Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #2: Books 5-8 (A Dead Cold Box Set), Blake Banner [readnow TXT] 📗

“So, when he said that he was dining with ‘the Cavendishes’, what he actually meant was that he was dining with you.”

“Yes, Detective, that is what he meant. You have unearthed our sordid little secret.” She heaved a big sigh. “Don’t worry, I am not deluding myself. I know there are others. I told you, he was a ton of trouble back then and probably still is. Even if he has become insufferably pompous, there is no doubt he’s shagging the brains out of this poor Sylvie woman too.”

Dehan was in like a shot. “What makes you say that?”

“Sweetheart, because he would shag the table if he could find the right hole. And for some reason that only God understands, all those sweet, beatific Christian women just can’t seem to keep their pure, lily-white legs together when that almighty, bombastic, pompous ass, the Great Reverend Paul Truelove, bestows one of his sainted smiles on them.”

“He’s a rake.”

“That’s another way of putting it, yeah. He’s a fucking rake.”

We sat for a moment in silence. Finally, I said, “Mrs. Cavendish, is there anything of what you’ve just said that you would like to change?”

“No.”

“You are certain that Reverend Truelove was here on the night of the 5th of September, 1999.”

“Yes.”

“Then we won’t take up any more of your time.”

We stood but she didn’t look at us. She just said, “See yourselves out, will you? And close the damn door while you are at it.”

Five

I needed to think, so instead of going back to the precinct, I drove a mile or so north to the Huntington Woods, at Pelham Bay Park. We left the car in the parking lot and walked down through the trees to sit on the grass by the water.

It was almost midday, but the sun was already beginning to slip toward the south, giving its light a russet hue, making the shadows longer and the small waves look colder. I sat on an old, decaying wall, but Dehan walked on, down onto the mud, leaving deep imprints in the sludge. She had her hands in her back pockets, and the wind out of the south was making a mess of her long, black hair. She looked at the water for a long time, and then turned to face me. The lenses of her shades were like two copper suns. She made her way back toward me with slow, trudging steps, tying her hair in a knot behind her neck as she walked.

When she was a few feet away, she raised her voice over the wind. “His alibi isn’t worth a thimble of piss.”

I laughed. “That all depends on how good she is at giving evidence.”

“They are lovers.”

“They were lovers, we don’t know if they still are.”

She climbed up from the mud onto the blacktop and stood stamping the mud from her boots. “Do you believe he was with her that night?”

“I have no idea.”

“My gut tells me he called her last night and set it up. Why does a guy set up a false alibi?”

“Being guilty is only one possible reason. Another is that he is scared he is going to look guilty.”

“You don’t think he did it?”

I shook my head. “No, Ritoo Glasshopper. I think there is a damned good chance he did do it, but I just don’t know why exactly. I am trying to listen to what the evidence is telling me. And…” I sighed. “At the moment, it is just burbling meaningless nonsense about Brazil. They were all out in Brazil together. Reggie broke his neck and they all came back to the Big Apple together. Reggie and Liz to their place on Eastchester Bay, and Paul screwing his parishioners in East Bronx. Clearly, Dehan, there is more to this than meets the eye.”

“What do you want to do now?”

I thought about it for a moment. “I would like to have another chat with Sylvie, without Reverend Truelove breathing down our necks. I would like to hear what she has to say about the reverend’s being there or not during that day and the next morning. Also, though Sylvie’s memory may be failing her, there is somebody else who was there whose memory may be a lot more reliable.”

“Ahmed the gardener.”

“Indeed.” I stood. “Okay, let’s go.”

As we walked back toward the car, Dehan walked behind me, smacking my ass. I looked at her with scandalized eyes. “What the hell are you doing?”

“You have sand on your ass. You can’t interview a witness with sand on your ass. It’s not dignified.”

This time, we found Sylvie at home. She opened the door like she was going to give it a spanking. She was wearing an apron and had her hair tied behind her head with a sock. When she saw who it was, she kind of sagged and said, “Oh, detectives, I am kind of busy…”

Dehan smiled, not unkindly, and said, “You working?”

Sylvie nodded and gestured behind her for us to see. There was a mop in a bucket stenciled in the kitchen door and we could hear the washing machine churning its way through a cycle. Dehan nodded her understanding and said, “Yeah, so are we.”

Sylvie had the good grace to smile as she sighed and stood back to let us in. “Sure, sorry. I get kind of caught up. Will you have some coffee?”

Dehan was doing fine so I let her answer for us both. “Yeah, that would be nice. Thanks. We won’t keep you long, Sylvie. Just a couple of quick questions.”

Dehan followed her into the kitchen. I closed the door and stood looking a moment at the stairs that led up to the bedrooms. I wondered which stair she had been sitting on, and looked down at the carpet under my feet.