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

“Bear with me. I’m trying to fit my thoughts together here. It’s like we have two camps: Mary and her dad, strong and controlling, knowing what’s best for everybody and trying to keep order; and in the other camp Cyril and Marion, more sensitive, weaker in some ways, but needing to get away and be free. She breaks out by having an affair with a boozing, amoral journalist. He breaks free by physically escaping. In a sense he’s following his mother’s footsteps backward. Like he is trying to get her back, by going back to her somehow. Does that make any sense?”

She made a skeptical face. “Kind of…”

“When he tried to escape from his sister’s control, get away from her, where did he go?”

“New York, where his mother was a kid. OK, I get it. But it doesn’t hold up, Stone. Sue died on Halloween. The same night his mother died. So is he trying to get back to her, or is he punishing her for abandoning him?”

I sighed and recited the facts for the thousandth time, trying to see the pattern hidden in them: “He disappears from New York and returns home in a panic, claiming he’s being framed for Sue’s murder. Framed by whom? And why? We don’t know. Then he goes to Europe.” I sucked my teeth a moment and gazed out at the pretty town that was slipping by. “I have a problem with that, Dehan. I am not sure, but I think he would’ve needed a visa to go to Europe. We need to look into that. But I do know for a fact that he couldn’t just stay there. He would need papers, a work permit, all that. So he must have come back.” I looked at her. “Where did he go? It’s just a hunch, but it seems to me that, whether he is punishing her or trying to get back to her—or both—his mother plays a big part in his motivation. Did you happen to notice that there was a certain similarity between Xara, his sister and his mother? Xara and his sister are bigger boned and heavier, but the likeness is there.”

She had her bottom lip stuck out and she was nodding.

“OK, Sensei, I hear you. So you think he might have gone to Reno.”

“‘Think’ is putting it a bit too strongly. It’s a hunch I’d like to explore.”

She was quiet for a bit, then said, “We could sure use his financials right now.”

I grunted. “I have a feeling we are going to find that Cyril Browne’s financial records stop suddenly ’round about the time he left New York.”

She looked at me sharply. “Based on what?”

I thought about it. “Based on his character, on his meticulous planning…”

“Planning? So you think he’s the guy again?”

“I don’t know yet who the guy is.”

“Yet…”

“Let me think for a bit.”

“You want a pipe and a violin?”

“That would be nice, thank you.”

We didn’t talk much after that. We rolled the windows down and enjoyed the gentle sunshine as we moved through Sacramento and then turned east and began the slow climb toward the Sierra Nevadas. All the way I kept turning my idea over and over. It was, as Mary would have said, absurd, a fantasy. Equally it made sense and equally it was impossible to prove.

Almost impossible to prove.

As we climbed higher, the temperature began to drop and after about an hour we had to close the windows. Past Auburn, the landscape changed and we were suddenly surrounded by rich woodland rolling over peaks as far as the eye could see. And by the time we had passed Colfax, the I-80 had narrowed to one lane each way and the woodland had become a dense forest that seemed to close in and enfold us.

There, I snapped myself out of my reverie, pulled my cell from my pocket, found the number for the Washoe County Sheriff and called. After talking to a couple of people, I was eventually put through to Undersheriff Sarah Pfeninger.

“Good morning, Undersheriff Pfenninger. My name is Detective John Stone, I am with the NYPD. We are trying to track down a suspect in a murder investigation, we’ve been making inquiries in Sacramento, and we think our man may have been in Reno at some time. He may even still be there now.”

“OK, Detective Stone. How can we help?”

I tried to put a nice smile in my voice. “Well, first off, we don’t want to tread on local law enforcement’s toes. So this is partly a courtesy call.”

“Much appreciated.”

“But second, we’d like to know if the sheriff’s department has any record of our man…”

“Where are you?”

“On the I-80, just going through Gold Run on the California side of the border.”

“What’s your man’s name?”

“Cyril Browne, originally of Elk Grove.”

“When do you think he was here?”

“Early November, 2006, or some time after that. Sorry I can’t be more precise.”

“You’re about an hour out, a little more if you stick to the speed limit. You know where we are? 911 East Parr Boulevard. Put it in your SatNav. Ask for me at the front desk. I’ll come down for you. Meantime, I’ll make some inquiries. Send me a picture and I’ll put out a BOLO.”

“Thank you, Undersheriff, that is very…”

“What’s your precinct, Detective Stone?”

“43rd, in the Bronx. My commanding officer is Deputy Inspector John Newman.”

“See you in an hour and twenty. Name’s Sarah.”

I hung up. Dehan looked at me along her eyes. “All good?”

I nodded once. “Very efficient woman.” I spoke as I punched the address into the GPS. “She’ll see us in an hour and twenty minutes. She’s making inquiries and putting out a BOLO.”

“Great. So what’s wrong?”

I sent Pfenninger the photograph of Cyril, then sighed and