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

I turned it over a few times in my mind with my glass half way to my mouth. I spoke absently, half to myself, “I want to talk to the first emergency responders, too. I’m interested in the wound. It might have more to tell us…”

Walking toward my house about half an hour later, through quiet, lamp-lit streets, Dehan said, “I guess, if either one of us was in a relationship, we couldn’t do this anymore, huh?”

I looked at her with big eyes. “Do what?”

“I mean, me stay over in your guestroom, have dinner and breakfast… A husband or a wife would make that kind of hard.”

I gave a small laugh. “Are you brooding, Dehan? What’s eating you today?”

“Nothing! I’m just wondering. Jeez… I’m Jewish already! We over think everything. It’s part of our purpose in the world. Other people don’t think enough, so we over think to compensate…”

“You’re babbling again.”

“We do that too.”

“Are you trying to tell me you met someone?”

“No!”

The expression of horror on her face made me laugh. “It’s okay if you did, it’s cool. Everything is cool.”

She spoke to her boots. “I just keep wondering why you haven’t.”

Things didn’t go exactly as planned the next morning. As I sat down behind my desk at eight AM, my phone rang.

“Stone.”

I saw Dehan roll her eyes and frown-shrugged ‘what?’ at her. She made a face like a gorilla answering the phone and mouthed, ‘Stone!’

I turned away because Reverend Paul Truelove was talking to me.

“Ah, Detective Stone, I am glad to catch you early. I was wondering if I might come in and have a chat with you.”

“Of course. What’s it about?”

“So, would half an hour suit you?”

“Just fine. See you then.”

Dehan was typing. She said, “Who?” to the screen.

“Reverend Truelove. Wants to have a chat in half an hour. He’s on his way already, apparently.”

She smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Hmmm…”

“What are you doing?”

She picked up her phone and dialed. “Insurance.” She stood up and walked away on very long, slim legs. I called Frank.

“Hey Frank, Stone here. How is it hanging?”

“Loose. What can I do for you?”

“5th September, 1999. Simon Martin. Stabbed through the sternum, twice, does that ring any bells?”

His laugh was mirthless. “You know how many stabbings we’ve had in the last eighteen years, Stone?”

“No. Can you look it up? Maybe even scare up the pathologist who did the report by this afternoon?”

“Yes, maybe, no. Yes, I can look it up. Maybe I can scare up the pathologist if he, she, or it is still in a condition to be scared. No, I can’t do it by this afternoon. I’ll call you when I have looked into it.”

“I appreciate it.”

“No, you don’t. You take me for granted.”

“You’re right. I do, I’m sorry.”

He hung up.

Dehan was strolling back across the room, listening carefully to her cell. She spoke briefly, giving her email address. Then, she sat, hung up, and reached behind her head to tie her hair in a knot at the back of her neck.

“He had two insurance policies. The first covered the mortgage on the house in the event of his death. Which means that she basically got the house without having to pay for it. The second gave her an income for life of five thousand dollars a month; so sixty grand a year.”

“Holy cow. That’s like having a million bucks in the bank and living off the interest.”

She leaned back in her chair and picked up a pencil, which she put in her mouth as though it were a cheroot. “I have a perfect life. The only problem is, this pain in the ass of a husband who keeps pissing on my parade. Now, to make matters worse, he has taken out two insurance policies that make him totally redundant.”

I thought for a moment and wagged a finger at her. “We need to take a closer look at the nature of those bruises. Frank is looking up the case. He’s going to get back to me.” I checked my watch. “Let’s grab some coffee before the reverend gets here.”

Four

Reverend Truelove arrived on time and was shown into interview room number three. That seemed to surprise him. As we sat down opposite, he smiled nervously at both of us.

“It feels as though I am being interrogated.” Then, he laughed like he was inviting us to tell him he was being ridiculous.

I gave him a second and said, in a neutral voice, “It’s just a little more private than the main lounge.”

“Of course.”

Dehan leaned her elbows on the table. “So what did you want to tell us, Reverend?”

He laid his hands flat on the table and spread his fingers, looking at them like he was counting how many he had. He spoke carefully. “It is about where I was that evening, the evening of the murder, I mean.”

“You said you didn’t remember.”

He raised his eyes and spoke to me, even though it was Dehan who’d made the comment. “The question took me somewhat by surprise. But reflecting afterwards, I recalled, of course, I had been to dinner with friends. Which was why I could not be there for poor Sylvie that night.”

Dehan reclaimed his attention. “Do you mind telling us who those friends where?”

“No, of course not. I was dining with the Cavendishes, at their home in Eastchester Bay. I did not get home till gone midnight, and went straight to bed.”

I said, “You understand we will have to check with them. It’s not that we don’t believe you.” I smiled. “It’s just that we are obliged to check.”

“Naturally, Detective. I don’t expect to be treated differently than anybody else.”