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

“Uh-uh. I didn’t see him. I thought I recognized his voice, but I wasn’t sure.”

“You told the captain…”

I shrugged. “I’m pretty sure it was him, and I wanted the captain motivated in his manhunt. I figured he would be more motivated hunting a mole in the FBI than just a Mafia goon. But I couldn’t swear in court that it was Harrison. So I thought I’d cover my bases.”

“So you asked Vincenzo a fake question…”

“So he would confirm Harrison was there. Yup.”

She ate in silence for a bit and drank her coffee while I struggled left-handed. Then, she said, “Vincenzo lawyered up and he says he wants a deal.”

“What did the captain say?”

“He says he wants to know your opinion. Vincenzo says he can give us the New Jersey family, plus new evidence to convict Pro, and Harrison.”

“We already got Harrison.” I shrugged. “Let’s see what Sean had, then we can talk to Vincenzo about a deal.”

Arnav Singh was as good as his word. He arrived at the precinct at ten to three. I had arrived there with Dehan at twelve and been debriefed by the captain. We had discussed how to approach a deal with Vincenzo and, after much talk, reached the conclusion I had already reached that morning over breakfast. That we should first see what evidence Sean had collected.

We didn’t waste time. Singh had the key to the bank deposit box and we took my car. Dehan drove. The United Commercial Bank was on the corner of Fletcher Street and Pearl. We found space to park on John Street around the corner and walked the hundred yards to the bank.

Inside, we crossed the cold, green marble floor under cavernous, echoing ceilings to a highly polished desk, where Singh showed a card and his ID to a nervous man who kept pushing eyeglasses that were too heavy back up a nose that was too short.

“I’d like to withdraw the contents of this box.”

“Of course, please follow me.”

He led us through a security door, down a long carpeted passage, through another security door into an anteroom, and finally into a concrete vault with ranks of impregnable steel boxes. The clerk identified the box in question and discreetly stepped outside to wait.

Singh opened the box and pulled out a blue file that was at least four inches thick. He placed it on a table and opened it.

“I know he was ready to go to the cops, or to the Feds. His only worry was that he knew Father O’Neil had bent connections, but I think what he collected here will be enough for a conviction.”

I glanced at Dehan. I knew she was thinking the same as me, there was practically nobody left to convict. Just Harrison, and he had only been marginally involved. I leafed through it. There were more pictures of the girls, others of boys. There were copies of bank statements, emails, telephone records with numbers highlighted, CDs, and DVDs. It was too much to take in, but it looked detailed. Very detailed.

I nodded at Singh. “It looks good. I need to go through it in detail, but it looks good, Singh. Thanks for coming forward.”

He sighed and shook his head. “It will be a relief to put it behind me. It has been a weight on my conscience for all these years. What I will never be able to shake is the fact that I didn’t act sooner.”

Dehan picked up the file. “We were all too late to save the kids, Singh. At least now we can lay them to rest in peace, and close the case.”

“Yuh, thanks.”

The clerk led us back along the carpeted corridor and out into the vast, echoing marble hall. Singh pushed his way through the revolving glass doors. Dehan was just behind him. I watched him come out onto the sidewalk and stop to wait for her as I pushed with my left hand. Through the glass, I saw Paul Harrison jogging across the road, through the traffic. Dehan hadn’t seen him. I shouted, but the glass was too thick and she didn’t hear. I roared and heaved with all my weight, but it was like I was pushing through cold treacle.

Dehan looked at him as he came up on the sidewalk. He stuck out his arm, rigid and straight. He had a silenced 9 mm Sig Sauer 226 in his hand. It bucked twice and a plume of blood erupted from Arnav’s head. It was just a couple of seconds. I was still screaming and heaving on the door. I watched as his rigid arm swung round. I saw the perfect black circle of the muzzle pointing directly at Dehan’s head. I saw the file fall to the sidewalk, and then Dehan moved like a striking viper.

Her left hand had the muzzle of the automatic. Her right smashed into his wrist and she levered the gun out of his fingers. In less than a second, he was disarmed. Her right foot lashed out in a blinding kick, but he was already dodging, dropping.

As I exploded from the revolving doors, he was scooping up the file and running, half stumbling, weaving through the crowds. Dehan was screaming, “Freeze! Stop! Stop!” But there was no way she could shoot in the crowded street. I didn’t pause. I ripped off my sling as I ran and bolted after him, shouting, “Call for back up!”

He was ten years younger than me, and an athlete, plus he was pretty much running for his life. I was ten years older, bruised and injured, and my lungs were threatening to explode, but I would be damned sooner than see him get away. Also, the crowds were not allowing him to get into his stride.

He dodged into John Street and bolted across