Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #2: Books 5-8 (A Dead Cold Box Set), Blake Banner [readnow TXT] 📗

He shrugged again. “Well, how the fuck was I supposed to know that?”

I stood and stared down at him for a moment, trying to make up my mind what I thought about him. Finally, I said, “What else do you sell, Jack?”

He frowned. “What do you mean, crack? That kind of shit?” I nodded and he shook his head. There was fear in his eyes, more fear than I would have expected. “Oh, no, mate. No way. Not me. I sell a bit of weed to cover expenses. I don’t want nuffink to do with that hard shit. Never mind what you’d do to me if you caught me, it’s what the hard nuts ’round here would do to me. I been warned. I don’t wanna know, mate. I ain’t treadin’ on nobody’s toes. Not no way.” He stood up and laughed like I was crazy. “I’m not a fuckin’ criminal, mate! It’s New York, you’re twenty years behind the times! Anywhere else in the world, what I do would be legal! Almost.”

Dehan stepped over to him and stared up into his big face. “Here it’s illegal. That makes you a criminal. Get this clear, O’Brien, if vice come knocking on your door, make damn sure they find a clean house. Those boys don’t mess around. You got me?” Then she hesitated and frowned. “And, Jack, if you think the gangs here are cool with you growing and selling dope, you’re wrong, very wrong.”

He nodded. As I reached for the door, he said, “Thanks…”

I said, “Don’t go anywhere. We may need to talk to you again.”

We stepped into the early June sun and closed the iron gate behind us. The car bleeped and flashed and Dehan went and opened the door. I strolled after her slowly, with my hands in my pockets, chewing my lip and kicking small stones out of my path. She watched me a moment, then climbed in and I got in beside her. She fired up the engine and as she pulled away, she said, “He’s not as ‘straight up’ and innocent as he makes out. Or as stupid.”

“I know.”

“He’s clever and manipulative.”

“I know…”

“And his version of events does not square up with Lynda’s.”

“I know.”

“Stop saying ‘I know.’”

“OK.”

“OK, so shoot my theory down in flames.”

I shook my head and played the drum solo from In-A-Gada-Da-Vida on my knees. “Nope.”

She frowned as she turned onto Morris Park Avenue. “Why?”

I shook my head. “It is far too complicated for that. Something is wrong, and I just can’t see what it is. There is something…” I paused and stared out the window as the houses and the shops and the trees flowed steadily past. “There is something,” I said again, “unnatural about this murder.”

“Unnatural?”

“I know,” I said to the window. “That’s what I thought.”

Eight

We stopped first at the Van Etten Building on the hospital campus to have a talk with Frank, the ME. We found him in the morgue with Sebastian Acosta. He looked up as we came in, then nodded a few times as though we’d said something he agreed with.

“Hello, Frank.”

“No surprises,” he said. “He died of the head wounds. He bled profusely from the first three shots to his arm and chest. The panic would have caused an accelerated heart rate, which in turn would have increased the loss of blood. The last two shots were to his head and those were the ones that killed him.”

We approached the table and looked down at Sebastian. He looked peaceful. His panic was over. Without thinking, I muttered, “Fear no more the lightning flash, nor the all dreaded thunder-stone.”

Frank considered me a moment, then said, a little sourly, “Very appropriate. I’ve sent the slugs to ballistics and asked them as a personal favor to fast-track them. We’re not supposed to do that, but we do. Off the record, I can tell you that in Mort’s opinion…”

Dehan frowned, “Mort?”

“In ballistics. The holes in the door were made by a forty-five. These were a thirty-eight.” He sighed. “There’s something else. The first impression, when you see the car—it looks like a gangland shooting, a hit, what they used to call a cowboy.”

Dehan nodded. “That was my impression.”

He shook his head. “But I am pretty sure it was not. In a hit of that sort, at point blank range, you tend to have a grouping of shots around the vital areas, head and heart. Even without thinking about it, somebody who is used to using a gun points it where they want the bullet to go. But here…” He shook his head again. “Especially if you factor in the two shots that hit Luis, those rounds were flying all over the place. You have one in the upper arm, one through the sternum, and one in the lower, left lung, then one in the temple and the other through the back of the cranium. Meanwhile, two have missed Sebastian completely and hit Luis, one in the lower left lung, and the other in the left shoulder. The shots were erratic, and that means something…”

Dehan said what it meant: “He wasn’t used to using a gun. The recoil was making it jump. And it’s only a .38…”

Frank nodded at her. “Exactly. Whoever shot these boys was not used to using a gun.”

Dehan gave me her ‘told you so’ face. I ignored it and asked Frank, “Any news on Luis?”

His answer was dry, carefully unemotional. “He’s in a coma. He lost a lot of blood.” He hesitated a moment, frowning down at Sebastian. “I have taken this very personally, John. I liked these boys, they were friends. I had high hopes for both of them, but especially Sebastian. He was a very committed young man, he should have a had a full and rewarding