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

that you are one of his favorites, so if you are smart you’ll tell us exactly what we need to know.”

“One of my johns, killing hookers? You kidding me?”

I glanced in the mirror. “You see, Dehan? They are called hookers, not sex workers. Call me a dinosaur, but at least I have mastered the lingo.”

She ignored me. “Not kidding, Zena. Raped and strangled last night.”

She looked worried and a little sick. “Who’s the john?”

“Jimmy, works at the Eva Maria’s Café.”

She burst out in an ugly, cackling laugh. “Jimmy? Are you out of your minds?”

She looked at me like I was stupid. I offered her no expression back but asked her, “When was the last time you saw Noelia?”

She stopped grinning. “Noelia?”

“Yeah, you know, Cherry Pie. Seen her since last night?”

“…no…”

Dehan cut in. “That would be because she was lying in the woods down at Ferry Point Park, dead, with Jimmy’s semen inside her.”

“Sweet Jesus…” She crossed her self and said a prayer under her breath. Then she looked over her shoulder at Dehan and said, “She was with Jimmy last night. He come down to the corner after work and they went back to his place.” She looked away. “Sweet mother… Jimmy… It’s always the fuckin’ sweet ones.”

I said, “Where is Jimmy’s place, Zena?”

She stared at me for a long moment before answering. Finally she said, “Second floor. Eleven twenty-one, Longwood, opposite the storage place.”

I dropped her at the corner of Longfellow and Lafayette, turned west and accelerated toward Garrison Avenue. I made the tires complain as I turned into Longwood and skidded to a halt outside an ugly, three story red brick with a small, blue plastic awning over the door. I got out and ran. Dehan was close behind me. As I rang on the bell and hammered on the door she said, “I called for backup,” in a voice that said it was something I should have done.

I said, “Good,” and hammered on the door again.

I pulled my Swiss Army knife from my pocket, selected the screwdriver, rammed it in the lock, gave it a firm whack with the butt of my automatic and opened the door. Dehan stood staring at me. “Stone? What the hell are you doing? We haven’t got a warrant or probable cause.”

I yanked my knife out of the lock. “You haven’t, Dehan, but I have. Coming? Or are you going to wait for backup?”

There was a steep, narrow staircase with wooden steps showing through a frayed carpet that was of no recognizable color. I sprinted up, with my Smith & Wesson still in my hand. There was only one door on that floor. I hammered on it and shouted, “Jimmy Fillmore, NYPD, open up!”

I heard Dehan’s feet on the stairs behind me. She had her weapon in her hand and went to stand on the far side of the doorway. She frowned and shook her head, whispering, “Stone, we can’t do this!”

I ignored her, listening for sounds inside. There were none. I gave the door a once over. It looked flimsy. I stood back and put all my two hundred and twenty pounds behind a hefty kick at the lock. The wood splintered and a second kick burst the door open. I didn’t look at Dehan, but I was pretty sure she was as distressed as the door.

I went in with my gun held out in front of me, shouting, “NYPD! Show yourself!”

It was a small, shabby room with two sash windows overlooking Longwood Avenue. On the left there was a door that led into a small kitchen, and between the two windows a small dining table with two chairs. To the right of the door there was a sofa and a coffee table in front of an old TV. The TV was sitting on a wooden crate up against the wall.

Jimmy was sitting on the sofa, with his right elbow resting on the arm. He was gaping at the TV, which was odd because the TV was turned off. I ignored him and moved to a door opposite the kitchen. It gave onto a bedroom. The drapes were drawn and the room was dark, and smelled of cigarettes and stale sweat. There was an aluminum-frame bed with the covers thrown back, showing old, stained sheets. Another door stood open onto a bathroom. I checked in there but it was empty, so I went back to Jimmy.

He was still gaping, but now I could see clearly his eyes were rolled back in their sockets, and the left side of his head had a neat hole plugged into the temple. I walked around and saw that most of the right side of his head was missing, and the sofa and the wall were spattered with blood and gore. It looked as though it was still wet. In his left hand he was holding a 9 mm Taurus semi automatic. Dehan was staring at him. I crouched down to sniff the gun. It had been fired recently. Dehan frowned at me.

“This isn’t funny anymore, Stone.”

“It never was.”

“How did you know?”

I felt a small twist of irritation in my gut but suppressed it. I stood and said, “I didn’t know, Dehan, but it was a possibility. A probability, given the facts.”

She narrowed her eyes and shook her head. “How? Why? How was this a probability? How could you possibly guess that he might commit suicide?”

I sighed, but before I could answer we heard the sirens of two patrol cars approaching. I shook my head. “I can’t go through the whole explanation now, Dehan. It was there to be figured out if you’d had an open mind. You want to call it in? I want to have a look around before the crime scene team kick us out.” Her eyes were bright with anger. I