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

“Just, when you find him, let the relevant authorities know. You understand me?” He grinned. “Just do your job, Detectives, and we will take care of everything else.”

Four

We were driven back to the airfield and landed back in LaGuardia by three in the afternoon. We didn’t talk much. Dehan was not exactly a chatterbox at the best of times, but on the flight back from Port Lavaca, she was more withdrawn than usual. I gave her her space and snatched a couple of hours’ sleep.

It was hot and humid as we crossed the parking lot. I opened the doors of the Jag, and we sat for a while letting it cool down. I pulled out my cell and called my contact at the bureau. We weren’t exactly friends, but we’d built up a good professional relationship over the years. I put it on speaker, placed it on the dash, and closed the door, indicating with my head that Dehan should do the same.

“John, how’s it going my friend? What can I do for you?”

“Bernie, I have a request. It’s a little sensitive and requires some discretion.”

“Name it. If I can do it, I will. You know that.”

“I need to find a retired NYPD detective. Until now there has been no indication of foul play, but certain facts are emerging in relation to a cold case, and I am beginning to wonder.”

“What’s his name?”

“Michael Harragan, from the 43rd precinct. Took early retirement about ten years ago.”

“No problem, I’ll sniff around. You can’t check this through your commander or your own files?”

“Like I said, Bernie, it’s sensitive.”

“Oh…” He was silent for a moment. “Anything we should know about?”

“I don’t know yet. But if it starts to look that way, you’ll be the first to know.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

I hung up. “I don’t need to tell you, not a word to the captain.”

Dehan’s voice was as tense as a bowstring. “You think he’s dead?”

I turned to look at her, but her face didn’t tell me a thing. I shook my head. “I don’t know what I think right now. But that slippery son of a bitch? I doubt it. My bet is he’s living large in Mexico or Brazil on the money he skimmed off the rackets in the Bronx.”

“If the Mob haven’t found him in ten years, he must be pretty good at covering his tracks. What if the bureau can’t help us?”

I nodded that I knew and said, “He had a partner, kind of weak, did what he was told. Loud mouth when Mick was around but kept to himself when he wasn’t…”

Dehan spoke in a flat voice. “His name is Jim Kirkpatrick. Everybody called him Kirk.”

I stared at the cars in the lot for a long while. Then I put my cell in my pocket and fired up the engine. As I headed toward the Grand Central Parkway, I said, “Don’t you think it’s time you told me?”

She shrugged and shook her head. “There’s nothing to tell, Stone. My dad was Jewish. He was disowned by his family for marrying a Latina. My mom was Mexican. One of his uncles felt bad for him and gave him some money to start a business. So they set up a small café together on Garrison Avenue, near the corner of Faile.”

She was quiet for a while, watching the traffic through the window. After a moment, she smiled. It was a nice smile, unmarred by cynicism or sarcasm. “They were nice people, gregarious, outgoing, noisy, fun-loving, totally in love with each other. So they attracted a lot of customers. They made a go of it.”

“What happened?”

“I was fourteen. Nelson and his boys came looking for protection. They said Mom was a Latina and she owed them loyalty. My dad told them where to go. They said they’d be back. He called the cops, and Mick Harragan came round with his pal Kirk. He told my dad community relations were a very delicate balance in a neighborhood like the Bronx. That a Jew ‘shacking up’ with a Christian, and a Catholic at that, was the kind of thing that could upset a lot of people. He said my dad was lucky to be accepted as well as he was, and in order to avoid things getting ugly, the best thing he could do was pay up and keep his mouth shut.”

“So you have a personal issue with Mick.”

She shook her head. “No. It is what it is. Shit happens, and other inspiring clichés. There will always be sons of bitches like Mick in every profession. I joined the force because one day a good, decent couple like my parents will call the cops for help, and they’ll get me instead of that asshole. But I have no personal issue with Mick. He’s in the past.”

I glanced at her. She was as expressionless as ever. I said, “If there is more to it than that, I need to know.”

“So you can take me off the case?”

“No. So I can be aware of it.”

“There is no more to it than that. I moved on.” Then she added, with a twist of lemon, “I’m good at moving on.”

As we stepped into the precinct, she said, “You want me to check the databases for Kirkpatrick?”

I nodded. “Yeah. You hungry?” Neither of us had eaten on the flight. She said she was, and I took a walk down to the deli on the corner. When I got back, she had her ass on the hood of my car. I walked up to her and gave her her sandwich. I said, “You already knew where he lived, didn’t you, Carmen?”

She shook her head. “No. It was easy to find. You want to go now, or eat first?”

“I can eat and drive at