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

Greg, or anybody else. Her Whatsapp showed the same thing, as did her Facebook account. She had not been conducting a ‘virtual’ affair with Greg.

Her credit card records showed no train ticket purchases for the months of June or July—or plane or bus tickets, or car rentals.

I sat in silence, thinking, for a long time. Then I looked at the results of the DNA test and closed my eyes.

“My God, Dehan,” I said, “I have been so blind. I have been so stupid!”

I threw the paper across the desk to her. She examined it, frowned, and stared at me.

“What the hell…!”

I nodded. “Let’s wrap up here and get back to New York.”

Twenty

The Assistant District Attorney arrived shortly after lunch and she and the sheriff joined us upstairs in the small office. She was in her mid-thirties and living the dream in an Italian suit and a German car. When she strode in, Dehan had her ass on the windowsill and I had my feet on the desk. We were staring at each other in silence, thinking, and both turned to look at her and the sheriff as they entered.

She dropped her pigskin case on the desk and sat. The sheriff said, “This is Assistant District Attorney Susanne O’Connor.” To her, he said, “Detectives Stone and Dehan of the NYPD, ma’am.”

I took my feet off the desk and rolled a little closer. She spoke first. I got the impression she always spoke first, and last.

“I’m a little confused, Detective Stone, on a number of points. First of all, why you are here at all, and, not least, I have just arrived to hear that the case you were about to close is not closed at all. Care to explain yourself?”

I studied her face for just long enough to make her uncomfortable. Then I said, “You’re confused?” I turned and smiled at Dehan, who smiled back. “The Assistant DA is confused, Dehan. She doesn’t know why we are here.” I turned back to the ADA. “I’d suggest the sheriff explain, seeing as it was him who invited us to come here, but frankly, I think he’s as confused as you are.”

Her cheeks had gone a pretty shade of pink. “I’m not sure I like your tone, Detective.”

“That’s OK, you don’t need to. Why we are here is irrelevant to the case you are going to prosecute, which is not the murder of Kathleen Olvera. That case is going to be prosecuted in New York. The case you are going to prosecute is the kidnapping, torture and attempted murder of two police officers who were here at the invitation of the Lee County sheriff, as well as the illegal sale of cannabis in New York State. If you are curious as to why we are here, then I suggest you get Sheriff Watson to explain it to you over coffee and blueberry pie. You ready to play nice now, or you want to keep measuring dicks?”

O’Connor went scarlet and I heard Dehan snort and splutter behind me. The sheriff hitched his pants and said, “Hey now…!”

She rose to her feet. “I will not tolerate…!”

“Sweetheart, I got bullwhipped last night and was within half a second of having my throat cut while doing this clown’s job, so you will tolerate whatever you have to tolerate. You be civil to me and I’ll be civil to you, but tell me to explain myself one more time and things could get ugly. Now sit down and I will tell you what happened.”

She sat back down with wide eyes and a small bump.

“Five years ago, a decapitated woman was found on Lefhand Canyon Drive, not far from a club called the Shack, frequented by off-gridders and Hell’s Angels. The woman was eventually identified as Kathleen Olvera, from the Bronx. Her family had been regular visitors to Seven Hills since she was a kid, they had befriended local people, including Greg Carson and the Olvera boys. Eventually she married Moses Olvera, and he and his brother moved to the Bronx. You with me so far?”

She gave a tight-lipped nod. The sheriff pulled over a chair and sat. I went on.

“Sheriff Watson made a preliminary, cursory investigation. He turned up no meaningful evidence and the case went cold. A few days ago, he kicked it back to us and we started to look into it. At first it looked to us as though Kathleen had come to Seven Hills to meet with somebody, and that somebody had killed her. So, at the express invitation of the sheriff, we began to look into the people whom she might have come to see. Are you still following me?”

“Yes, Detective. It is not that complicated.”

“Good.” I said it a little sourly. “I wouldn’t want you to get confused.”

“You have made your point.”

“In the course of our investigation, we turned up two things: first, Greg Carson and two of the tenants on his ranch, Sly and El Coyote, otherwise known as…”

I turned to Dehan, she checked the printout we’d got earlier from their NI numbers. “Juan Fernandez and Sylvester Thelonius Jones, both originally from the Bronx, in New York.”

“These three characters had set up business, growing very substantial amounts of cannabis on Greg’s ranch, and selling it illegally in New York. Their idea was that Pat, who was something of a black sheep in her family and had a taste for the wild side, would market it back east. The problem was that Pat started snorting all their profits instead of handing them over to Greg, Sly, and El Coyote. The penalty for that kind of thing where Sly and El Coyote come from is very severe. That led us to the theory that Pat might have sent Kathleen to intercede on her behalf and ask for clemency. And they decided to make an