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

She had two. One was a smart outfit on Riverside Drive, on the Upper West side in Manhattan. She wasn’t so keen on that one. She thought the ‘green’ aspect with them was more for show. Then there was another one in Brooklyn that she was more hopeful about.”

Dehan pulled a pen and notepad from her pocket. “Can you give us their addresses?” She wrote them down, then asked, “And were these both on the same day?”

“No, she wanted to spend a couple of days in New York. So she stayed with a friend.”

Dehan stared at her a moment, waiting.

“Oh, um, Pam, Pam lived with her parents, Jason and Stella, give me a second and I’ll remember. “Hermany Avenue, Twenty-two twenty, in the Bronx…”

I nodded and smiled. “I know it. It’s not far from our precinct.”

The words hung in the air like a bad omen. Outside the birds were still singing and the sun was still shining, but inside Mrs. Clemente had gone very still and very quiet, staring at me, taking in the significance of my words. Dehan was staring at me too.

I looked at her. “It runs into Zerega Avenue. Two hundred and twenty-two, would be about half a mile from the Fedex depot.”

Mrs. Clemente asked in a dead voice, “What does that mean?”

I took a deep breath. “I’m not sure yet, Mrs. Clemente. Is that a photo of Rosario on the piano?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

“May I have a look at it?”

She stood and walked quickly to the baby grand, picked up the picture in both hands and brought it back, clasped to her bosom. Dehan got up and sat next to me on the sofa. Mrs. Clemente sat on the other side and handed me the picture. We all three stared at it together. The girl in it was beautiful. It was a graduation photo. She had her cap and gown on, and she was smiling into the camera. Her hair was black and her eyes were large, dark and humorous, like her mother’s. She was full of life and enthusiasm, and dreams and hopes, but she wasn’t Angel.

“This is not the girl we’ve found, Mrs. Clemente.”

“Not…? But the girl you found, is she alive…?”

I shook my head. “No. The girl we found was murdered, two years ago.”

“At the same time that Rosario was in New York?”

“About half a mile away from where she was staying.”

“Oh, Dios Santo…!”

Dehan reached over and took her hand. “Mrs. Clemente, why was Rosario reported missing here instead of New York?”

“Because she left Pamela’s house on Saturday morning, on her way home. Pamela left her at the bus station. She saw her get on the bus. Rosario was a very impulsive, spontaneous, independent girl. That’s the way I brought her up. It’s the way my parents brought me up too. I always thought maybe she got off somewhere on the way, to look at the sea or whatever. But she would have called, and by Saturday night I was worried. I called the cops, and by the time I filed the report it was, I guess, one o’clock on Sunday morning.”

“So the report was filed here.”

She nodded. “You think there may be a connection?”

I sighed. “It’s impossible to say at this stage, Mrs. Clemente. Over fifty percent of the population of the Bronx is Hispanic, about half of them are women…” I shrugged. “What look to us like parallels may just be statistical facts. Let’s not jump to conclusions just yet. We will look into this, we’ll talk to Pamela and if you’ll give us permission to check her bank and phone records we’ll try and build a picture of what happened on Friday and Saturday.”

She nodded. “Of course.” She fought to control the tears, frowning as though trying to make sense out of what was inherently absurd and cruel. “She is dead, isn’t she?”

I held her eye and felt momentarily exhausted. “I wish I could answer that for you, Mrs. Clemente. I honestly don’t know.”

“The not knowing is almost worse… May God forgive me.”

I nodded. “I know. We’ll be in touch as soon as we have any news. Is there somebody you can call on? Today is going to be tough. You’ll be remembering…”

She echoed my nod. “You’re kind. I have my work. Tonight I’ll go and dine with my parents. We’ll get through it together.”

I smiled and patted her hand. “Sure. Feel free to call us any time.”

Dehan took a photograph of the picture with her phone and we stood. I hesitated a moment, then asked, “There is one thing, Mrs. Clemente. Have you anything—a lock of hair…”

She closed her eyes. “DNA…”

“Yes. Just…” I trailed off.

She turned and went to a dresser. There she opened a drawer and took out a small tin. She brought it over and handed it to me. “It’s her first milk tooth. When you’re done with it…”

“We’ll bring it back to you.”

Dehan gave her two kisses on the cheek and they hugged like they were family or old friends, then she showed us to the door and we made our way to the Jag, sitting old, sober and burgundy in the May sunshine. I climbed in behind the wheel and watched Mrs. Clemente close the door. Dehan climbed in beside me.

“Is there any worthwhile profession,” I asked the world at large, and Dehan in particular, “that does not involve dealing with human tragedy?”

“Lots, geology, physics, architecture… Stone?”

I turned to face her. “Yeah…”

“How much of your life have you not told me about?”

I grimaced and nodded a lot. “Why?”

“The way you talked to her. She said that the not knowing was worse than knowing…” She frowned and shook her head. “You said you knew. Sure, we’re cops. All cops know that’s true. But the way you