Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #4: Books 13-16 (A Dead Cold Box Set), Blake Banner [story read aloud .txt] 📗

red brick construction with four sash windows on the upper floor and four concrete steps behind an iron railing and gate leading up to a white front door.

Dehan went in ahead of me and rang the bell, but by that time we could already hear the shouting inside. She had to ring three times and eventually hammer on the wood before thumping feet approached and the door was wrenched open. The guy who wrenched it open was probably twenty-five with expensively cut blond hair, pale blue eyes and a face that was cruelly handsome. He was slim, in Levi jeans and a Columbia University sweatshirt. His eyes flicked over Dehan, then over me, and he said, “What?”

She showed him her badge and I showed him mine.

“I’m Detective Carmen Dehan. This is my partner, Detective John Stone. Are you Chad Norris?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“We’d like to talk to you about Celeste Reynolds.”

He gave a small sigh through his nose. He gazed at the wall, chewing his lip, then he stared at the corner of the door. He put his hands on his hips and stepped away from us, then turned back. “You know, I’m just wondering,” he said, “what could you do—no, seriously—what could you do to make my day any fucking worse? No, I mean it, go ahead, do it! I mean, my roommate just broke my damned television! I tell him to leave and he starts crying like a fucking girl!” He stared up the stairs, as though he wanted to see if his roommate could hear him. “Can you hear me? You fucking pussy!”

I said, “Mr. Norris, unfortunately, we haven’t got time to wait for you to grow up. If you can’t talk to us now, then perhaps you could come down to the station, but one way or another, we need to talk to you.”

He came down the stairs again and walked toward us, jerking out his knees and blinking. “I’m sorry. You haven’t got time for what?”

I watched him with interest.

He said again, “You haven’t got time for what?”

Dehan looked up at me. “Would you say his manner was threatening, Stone? He looks out of control to me.” Before I could answer, she had turned back to him. “Sir, have you been consuming drugs or alcohol? Have you got drugs or alcohol on the premises? You seem to me to be out of control and somewhat threatening in your manner.”

Suddenly, Chad Norris was smiling. His hands were up and he was laughing “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Take it easy there, tiger! OK, OK, why don’t we start again without the attitude. I was mad. I apologize. I was certainly not threatening you in any way!” With a touch of sarcasm, he gestured us inside with both hands, like a waiter guiding us to a table. “How about you come in, and, please, tell me how I can help you?”

I gave him a humorless smile. “Yeah, how about that?”

The house looked newly decorated. A broad, light hallway with polished, wooden floors was laid with a cream carpet that climbed a staircase to the upper floor. The banisters and the walls were also painted cream, and on the left a bare pine door stood open onto a room with white calico sofas and armchairs. Chad made for the stairs with an unpleasant smile on his face.

“Go right on in. I’ll be with you in a moment. I just need to deal with something upstairs.”

The room was dominated by a vast, black, flat-screen TV on a stand. Aside from the sofa and the chair, there was practically no furniture, except for a coffee table piled with magazines and books on law. French doors stood closed, spattered with rain in the failing light, offering a view of an unkempt backyard with an overgrown lawn. Pretty soon, we heard Chad’s voice hollering upstairs:

“You get the fuck out of my house! I don’t give a damn what you do. Just get out! You have fifteen minutes to get your shit together and get out!”

A door slammed and feet thumped down the stairs. Chad entered the room and stopped, smiling at us both in turn. “Sometimes you just have to tell it how it is. Then you feel better.” He gestured at the sofa with both hands. “Sit.”

He sat. Dehan sat in the corner of the sofa. I remained standing by the French doors.

“You want to talk to me about Celeste.”

Dehan answered, “We’re from the cold cases unit at the 43rd.”

“You guys have one of those? I thought that was just on TV.” His smile was amiable, but there was no hiding the sarcasm in his eyes. Dehan carried on as though he hadn’t spoken.

“We’re reviewing Celeste’s case, and we understand that you two were pretty close.”

He nodded at her, still smiling amiably. “What of it?”

Dehan raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? ‘What of it?’ That’s your reply?”

He gave a small laugh. “Forgive me, perhaps it’s all the browbeating we get at Columbia: ‘Be precise! Be precise! What, exactly are you saying?’ But I am not clear exactly what you are asking me. You are correct. Celeste and I were, at one time, close.”

Dehan sat forward with her elbows on her knees and took a moment to study the backs of her fingers. “I hadn’t gotten around to asking you any questions yet, Chad, but when I do, I promise you they will be very precise.” Now she raised her eyes to meet his. “Working on the assumption that you want us to find your girlfriend’s killer, I was inviting you to engage with us and share information.”

“Oh, well, now, see, she wasn’t exactly my girlfriend. We were more like friends with benefits.”

“Not much of a benefit to her.”

He shrugged and spread his hands. “What do you want me to say? Her getting killed had nothing to