Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #3: Books 9-12 (A Dead Cold Box Set), Blake Banner [reading in the dark TXT] 📗

to conceal the gray streaks in her black hair, which she had cut short. She was dressed in black Levis and a denim shirt, and had a single string of pearls around her neck which she fingered as she looked at us without speaking.

I said, “Mrs. Clemente?”

“Yes. Are you the detectives from New York?”

I nodded and showed her my badge. “I am Detective John Stone. This is my partner, Detective Carmen Dehan. May we come in?”

“Of course.” She stepped back, holding the door. “Do you know something about Rosario?”

There was a hint of Latino in her accent, but it was more generic, cultured East Coast. Dehan said, “We don’t know yet, Mrs. Clemente. That’s what we hope you will help us find out.”

She led us through a hall to a large, comfortable living room with dark wood floors, and two open sash windows set into a bow, overlooking Crowley Avenue. There were bookcases floor to ceiling in the alcoves on either side of an iron fireplace; and the occasional tables that flanked the old leather chairs and sofas all held large, interesting lamps—and more books: some open, all with bookmarkers in them. I noticed a couple were on architecture.

To the left of the door the room opened out to a set of French doors that gave onto a broad lawn. At the end of the lawn I could see the church. In front of the French doors there was a baby grand piano, and on it a photograph. I wondered if it was Rosario. Mrs. Clemente was gesturing us to sit, and saying, “Will you have some coffee?”

I shook my head as I sat on the sofa. “No, thank you. We won’t keep you long.” She  sat in the chair next to me, staring intently at my face. I said, “I realize you must have been through all this before, but it would be very helpful if you could tell us about Rosario, and the last time you saw her.”

She sank back in the chair, her eyes abstracted. Outside the sun was bright and I could hear busy birdsong, but inside it was shaded and still.

She took a deep breath. “I raised Rosario alone. I was young when I had her. She was…” she made an expressive face, “…a mistake! But she was the best mistake I ever made!” She laughed. “Bobby—that’s her father—he was hot, you know?” She smiled at Dehan. “But I didn’t want to marry him! Hell! I didn’t want to have kids with him! We were at college, he was planning a career and so was I. But God decided he wanted me to have Rosario, so he busted the rubber and next thing I know I’m pregnant.”

He laughter was infectious. She flapped a hand at me. “You have to forgive me. I talk plain. I always have. It’s got me into trouble sometimes, but hey! That’s me. Anyway, Bobby panicked and ran, but my parents were fantastic and they helped me. Rosario grew up in a real close, loving family and...”

She paused and suddenly her eyes were flooded with tears. She bit her lip and stared at me, with her head on one side, like she was begging me not to give her the news she feared I had brought.

Dehan said, “You had a good relationship with her.”

She nodded, took another deep breath to steady herself. “Very good. People joked we were more like sisters than mother and daughter.” She smiled and shook her head. “But it’s not true. I was her mamma. And she is my little girl.”

I leaned forward with my elbows on my knees. “Can you tell me about the last time you saw her?”

She gazed over at the open window with the fingers of her right hand resting on her pearls. “She had only recently graduated. She was clever, a real good student.” She glanced at Dehan, like she felt they would share some kind of understanding about that. “She did architecture, like me. But she was interested in green, sustainable bio-architecture. It’s a whole new field.” She laughed again. “When I was a student we built things! Now they integrate materials!” She nodded, as though agreeing with some internal dialogue she had going on. “She was good, real good. So she got some interviews in New York…”

She shifted in her chair and frowned at me. “She applied only to small firms that were specializing in sustainable, eco-architecture. She didn’t care about money. What she wanted to do was develop skills she could take to the third world, because she believed a new model of sustainable economy would be born out there, like she said, from the roots up.”

She took a big breath.

Dehan said, “She was an idealist.”

Mrs. Clemente put a lopsided smile on her face and nodded. “She said she was a practical idealist. However, life teaches us there is no such thing. She was naïve.” She shrugged. “But thank God for naïve people, right? Because they are the ones who do worthwhile things in this world. Pragmatists maintain the status quo. Dreams shake things up.”

I gave a small laugh. “Maybe you have something there, Mrs. Clemente. She got some interviews in New York?”

“Yeah,” She reached out and touched my foot. “I’m sorry. It’s so nice to talk about her. All my friends are terrified of talking about her in case I cry. But it’s a…” She shook her head and leaned forward towards Dehan. “It’s a fucking relief!” She threw her head back and laughed. “Excuse me, but it is such a fucking relief to talk about her and laugh about her and cry about her! Why not? God gave us tears for a reason, right? So…!” She made an eloquent gesture with her hands, like things were flying around her head. “I am all over the place today, thinking about her. You asked…?”

“Her interviews.”

“Right.