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

what, would make Sylvie Martin not tell us about her son? And what the hell would make the reverend not mention it either? This is a conspiracy of silence. There is no two ways about it.”

I nodded. “I agree. It just isn’t conceivable. You do not simply omit to mention something like this.” I frowned. “Why the hell wasn’t it flagged and cross-referenced?”

Frank shrugged. “For us it was. But you’re talking about an eighteen-year-old cold case and from the Bronx, what’s more. Computerizing and cross-referencing requires money and manpower, two commodities I’m guessing the 43rd is short on.”

I made to stand. “You got that right, Frank.” I paused. “The weapon the boy was killed with…”

“My best guess, a large kitchen knife. One down from the cleaver with a very solid blade, and very, very sharp.”

Back at the station, I dug out the Jacob Martin file and set about studying it, while Dehan started plowing through burglaries in the East Bronx area during the last six months of 1999, a task which gave a whole new meaning to the phrase, ‘can’t see the wood for the trees.’

Jacob had been almost fifteen and a half when he was killed. He’d been found by his mother, lying at the bottom of the stairs, in a similar position to that of her husband. On where her husband had been stabbed twice, Jacob’s chest was riddled with deep stab wounds. He’d had several fractured ribs, a broken wrist, multiple bruises, and a broken neck. The number of injuries, and the degree of severity, were consistent with having been propelled down the stairs with some serious force.

The murder weapon was not found, despite a search of the house, the garden, and the gardens and trash cans of the neighborhood. There was no knife missing from the Martins’ block, and lab analysis of the knives in the block revealed no blood residue—other than pork and beef.

As before, the locks had not been forced. Sylvie and Mary had been at a church fête at the time, and Sylvie had found Jacob’s body on returning home. The date of the murder had been the fifth of September, 2015.

It could not be a coincidence.

I threw the file on the desk and went to get coffee. I felt unreasonably angry. Half way there, I turned back and walked up to Dehan, who was engrossed in her laptop and making notes on a pad.

“You want coffee?”

“Thanks.”

I stalked back to the machine and got two cups of the oh so lovely black liquid. I carried them back and put one next to her.

“You’re not going to find anything. It’s a pointless exercise. There is no way these two murders are a coincidence.”

“Mm-hm.”

“You know what date he was killed?”

She glanced at me, said nothing, and carried on making notes.

“Fifth of September.”

“Huh!”

I sighed and rubbed my face. I looked at her and noticed she had tied her hair in a knot behind her head, then wondered why I would notice that. It made her neck look nice. I sighed.

“You seeing your uncle again tonight?”

She narrowed her eyes at me and carried on making notes.

I persisted, trying to talk the irritation I was feeling out of my system. “You want to come over? We’ll throw some steaks on the barbeque and see if we can work this damn thing out.”

“I can’t.”

I nodded. “Oh. What’s stopping you?”

“My uncle. He wants me to go over and visit.”

“Cool. Good. Enjoy. How you getting on?”

She ignored me for three or four minutes, then flopped back in her chair and picked up her notebook.

“Okay, this was like looking for a very particular piece of hay in a haystack. But I managed to sift and filter out the irrelevant and came up with this, which might be significant.”

“Hit me with it.”

“Mention my uncle again and I might.” She glared at me for a second and continued. “Okay, so in the period January to December, 1999, we have a spate of burglaries in the area between Bronxdale Avenue in the west, Lurting Avenue in the east, Van Nest in the north and Sacket in the south…”

“East Bronx.”

“Pretty much.”

I shrugged. “But we get that every year. It’s called living in the Bronx.”

“Shut up, don’t be a smart ass right now.”

“Okay.”

“The particular burglaries I am talking about were all confessed to by one guy. His thefts were always pretty neat. He was a locksmith. He would pick the locks, leaving practically no trace. He would choose times when there is nobody at home and leaves no trace of his having been there, except a couple of times he left the back door open, probably because he left in a hurry and didn’t want to make a noise.” She raised a finger to stop me talking. “Now, interesting point is, there are no reported cases of violence in any of these burglaries. Except, he was caught because in the last case, the house owner came home early. Our guy attacked him with a knife, but the owner was a huge guy and a martial arts instructor, so he absolutely decked him. Our boy is Julio Beltran, El Chato, who, though never convicted, is suspected of several crimes involving violence and knife attacks. He is a known member of the Sureños.”

She dropped the pad on the desk and studied my face. I shook my head. “What would make Sylvie Martin lie to conceal El Chato’s identity? It doesn’t make any sense. Where is he now?”

“He did time. Now he seems to be going straight. Runs his own business, Key Solutions, a locksmith shop, surprisingly enough.”

“Was he out two years ago?”

She nodded. “Yup.”

I scowled and said, “Great!”

She made a face of reluctance. “I’m sorry.”

I laughed without mirth. “It’s not your fault.”

“No. I mean