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

He was a very special kind of man. He told me he couldn’t live with me. He believed the stories about my family, and me. So he told me he was breaking it off. I was hurt; my pride was hurt, so I wrote him a very foolish email. That was all there was to it.”

“And within the week he turns up dead.”

“That had nothing to do with me.”

I made a skeptical face and gave my head a little shake. “I just keep wondering, keep turning it over in my mind, how does a guy like Sean, as pure as the driven snow, wind up being killed in a textbook Mob execution?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because, right now, Sonia, your email comes damn close to being a confession.” I looked at her uncle. He had a face that could have sent a zombie back to its grave. “I think you had better explain, Don Alvaro, that this is a time to be cooperative, because two things are about to happen. First, I am this close,” I held up my thumb and my index finger to show how close I was, “to pulling you both in on a charge of murder one.”

Alvaro said, “You’re bluffing,” but he wasn’t sure.

“And two, Sean’s murder is about to hit the news. He is not only going to become a national hero, an Irish Catholic battling organized crime single-handed, he is also going to become a martyr in the local, Catholic communities that you prey on. He’s going to be the guy who stood up against the Irish Mob and the Mafia to fight for the little guy, the homeless children and the exploited mothers, and was ruthlessly murdered for it, by you. And I am wondering, how is it going to look when Don Alvaro Vincenzo’s niece is implicated, and her email, threatening to have him murdered, is leaked to the press? If I were you, I’d be thinking about avoiding that ever happening. And your best way of doing that right now is to tell me everything you know about Sean O’Conor.”

I sensed King Kong sit down behind me. The tension eased and Don Alvaro looked at Sonia. “So?”

She studied my face for a long time. You could almost hear the cogs turning in her head. Finally, she shook her head, “So nothing. There is nothing more to tell, I was young, he was an exceptional man. I guess I thought he could offer me a way out of this.” She looked up at her uncle. “An escape from la cosa nostra. We fucked a few times. For him it was some kind of release, a moment of madness, for me it was hope. It was never going to last.”

“That’s very touching and insightful. Did he ever share information with you about what he was involved in?”

She sighed, hesitated. “If I were smart, Stone, this is where I would tell you that he was corrupt, trying to blackmail my family, secretly taking payoffs from the Irish, and that’s why he got hit. But I am not going to do that. Aside from screwing me, he was everything he appeared to be.” She thought a moment. “Was I mad enough to have him killed? Yeah, I was. Did I think about it? Yes, I did. Did I do it? No. No because my dad and my uncle would have been furious with me for getting involved in the first place, and because bottom line was, I still loved him.”

I repeated, “What was he involved in?”

“As far as I know, he was going up against the Hagan clan. Something to do with squatters.”

“Anything else?”

She frowned. “There was something. He was real vague about it. He said it was going to send shockwaves through the Catholic establishment, but he never told me what it was.”

I looked up at Don Alvaro. His face was about as expressive as a frozen Swede who’d died of boredom waiting for a bus.

“How’d you feel about shockwaves in the Catholic establishment, Alvaro?”

“I don’t give a fuck what the Irish do. Who gives a fuck about the fucking Micks?”

I turned back to Sonia. “What about other women?”

“Sean?” She sounded incredulous, giving a little laugh. “I don’t think so.”

I stood. “You don’t need an Irish saint to come and save you, Sonia. You just need enough backbone to keep you upright while you walk away.” I glanced at Don Alvaro. “Say high to Pro for me.”

He didn’t answer.

Twelve

I picked Dehan up outside the precinct and we headed for East 161st Street to meet Conor Hagan. His construction company had the top floor on a 1930s red brick office block on the corner of Park Avenue. We arrived punctually at five to twelve. We told the pretty receptionist who we were. She listened with interest, cocked her head on one side and smiled. Maybe they taught them to do that in Receptionist School.

“He’s not here? He went out to lunch? But he said to tell you where he was if you wanted to join him.”

I smiled back. “Good. Tell me.”

“He’s at the Shamrock? Two blocks down, on Melrose Avenue?”

I frowned. “Are you telling me or asking me?”

She frowned back.

Dehan said, “She’s telling you. Come on.”

In the elevator, I said, “We’ll get in the car now? We’ll drive to the Shamrock? Talk to Conor Hagan?”

“You’re a real ass, you know that?”

“You’re, like, hurting my feelings?”

“Stop it or I will hurt you. And not just your feelings.”

Conor Hagan was hard to miss. He was six four and looked like Michaelangelo’s less talented cousin had made him out of concrete. He was sitting at a table in the corner with a pint of Guinness and a couple of beef sandwiches. There was a sheaf of papers in front of him and he