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

was absorbed in reading them. He looked up as we approached. He ignored our badges and studied our faces as I told him who we were.

He indicated the chairs opposite and put his papers away in a briefcase by his side. As we sat, he said, “What do you want?”

His accent was Bronx, with overtones of Dublin.

“We’d like to talk to you about Sean O’Conor.”

“Who?”

Dehan said, “Sean O’Conor, he…”

“That’s like saying to an Englishman, I want to talk to you about John Smith, or to an Indian, I want to talk to you about Arjun Patel. I must know at least a hundred Sean O’Conors. Who the fuck is Sean O’Conor?”

His eyes were pale blue and hard. They were the eyes of a killer, ruthless and dispassionate.

Dehan sighed. “Out of the hundreds of Sean O’Conors that you know, how many of them have tried to block a building project while protecting the rights of the squatters who were inhabiting the building you wanted to develop?”

He bit into his sandwich and chewed. “You’re talking about Tiffany Street.” It wasn’t a question so I didn’t answer. “2004. Sean O’Conor. He was the piece of shit who organized it, from his shabby little offices on Sheridan Avenue. What about him?”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“I never saw him. He talked to my lawyers. My lawyers tried to talk to him.”

She persisted. “What did your lawyers think? Did he have a case?”

His eyes were not just hard, they were aggressive, seemingly tearing her apart to see what was going on inside.

“No.”

“Why not? He said he had proof your agents had accepted rent.”

“Some of them had, without my knowledge, and they were dealt with. But before he ever came along with his little crusade, I had already made arrangements with the church to have them re-housed, and those that couldn’t be re-housed, given shelter. The building was unsafe and unfit for human habitation, and there were kids in there that were not being schooled. Some were orphans. There were mothers out of their fucking minds on crack; some of the fucking kids were addicted. I wanted them out and on some kind of program to get them re-housed and the kids into school. The government was less than fucking cooperative so I talked to the church, offered them money, and we made a deal. So Sean fucking O’Conor had no case from the word fucking go.”

I frowned and scratched my chin. “You got proof of this?”

He leaned forward and stared hard into my eyes. “I don’t need fucking proof. You got a problem with me, it’s up to you to adduce proof. Isn’t it, copper?”

“I haven’t got a problem with you, Conor. I’m just trying to understand what went down. Have you got proof?”

“Of course I’ve got fucking proof. The whole thing was drawn up with lawyers and contracts.”

“And Sean knew this?”

“He should have. He was told often enough and I had my lawyers take him the fucking documents to see. But he wouldn’t have it, so fucking stupid. Nothing would do for him but that the work was stopped and there be a fucking inquiry into the conditions in which those people were living.”

“Did you ever talk to him?”

He thought about it and nodded. “Yeah, in January, just after Christmas. I phoned him and told him to leave the fucking case alone, he didn’t stand a chance. I told him if he didn’t drop it I’d fucking bury him and he’d never practice again in New York.”

“What did he say?”

“He was babbling some shite about how he was going to expose me for the scum I was.” He sat back and his face sank into shadows. “Anyway, I must have got through to him because he dropped the case and nothing more was ever heard of him. Why all the questions?”

Dehan said, “He was murdered.”

He leaned forward and raised an eyebrow. “Good, but my beef with him was twelve years ago. If I had been planning on killing him, I would have done it back then. Plus, I would have enjoyed the whole fucking court case farrago because I would have shown the miserable twat up for the fucking gobshite he was.”

There was a trace of a smile on her face. She gave it a beat, then said, “He was executed twelve years ago, on the fifteenth of January, just after you spoke to him and told him you would bury him. And his body was found in one of your dumpsters, on Lafayette, just by Father O’Neil’s church.”

He was quiet for a long time, staring at his Guinness. He didn’t look scared or worried, he was just thinking, calculating. Finally, his brow contracted and his eyes narrowed. He looked up at Dehan. “The tramp. That tramp was Sean O’Conor.”

I raised my own eyebrow. “You’ve got a good memory.”

“No. I have a superb memory. And I’m not a thick, fucking Mick, so don’t think you can pull one over on me or stick me in the frame.” He pointed a finger like a beef sausage at me. “Come after me, Stone, and I will destroy you both. Make no fucking mistake.”

I gave him a look of boredom. “Bring it down a level or two, Conor. Nobody is coming after you and you are not going to destroy me. If it wasn’t you who had Sean executed that night, who was it?”

“I don’t know.”

Dehan said, “Whoever it was, was operating on your patch.”

“I know.”

“So you must have some idea who it was. Was it the Italians?”

His face was sour. “I told you, I don’t know. Get out. I’m sick of looking at your fucking faces. You spoiled my lunch, just fuck off out of here.”

I said, “I’m not done yet. What about Father O’Neil?”