Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #1: Books 1-4 (A Dead Cold Box Set), Blake Banner [classic children's novels txt] 📗

and develop it. Of course there were millions—tens of millions—of dollars at stake, but Sean’s point was, quite correctly, that the rights of the people who were living there were being trampled on.”

Dehan asked, “Can you remember the name of the construction company?”

He shook his head. “I can’t, but I do remember him making a big thing at the time of the fact that they were Irish, like him. The whole Irish, Catholic thing was a big deal for him.”

Rosalía came out with two glasses and a pitcher of iced lemonade. She poured us a glass each, left the pitcher, and went back inside.

I sipped and Dehan said, “You mentioned he was close to Arnav. You guys stay in touch?”

“No, he moved down to Washington. His thing was playing politics, not my scene. I get more than enough of that at work. But he was smart and ambitious, so he shouldn’t prove hard to find. Then there was his church. Not Arnav, Sean.”

I frowned at him. “His church?”

“Oh, yes! When I say to you that everything, and I mean everything, revolved around God, Jesus, and the Roman Catholic Church, I am not exaggerating even a little. I don’t know when he found time for his actual, real job, but he used to spend every spare moment he had at the church, doing everything from distributing clothes to running a soup kitchen, reading to little old ladies… you name it.”

“Some guy.” It was Dehan, she was looking skeptical.

“No, don’t smirk, detective. He was the real deal, an honest to goodness good guy. I try, let’s face it, most of us try and do the best we can. We all care a bit, right? Not him. He was the genuine article. He really cared, completely. If you talk to the priest there, I am sure he will remember him.”

I asked him, “What church?”

“St. Mary’s, it was… let me see if I can remember… Lafayette. It was a big church. Old. You know, the ones that actually look like churches. You won’t have any trouble finding it. The padre was Irish too. One of those ‘O’ names.”

Dehan said, “O’Neil?”

He snapped his fingers and smiled. “That’s the fellow. Father O’Neil, Padraig O’Neil!”

She nodded. “I know it.”

Foster had got into his stride. “It’s coming back to me now. He had a girl, too. You should talk to her, although oddly enough she wasn’t Irish. I think she was Venezuelan or Mexican maybe. Anyway, for sure she was Latin American. He was pretty sweet on her. I definitely remember that.”

I asked, “Can you remember her name?”

He shook his head. “As I say, he and I weren’t real good pals. I think I was too much of a WASP for his taste, Boston Brahmins, English ancestors... not his cup of tea. He was a nice guy, though.”

We chatted a bit longer, finished our lemonade, and left.

Dehan closed her door and I sat drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. Dehan glanced at me. “Don’t tell me, it’s too easy.”

I grimaced, turned the key in the ignition, and took off.

Three

James and Kathleen O’Conor had a house in Corona, just by the Flushing Meadows Park. It was a nice, detached place on 46th Avenue, which would probably have fit comfortably into David Foster’s kitchen. As I pulled up in front of their gate, I paused a moment to think about relative values. I get deep like that sometimes. Dehan said, “You think the pool and the tennis courts are in back?”

I climbed out and looked at her across the roof of the car. The first green leaves of spring were coming out on the plane tree behind her. “Is that the whiff of sour grapes I detect in your voice, Dehan?”

She shook her head. “No, I’m just wondering, what didn’t these guys do, that David Foster did do…?”

“If your point is that life isn’t fair, you’re a little late. We already knew that.”

She sighed. “I know.”

I pushed through the gate and rang on the bell.

The door opened and I looked down at a small woman of maybe five feet. She had a squint and short hair, jeans, a pink cardigan, and a mischievous smile.

“Can I help you?”

I showed her my badge. “Detectives Stone and Dehan, NYPD. Are you Kathleen O’Conor?”

“I am, what have I done now?” she said, and grinned.

I smiled back. “Nothing we know of, Mrs. O’Conor. We would just like a quick word with you and your husband, Jim. Is he in?”

“He’s watching the TV, for a change. Come in.” She walked ahead of us into the front room, speaking as she went. “Jim! Would you turn the feckin’ TV off for five minutes? We have visitors.”

We followed her in. There was an immensely tall man, with a shock of snow white hair swept back from his face, folded into an armchair opposite the TV. He fumbled with the remote control, switched off the television, and levered himself to his feet. Once he had managed all that, he smiled. He must have been six foot six if he was an inch.

I told him who we were and they both told us to sit down. I watched Jim lever himself back into his chair and Kathleen sat on the sofa, next to Dehan, with her feet barely touching the floor.

I sighed. “We need to talk to you about your son, Sean.” I pulled the photograph Dehan had printed from my pocket and showed it to them. “Is this Sean O’Conor, your son?”

All the humor drained from their faces. Kathleen put her hand to her mouth and tears glistened in her eyes. Jim seemed to turn gray.

“Yeah. That’s our son. Did you find him?”

“I’m afraid I have very bad news. Sean was found murdered.”

Kathleen gave a scream.