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

the team and the ME. You need to leave here at four thirty or you’re going to hit the rush hour. You haven’t got long. I’ll be at the briefing before you go.”

“Okay.” I turned to go.

As I reached the door, she said, “Stone?”

I stopped. “Yeah?”

“Be careful, baby.”

“Take a hike.”

I glanced at my watch as I climbed in my car. It was almost half one. I drove fast back to the precinct and sprinted up the stairs to the captain’s office. I knocked and went in without waiting for a reply. He looked up at me and removed his reading glasses in a way that said he was being patient because I was usually worth it.

I sat without being invited to do so.

“Captain, I need a wire and I need two cars out at Napeague Park. I also need the harbor patrol alerted, and I need it all in place by tonight at eight o’clock.”

He heaved a big sigh. “It’s never a simple arrest with you, is it, Stone?”

I shrugged. “Cold cases are cold because they are not simple, sir.”

He nodded. It was a reluctant nod. “Okay, Stone, run me through it.”

Dehan got back at three. I was fitted with the wire and tested, and then we had the briefing with the two backup teams. One would be concealed off Dunes Lane, two hundred yards from the house. The other would be off the Montauk Highway. Both vehicles would be unmarked off-road SUVs capable of driving over dunes. Additionally, the harbor patrol had agreed to dispatch a launch to that area of the beach. Nobody was getting away from me that night.

At three forty-five, Dehan and the backup cars set off to take up their positions as inconspicuously as possible. I watched them leave and climbed into my Jag. As I put the key in the ignition, my cell rang. The caller ID was withheld.

“Detective Stone.”

“Detective Stone, it is a pleasure to speak to you.” If voices had colors, this one would have been green and slimy. “My name is Geronimo dos Santos. We are due to meet later this evening. I wonder if we could have a little, private chat beforehand.”

“What’s on your mind?”

He laughed like I was not so much funny, as amusing. “Not over the phone, my dear fellow. No, come and see me at my hotel. We will have a civilized drink and a chat, and then we can each make our way to the meeting with Emma, at the beach house.”

“Give me one good reason why I should.”

He was silent for a moment. When he spoke, you could tell he was smiling. He still found me amusing. “Let us say that there are things about our hostess that you should know, before you commit yourself to this negotiation on her behalf. All you need to do, Detective, is listen to me. If you find I do not convince you, then we proceed as arranged. What have you to lose?”

I thought about it for a moment. “Where are you?”

“At the Plaza, on Fifth Avenue, in the Royal Suite.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

I headed for the Bruckner Expressway and called Dehan as I went.

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Dos Santos just called me.”

“He did?”

“Yeah. He wants a meeting before the meeting. I’m going to see him at the Plaza.”

“What do you want us to do?”

“Go ahead as planned. I’ll keep you posted if anything changes.”

“Okay.”

I parked on West 58th and made my way on foot to the Grand Army Plaza. When I asked the receptionist how to get to the Royal Suite, he raised a skeptical eyebrow at me that was rich with pseudo-nineteenth-century grandeur.

“Are you Detective Stone?” He asked it in a generic French accent.

“Yeah.”

“’E is expecting you.”

He directed me toward the elevators. I rode up to the suite, wondering why all hotel receptionists pretended to be French.

The door to the Royal Suite was opened by something an anthropologist would have wanted to preserve and study. He was dressed in an Italian suit, but you could tell he missed his furs.

“Stone. I’m here to see dos Santos.”

He would have frowned, only that’s hard to do with only one eyebrow. He jerked his head, indicating I should come in, and led the way to a room that looked like a set from Downton Abbey. Geronimo dos Santos was fat. He had enough chins for a large family. He was sitting at a dark mahogany dining table that Emma would have approved of, with a bottle of champagne in a silver ice bucket by his side. He had a plate and a silver bowl in front of him, and he was stuffing his face with caviar and crackers. He glanced at me as I came in but didn’t say anything.

Ape Man pulled out a chair for me and indicated with his hand that I should sit. Speaking was obviously not the big thing around here. I was about to tell dos Santos I was short of time when he spoke suddenly.

“Some people,” he said, “believe it should be eaten with vodka. But in my opinion, those people are brutish. Caviar has a rich spectrum of subtle flavors. Vodka numbs our palate, so we perceive only a fraction of those delicate tones. No.” He shook his head. “We want the clean, delicate flavors of a Krug Clos d’Ambonnay, to sensitize our palate to receive the exquisite taste of the roe.”

“Spare me your bullshit, dos Santos. What do you want?”

He looked at me with distaste, like I was spoiling his lunch by wearing the wrong aftershave.

“You have somewhere else to be, Detective?”

“Yeah, and you have five seconds to start saying something I find interesting. If you don’t, this interview is over.”

He sighed and reached for the bottle.