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

are interested in talking to. She is best described as a southern belle type. Alabama, Louisiana, strong accent. Black hair, probably cut short. Green eyes. A lot of class and elegance. Very attractive. Ring any bells?”

He frowned, staring at me like he thought I was setting a trap for him. After a moment, he said, “No. I don’t know anybody like that.”

I nodded. “We’ll keep you overnight, Peter, but unless something comes up, I am pretty sure we can send you home tomorrow.”

I called the sergeant, and she led him away down to the holding cells. Dehan stood and walked around the room, staring at the walls, like there were invisible pictures there only she could see. “You were right.” She said it to the wall. “He was delivering the gun.”

“It made sense. It was the most likely explanation.”

She turned to face me. “So who are all these other women? And how do they tie in with Geronimo dos Santos? What has he got, some kind of female league of assassins?”

I laughed. “Maybe. I plan to find out tonight.”

“Your hot date.”

I stood, feeling oddly irritated. The heat was becoming suffocation. “Strictly work, Dehan.”

“You think she’ll call?”

“Yeah, she’ll call. If my hunch is right, she has a direct link to Tammy.”

“So you think Tammy is still alive?”

“Not necessarily, no. She might be. It’s anybody’s guess. But my hunch is, whether she is dead or alive, Emma is the link back to whatever it was Tammy was doing two years ago, and our mysterious southern belle.”

“And dos Santos?”

“My bet is he is looking for her, too. He is Baxter’s client, and Baxter is onto Emma.”

“So we are back to the eternal question. Dos Santos employed Tammy to do a job. She screwed him somehow and made off to see Steve. Now dos Santos wants restitution or revenge or both.”

“It should be theft.”

“You mean he employed her to steal something from Duffy?” She thought about it a moment. “This dame of yours is married to an antiques dealer.”

I made a ‘that’s my point’ face, but then added, “Only Duffy swears she took nothing.” I glanced at my watch. “I’d better get going.”

She followed me down to my car. Hers was parked a little farther down, but she hadn’t brought her jacket or her keys. Evening was closing in and making long shadows among the russet light. The heat was turning from muggy to sultry. She stood with her hands in her pockets, watching me open the car door and throw my stuff in the back.

“Stone. I’m sorry I got mad at you.”

“No. You were right. I should have kept you in the loop.”

“You’re kind of maddening sometimes, in a nice way.”

I smiled. “You’re not. In a nice way.”

She gave a feeble smile back. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That should give me a fair bit of scope, then, huh?”

She shook her head. “Not really.”

Eighteen

When I got home, I made myself a steak sandwich and poured a generous glass of Irish. Then I sat at the computer and put in a couple of hours’ research. There was something nagging at my mind, and I wanted to confirm it. As I ate and drank, and worked my way through the endless pages my searches dredged up, it all slowly began to make sense. One after another, the missing pieces began to slot into place. All except one.

Her call came at eleven p.m., pretty much when I expected it.

“Detective Stone… John, it’s Emma.”

“I know.”

“I need…” A sigh, loud enough for me to hear, and then she started again. “You were right. I do need you. How did you know? How could you have known? We need to talk. Can I come over?”

“Where are you? It’s late.”

“At home, on Madison Avenue.”

“This isn’t Madison Avenue, baby. This is the Bronx.”

“You make it sound so…”

“It is. Get a taxi. You have my address.”

I hung up before she could answer.

It was almost midnight when I heard the distinctive sound of a yellow cab outside. The door slammed like a gunshot in the dark, quiet street. Heels tapped at a half run, and my doorbell rang. I counted slowly to thirty before I got up and went to answer it. I stood blocking the way, looking down at her.

“I thought you weren’t coming. I was going to bed.”

“My husband… Look, I’m here now, aren’t I?”

I stood aside and let her in.

She stood, uncertain, in the middle of the floor. I watched her a moment, then reached out my hand. “Give me your coat.”

She slipped it off and handed it to me. She was wearing a short, tight black dress that showed off all her curves. They were all the right size and in the right places. She was to celibacy what bacon is to vegetarianism. She said, “Thank you,” like it was a meek apology.

I checked the pockets and the lining of her coat. She watched me do it, frowning. I threw the coat on the sofa and went and stood really close to her. “I have to be sure you’re not wearing a wire…”

I put my hands around her waist and ran then slowly up her sides and over her back and ass. Her breath shuddered. I smiled. It wasn’t a friendly smile.

“Don’t get the wrong idea, babe. I am just being careful. You want a drink?”

She nodded. I fixed her a martini, extra dry, and poured myself another Irish. She sat on the sofa. I handed her her glass and sat in my armchair. She sipped and looked at me reproachfully.

“You’re not being very friendly.”

“I want you to be clear, I am not a sap that you can play like your husband. You’re as hot as