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

dry, but there was an abundance of trees, and I guessed that during the rainy season it was probably green and fertile. Dehan was quiet for a while, but after ten minutes she asked, “What are you thinking? You have the answer, don’t you?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“You’re lying.”

“I know.” She looked at me. “Just give me a day. Humor me. I’m not sure.”

“So what are we doing? We know he was here. We know Maria was with him. We know she was with him voluntarily…”

“Maybe.”

“What do you mean, maybe? She could have left and she didn’t.”

I sucked my teeth. “Maybe.”

She stared ahead through the windshield at the long straight road and said in an exasperated voice, “Will you at least tell me what we’re doing here?”

I nodded. “Yeah. We’re looking for a Red 1969 Ford Mustang Mach 1, V8.”

She didn’t react for a bit. Then she turned and stared at me, and I could see the flat Texas morning landscape starkly reflected in her aviators.

Eighteen

We forwent the Irish Inn and the Blarney Inn and plumbed for the “retro-themed, modestly priced” Route 66. Perhaps it was the rebel in me. We booked two rooms next to each other, and after we’d showered and changed our clothes, I called Dehan in and made a plan. She sat cross-legged on my bed.

“I want to know what kept Maria with Mick. I want to know why she didn’t run or appeal to the sheriff for help. So what I want you to do is go to the places she might have gone to. Start at the hotel. See if anybody remembers her. As far as it’s possible, we need a record of her movements that day, up until Mick came back from the sheriff’s and they left.”

She winced. “That was ten years ago. You think people will remember?”

“I’m guessing not a lot happens in a town like this, Dehan. Anything a little out of the ordinary probably gets laid down in the town mythology.” I winked and said, “Ah sure, Paddy O’Flaherty’s probably written a ballad about it, sure he has!”

She had a way of making no expression really expressive, and she did that now.

“You realize that is really insulting and offensive to Irish people, right?”

I shrugged. “I’m a stereotypic dinosaur. We live up to our stereotypes. Now quit stalling and start walking.”

She didn’t move. She was a rebel, like me.

“What are you going to do?”

“Drive into the desert and commune with Brother Eagle.”

She sighed and left. She didn’t know my cousin’s great-grandfather once removed was one tenth Cherokee.

I looked briefly at a map. Route 83 took you pretty much in a straight line all the way to Mexico. So I got in my car and started driving south at a leisurely pace. It wasn’t really what you could call desert. It was hot and dry because of the time of year, but there were plenty of trees and waterways.

About four miles out of town, I came to a track on my right. It seemed to lead toward some dense woodland, so I turned into it. It wasn’t too rough, but I could tell the Jag wasn’t enjoying it all that much. I bumped along for a bit until I saw a big Dodge RAM rolling toward me. I stopped and got out to wait for it to arrive. It pulled up twenty feet in front of me, and a big man in his fifties got out and smiled at me.

“That’s a nice car you got there,” he said. “I’d like to ask you what it’s doing on my land.”

He wasn’t unfriendly. He was just to the point. I made a note in my mind not to question his Irishness. I smiled back and held out my hand. He shook it and I told him my name.

“I’m with the NYPD.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re an awful long way from home, Mr. Stone.”

I noticed he didn’t call me detective. I wasn’t a detective in his state.

“I’m here at the invitation of your sheriff. We’re looking for a couple of people who went missing ten years back.” I made a face like what I was saying wasn’t exactly accurate and added, “In fact, I’m looking for their car, which may have been dumped around these parts ten years ago. A ’69 Mustang Mach 1.”

He laughed. “I can tell you here and now I didn’t find it, or my wife would be driving it right now.” He shook his head and stood staring at the land around him, at the huge horizon. “No,” he said. “These lands south of Shamrock are well cared for, Mr. Stone. Car like that would’ve been found, and everybody would’ve heard about it. You’re looking in the wrong place.”

I nodded and thanked him and went to turn back to my car. He gave a small grunt of a laugh and pointed at the Jag. “You’re looking in the wrong place, with the wrong vehicle. You want something that’ll go off road.”

I smiled. “I’m a New Yorker. I don’t ride.”

“Not a horse. Get a truck. You can rent one over in Texola at Ted’s place, fourteen mile east back the way you came on I-40.”

I thought about it for a moment, and all of a sudden, ideas started to slot into place. “That makes sense.” Then, on an impulse: “Say, I’m guessing you know these parts pretty well. If you wanted to hide a car so nobody would find it, where would you put it?”

He crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. “Besides a lock-up? I wouldn’t bring it down here, down south. Like I said, these lands are worked and well tended.” He pulled a face. “I figure I’d take out west, toward Amarillo. Armstrong County, maybe Donley, south and west of Clarendon, to