his bearings, and took us down the track to the spot where Angela was killed. Then, once there, he had to stop and look for the spot where he said he had been lying.”

She made a face that was skeptical and asked, “Anything else?”

“Yeah. There was no way he saw the killer hide those things from where he claims he was lying. He needed to get right up close to find the spot. That means he originally memorized the spot from up close. That was the image—the memory—he had in his head.”

She thought about that for a moment. “Maybe he went up after the killer had gone and found the spot.” She shrugged. “Maybe he hid the stuff himself.”

I gave a small laugh. “Or maybe he killed her.”

“We’ve been over this, Stone. He has no record of violence. OK, he looks pretty intimidating, but there isn’t a single assault on his rap sheet. No rapes, no sexual assaults… nothing!”

“And you can be damn sure, Dehan, that the killer’s rap sheet is the same.” I looked at her. She was frowning and confused. I explained. “This killer is smart enough to have devised a way of raping and killing, and disposing of the bodies, that eliminates all forensic evidence, and any trace that there was a serial killer involved at all. His rap sheet is going to be like Wayne’s: clean of any serious offenses.”

She shook her head and looked away at the spring skyline slipping past. “Stone, just this once, I have to say I don’t agree with you. You know I admire you as a detective, but this time I think you are letting your personal feelings get in the way.”

I smiled. “My personal feelings? You mean the way he comes on to you?”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“Of course it does. And it bothers me how close you are to the model of his victim of choice. And it bothers me that you can’t see that.” I glanced at her. “But it doesn’t bother me enough to cloud my judgment. We’ll follow the evidence, Dehan. Wherever it may lead. And if I am wrong, so be it.”

We didn’t touch on the subject again, though it played on my mind all the way to Berwick, and by the time we had pulled into East 8th Street and parked outside Elisa Fernandez’s house, I was still no clearer in my mind as to the explanation for Wayne’s apparently paradoxical behavior.

From the front the house looked like a cute, clapboard cottage, with a veranda cluttered with potted flowers and plants, a white, wrought iron table and a couple of rocking chairs. It was set in a broad expanse of lawn, with an uneven paved path that led through it to the house.

The door opened before we reached it and a woman who was no more than five foot two, with neat, permed silver hair and a face that was still pretty but must once have been beautiful, greeted us with large, smiling brown eyes.

I returned the smile. “Mrs. Fernandez?”

“That’s me.” She had no accent. “You the police from New York?”

We showed her our badges. She glanced at them and said, “Come on in. I made some lemonade for you, but you can have coffee if you’d rather.”

Lemonade sounded good and we told her so. She had a living room cum diner that was spotlessly clean and neat. Every cushion and every ornament was positioned with precision, and there was not a trace of a crease or dust anywhere. She sat us at the dining table where, I guessed, she thought we’d cause the minimum of disruption to her order, and went to the kitchen. She came back with a large glass jug of lemonade on a tray and three glasses. When she had poured and mopped up the drips she sat and looked at us. She had a smile fixed in place, but you could see the fear and apprehension in her eyes. It was the expression of a person who has become habituated to being hurt by life, and is just waiting for the next blow to fall.

I took a deep breath and made eye contact. “Mrs. Fernandez, I’m afraid I have very bad news for you. We have found your daughter Angela, and she is dead.”

She gave a small gasp and crossed herself. Her eyes went red and spilled tears. She took a handkerchief, dabbed her eyes and blew her nose. “It’s OK,” she said. “She is with the Good Lord. I’ve known for a long time that He had taken her.”

Dehan frowned. “How did you know that?”

She shrugged and smiled again, like the answer was obvious. “She would have called, or written. She was such a good girl. She was a saint. She was too good for this world. That is why the Lord took her. When a week went by, I knew it was serious. After two weeks, I