Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #4: Books 13-16 (A Dead Cold Box Set), Blake Banner [story read aloud .txt] 📗

Dehan came and joined us. I said, “Two years ago, there was an incident down by the playground. We were wondering if you might have witnessed anything.”

“My goodness, two years ago. I suppose we might have, but who remembers?”

I gave him a moment. When he didn’t say any more, I asked, “Do you think we could come in and ask you a few questions? It might jog your memory.”

His body and his face said it was inconvenient, but he said, “Well, of course. You’ll have to forgive us, Jack is cooking and we have friends coming for lunch…”

I nodded like I understood and reassured him, “It won’t take more than a couple of minutes.”

The door opened directly onto an open-plan living and dining area, with a large, modern kitchen separated by a wood-paneled bar. Jack, wearing a blue and white striped butcher’s apron and holding a pot and a wooden spoon, turned to look at us in astonishment as we came in. He was older than Richard by about ten years, and heavier by thirty pounds.

“Hello!” he said, as though that was a reprimand.

Richard gestured to us with both hands. “These are Detectives Stone and Dehan, and they are going to quickly ask us a few questions about an incident two years back. And we are going to help them.” He turned to us and pointed to a suede sofa. “Please sit down.”

He sat in a black leather armchair and Jack approached from the kitchen, saying that he hoped the good karma he earned from helping us would prevent his sauce from burning.

When he had sat in the other chair, Dehan said, “Two years ago, ’round about this date, in November, there was an altercation outside, on the corner, opposite the grocery store. It would have been somewhere between eight thirty and ten o’clock, between…”

Jack was giving his head little shakes. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his right leg over his left, wagging his finger in a negative. “No, darling,” he said. “It was later than eight thirty, and it was well before ten. I’ll tell you, it was November sixth, at about nine o’clock on the button. Perhaps the whole thing lasted from five to nine until five past, if that.”

Richard turned to him and voiced my own question: “How can you possibly be so sure and precise, Jack? You’re showing off!”

He was still wagging his finger, but now he stopped and pointed it like a gun at Richard. “I’ll tell you exactly why. That appalling woman, Monica Fraser…”

“Oh my goodness, you are absolutely right!”

Jack turned to me. “She wanted us to attend an event to rally support for a demonstration the following day, a Monday if you please, Mothers Against Trump or some such idiotic nonsense. The event was at…”

Richard said, “Nine thirty! He is absolutely right—”

“Let me tell it, Richard. And she telephoned to us at a quarter to nine, begging us to go. Well, I told her, I am nobody’s mother! Why would I go? Anyway, I fobbed her off and no sooner had I hung up than we heard this infernal racket outside. We both went to the window and there they were.”

Dehan glanced at me. I made no effort to hide my ‘I told you so’ face. She asked, “There who were, Mr…?”

“Kitzler, Jack Kitzler.” He closed his eyes, still leaning back in his chair, and projected his hand forward, as though he was placing somebody on a stage. “The girl, dressed like a miserably unhappy Little Red Riding Hood. She is standing on the sidewalk, just a few paces from the chestnut tree. She has her hands in her pockets – the pockets of her red coat, and she is shouting. She is not shouting across the road, but diagonally…” He moved his outstretched arm to illustrate where she was shouting. “To a truck that was parked directly opposite our window.”

I stood and went to the window. Dehan joined me. I said, “On Rosedale, to the left of the traffic lights.”

“Exactly.”

Richard had risen and was peering out with us. I asked, “Did you see what direction the truck came from?”

It was Richard who answered this time. “No, but I think we both had the impression it had just pulled over and stopped. It has facing left, south, so it had either come from further up Rosedale, or it had turned in from Gleason.”

I returned to the sofa. Dehan sat on the windowsill while Richard sat on the arm of Jack’s chair. Dehan asked them, “What happened?”

Jack said, “At first, I thought she was just a sad crazy, screaming at people that existed only in her poor, tortured mind. But then I saw there was a man climbing out of the truck, and then it became evident that she was screaming at him. He approached her and at first, it seemed that he was speaking to her in an almost calming, reassuring way. Did you get that impression, Richard?”

Richard nodded. “Yes, I did. You couldn’t hear him. He was talking quietly. Then I remember he took hold of her shoulders, and that seemed to set her off. She started screaming her head off.”

He looked at Jack, who continued, “She backed away from him. He went after her. It was a little alarming. Then she turned and ran, and he ran, too. They vanished in the shadows of that big chestnut tree, opposite the grocery store.”

I said, “Why didn’t you report it at the time?”

They both sighed simultaneously. Richard said, “Well, we did.”

Jack closed his eyes and shook his head. “Don’t be dishonest, Richard. We didn’t.”

“Well, we did!”

Jack wagged his finger. “No, no… you’re being equivocal, Richard, and that is tantamount to dishonesty.” He continued talking with his eyes closed. “We did not report it that night. We were conflicted that