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

looked from me to Dehan and back again. “I think it’s about time you told me why you’re asking me these questions.”

I studied his face carefully. He looked worried. “On the night of June 14, 2015, Stephen Springfellow was murdered, and we think Tammy was murdered with him. Her body hasn’t been found yet.”

His eyes flooded with tears. He crossed his arms and looked away at the gray dawn outside his garage.

“Stupid bitch.” His voice broke as he said it. “Chasing fucking dreams, screwing around with every fucking dick who made her a promise. She had everything she would’ve needed right here at home.”

He sniffed and wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his overall. I watched him a moment, then repeated my question.

“You didn’t follow her to New York?”

He shook his head. “No, I didn’t kill her, Detective. I was conflicted and I was confused, but I had met Tasha by then and I had already started to heal. I’m just sad because it is such a fucking waste of a person who could’ve been real special.”

I nodded. “Okay, thanks for your help, Peter.”

He moved back into the shadows of his garage, and we climbed back into the Mustang.

Eight

I called Hank.

“Hey, Stone, what can I do for you?”

“We’re almost done, and we’ll be off your turf pretty soon. Just one thing you could do for me.”

“Name it. Glad to help.”

“Peter Gunthersen.” I gave him the address and particulars. “I’m just wondering if he has any priors. He was married to Tamara Gunthersen, formerly Polachova. Maybe there were some domestics. Also, did he, or does he, own a gun.”

“You got it. Anything else?”

“No, that’s it. I’ll keep you in the loop.”

“Thanks, pal.”

I pulled onto Bay Road and headed back toward the Camino del Rey. I put the hood down, and the wind started whipping Dehan’s hair about. She reached behind her head, wound it up, and tied it in a knot.

“You want to know what my gut says, Stone?”

“Mm-hm.”

“My gut says we have been building up this case into a huge mystery, because we didn’t know about Peter. We had no motive, did we? That’s what we were looking for. Why did they kill him? Why did they take her body away? Motive. We had a murder with no motive, so we were running around like headless chickens looking for one. Now we have a motive. The oldest motive in the world.”

“You think it’s a good old-fashioned case of jealousy.”

“’S what my gut tells me. He followed her up to New York, found them together, tied Steve up at gunpoint, beat him up a bit, and made her watch. Then shot them both. It’s what you were suggesting before coffee. It stands up. What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing, except we have no proof.”

“So if he owns a gun, or owned a gun, we check ballistics. We also need to check his credit card records, see if he traveled to New York back in June 2015.”

I nodded. “Yup. Meanwhile, I want to know more about this gig. Where was it? Whose party? What is the relationship between this Geronimo dos Santos and his host? Why, Dehan, why was he at such pains to provide him with this exotic gift, and why did he give Tammy’s agent a false name? Whether Peter is our killer or not, there is more to this gig than meets the eye.”

I pulled onto the Camino del Rey and began to accelerate back toward San Mateo. Dehan was watching the low buildings slide by on the broad, tree-lined avenue in the morning sunlight. While she did that, she gently thumped the door with her fist.

“I agree, but how are we going to do it?”

“Maybe dos Santos came in his own car. But I’d say chances are even that he hired a limo once he was here, to take himself and/or Tammy to the party.”

“True, but to check that we need his AMEX records. To get his AMEX records, we need a court order. To get the evidence for a court order, we need to check his AMEX records. Catch twenty-two.”

I smiled. “But, Ritoo Glasshopper, hotels of the swank of the Hyatt Regency provide everything that the discerning gentleman might need, including limo hire services. If he hired a limo, chances are he did it through the hotel, whose records you so skillfully finagled.”

She stared at me. I glanced at her and saw myself, duplicated, staring back at me from the lenses of her aviators. She said, “Why didn’t you think of that last night?”

It was a good question. I shrugged. “I was tired and I’d had too much whiskey.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You disappoint me, Sensei.”

By the time we pulled into the parking lot at the hotel, it was nine o’clock, the sun was rising over the sierras in the east, and I was ready for more coffee. I ordered some at reception to be sent up, and we rode the elevator back to my room.

Dehan pulled up the file, and I pulled up a chair next to her. She typed and clicked for a while, and finally a screen came up with an itemized list and a column of numbers down the right-hand side.

“Okay, this is his itemized bill for the week he was here.”

“It’ll be on the day before last.”

She scrolled to June 4 and ran her finger down the list till she came to the end. “Nothing.”

“Damn! Try earlier days, then.”

There was a knock at the door. I opened it and a waiter wheeled in a trolley with the coffee. I tipped him and he went away. I poured out two cups and gave one to Dehan. She sipped.

She had gone back to the beginning, to the twenty-fourth, and we started