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

She thought for maybe three seconds before saying, “The captain.”

“Back then, Detective Cuevas, his partner.”

“We know he had a taste for Latina women.” We sat on a bench and stared out at the trees and the grass. She exploded suddenly, “That bitch is hiding the motherfucker!”

“Little grasshopper, if the strength of your determination to hit the bull’s eye makes you jump up and down and stamp your feet, your aim will become faulty and you will miss the target.”

I looked at her. She looked back. “Fuck you. What would you know? You’re blind anyway!” She leaned back, raised her face to the sun, and rubbed it with her palms. Then she said, “Okay, Stone, point taken.”

I sighed. “But I kind of agree with you. I might express it differently, though.”

“How would you express it, Sensei?”

“There is a link between Mick, Maria, and Jennifer that we are not seeing.”

“Oh, very good!”

I gave her a withering look that she didn’t see because she had her eyes closed and her face turned up to the sun again. “And we are more likely to find that link by asking focused questions, rather than by making wild statements we cannot substantiate.”

“Like?”

“Like, your theory is that the only gunmen we have left are the Sureños…”

She sat up. “Yes. Everybody else was busy. And they had motive, maybe the best motive.”

“So we need to find out who the Sureños muscle was back in 2007. Which means we need to go back to putting pressure on José and his mom.”

She nodded as though she wasn’t really listening.

“Here’s another question for you. What would make Jennifer go back with Mick, drink tequila with him in the small hours of the morning, and then go home while he disappears?”

“That is a damn good question.” I turned to face her. “I’d go so far as to say, answer that, and you answer everything.”

Back at the precinct, Dehan set about finding out who were the enforcers for the Sureños back in 2007. Meanwhile I tracked down Mick’s address. He had a small rented house on Longfellow Avenue, near Crotana Park. Half an hour on the phone get me the Realtor who let it to him. It turned out he’d only been renting it for a year. Before that he’d had his own house, which he’d sold through the same realtor.

“I know it was a long time ago, but would you have any record of a forwarding address after he left?”

The guy seemed eager to please and said that if he left one, they’d still have it. He went away and came back two minutes later saying that Mick Harragan had not left a forwarding address. In fact, he’d left without letting them know he was going.

I thanked him, hung up, and stepped outside to phone Bernie on my cell.

“John, I was about to call you.”

“Before you do, Bernie, do something for me. In 2006, Mick Harragan…”

“The same Mick Harragan…”

“The very same. In 2006, he sold his house. I need to know where the money went.”

He was quiet for a moment. “That’s a tall order, John.”

“Yeah, I know. But it could involve police corruption, the Triads, the New Jersey Mob, and the Sureños, as well as five unsolved murders and a disappearance.”

“For real?”

“For real.”

“Okay, I’ll call in some favors. By the way, there isn’t a trace of this guy anywhere.”

“I know, Bernie. He seems to have vanished off the face of the Earth.”

“Okay, I’ll get back to you ASAP.”

As I hung up, I heard a piercing whistle. I turned and saw Dehan walking toward me from the precinct entrance. I was surprised at how graceful her walk was. As she came close, she said, “José just called. His mom wants us to go see her.”

I frowned. “She wants us to go to her house? Does she know how risky that is for her?”

“I told him that. She says she doesn’t care, neither does he.”

“Okay, let’s go.”

She had a small apartment on the second floor of a rundown house on Manida Street, a few blocks from where Nelson had been shot. There was no elevator, so we climbed the stairs, stepping over kids who were smoking dope and talking about the whores on Lafayette. They went quiet as we passed them, and watched us with predatory eyes. I hammered loud on José’s door and shouted, “Open up! Police!”

A pretty woman in her late fifties opened the door holding a tea towel. She looked alarmed. Before she could say anything, I barked at her, “Is José here? Don’t lie to me, Mrs. Garcia. Let me in to talk to him and we’ll avoid any trouble.”

I pushed past her without waiting for an invitation. Dehan stepped in and closed the door.

The woman was shaking her head, saying, “No hace falta…”

José was standing in his bedroom doorway, looking sad. “She said it’s not necessary to come barging in. She invited you.”

I turned to her, sharing José’s sadness. “Do you speak English?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t want a reputation for cooperating with the cops, Mrs. Garcia. It’s easier for you if they think I’m bullying you.”

She shook her head and said, “And so it goes on? Forever?”

For a moment, I saw in her what other men must have seen in Maria, a goodness, a righteousness that was almost primal, and I understood what they must have felt. I smiled. “Let’s just try to avoid anybody else getting hurt.”

She sighed and pointed at the small sitting room. We followed her in and sat. “Are you still in contact with Maria?” I asked.

She was shaking her head before I had finished. Her eyes were wise with a wisdom born of pain and patience. She said, “Do you think she is still alive?”

I hadn’t