Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #3: Books 9-12 (A Dead Cold Box Set), Blake Banner [reading in the dark TXT] 📗

to out in the wilds of Arizona, and your far right white supremacist friends here in the U.K., they might feel like asking you a few questions themselves. Do you know how long they can hold you without charge here, Brad? Fourteen days, and upon application by a police superintendent, that can be extended indefinitely.”

He shook his head, narrowing his eyes at me. “You can’t do this. You ain’t a cop here. I heard you went back to New York.”

Dehan smiled. “You know what? I think he does remember you.”

“Oh, Brad remembers me. We’re old buddies. We go back a long way, don’t we, Brad? Brad’s the man who killed my first wife. You don’t get much closer than that, do you?”

Beads of sweat had started to appear on his temples. “What the hell’s going on, man? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He looked at Dehan. “This guy is always trying to frame me. But I never done nothin’ ’cept try and make an honest living. He hates me because I’m a redneck, but hell! There ain’t no shame in bein’ a redneck!”

I let him run down. When he’d finished, I shrugged and said, “You know what the tragic irony of this whole thing is, Brad? I always believed you were innocent. That whole task force was convinced you were guilty, but I kept telling them, serial killing was not your scene. You might kill for an honest reason, but not just for kicks.”

He looked confused. “Well, that’s right. I ain’t never been into that weird shit.”

“So where were you, Brad? Or would you rather the antiterrorist squad ask you?”

“Oh, man!” He heaved a big sigh. “Last night? I was at home. I got stoned with some chick and watched a movie.”

“How about in the afternoon?”

“I was here, setting up the stall.”

“All afternoon?”

“Yeah, all afternoon! Of course all afternoon! This is my fuckin’ business. It’s what I live on. What do you think I was doing the day before opening at the biggest fuckin’ exhibition in Europe?”

“How about in the morning?”

“At my apartment, loading up the van, where do you think? You know, you cops make me sick! You shit and the department is there to wipe you fuckin’ ass. You need a car, you need a holiday, you need a doctor, you need a fuckin’ shrink. The PD is there to take care of it. Me? A regular guy like me? I have to do the whole fuckin’ thing myself. And believe me, it ain’t easy when some fuckin’ cop has decided you killed his fuckin’ wife and one way or another you are going down for it!”

His voice had been steadily getting louder, until his face flushed red and he shouted the last words. People turned to stare, then went on their way.

The three of us were quiet for a moment, then I said, “So what you’re telling me is that you have no alibi.”

He nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I am telling you. And you have no evidence to put me at the scene, or instead of some crazy New York bozo and his girlfriend, they’d have English cops here putting me in cuffs. So get the hell out of my face.”

Dehan said, “What scene, Brad?”

He made a face that said she was stupid. “Seriously? What scene? What, you think you caught me out? Oh, wait, you’re asking me where I was yesterday just to pass the time? Or the crime was committed in a space-time vortex so there was no actual scene? Get real, sister!” He shook his head and said, “Now tell me not to leave town and walk out a here like you didn’t just make fuckin’ assholes of yourselves.”

I ignored him and asked, “Who was the girl you watched the movie with?”

“I’m going to count to three, then I’m calling security. Then I’m going to call my attorney and sue your ass!”

“Yeah, I remember you had an attorney back in the day. What was his name? You still got the same guy? Nigel? Nigel Hastings?”

“One, two…”

I sighed. “OK, Brad, we’re going. Just one question before we do.”

“What?”

“You know Don McLean’s song, Pride Parade?”

He screwed his face up at me like I was talking word salad at him. “What?”

“Don McLean. You know who Don McLean is?”

“Yeah, I know who fuckin’ Don McLean is. What I don’t know is what the fuck you are talking about. You want to get the hell out of here? I’m trying to promote my business.”

I raised a hand. “Bear with me, Brad. Don McLean recorded a song in 1972 called the Pride Parade.”

“So what?”

“What did you think of it?”

“Nothing. I didn’t think anything of it. I don’t know the fucking song. Pride Parade? What is he, gay? I know he married a Jewess and he has Jewish fuckin’ kids! Now stop wasting my fuckin’ time and get the hell out of here!”

I smiled at Dehan. “Thanks, Brad.” I winked at him. “Catch you later.”

We walked back down the aisle and stepped out of the exhibition hall into the heat of the late afternoon. We fell into step, walking slowly back toward the parking garage. I pulled my cell from my pocket and checked that I had recorded our last exchange. It was all there.

Dehan said, “You want to tell me what that was all about?”

I put my hands in my pockets. “Don McLean was married for thirty years to a Jewish woman, Patrisha. Both his kids were brought up Jewish.”

“OK…”

“Brad Johnson is an active white supremacist and, like most white supremacists, he is also deeply anti-Semitic and buys into the whole Rothschild, Zionist conspiracy for a one world government theory, all that crap.”

“So it makes sense that he wouldn’t be all that interested in… Oh, wait…”

“Exactly. The