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

“John, it’s John, here. The inspector.” He clarified that in case I thought I was phoning myself. “Sergeant Solano is at Fillmore’s last known address. The landlord says he hasn’t been at that apartment for about two years. Has no idea where he is now.”

“OK, thank you, sir. Any word from the lab?”

“Pete Henson just called. He’s sending in his preliminary results. He said Frank was about to call you about the girl.”

I put it on speaker and sat next to Dehan. “OK. What did Pete find?”

“He said there were prints on Angela’s bag and you had asked him to compare them to Wayne Harris’. John, they were not a match.”

Dehan looked into my face without expression. I said, “Did you tell him to compare them with Jimmy Fillmore’s?”

“Yes, and he is doing that now.”

“Good. What about the Jane Doe from this morning?”

“Frank is calling you about that now. Better you talk to him. Have you got Fillmore?”

I shook my head even though he couldn’t see me. I had just heard the bleep of the call waiting signal. “No, sir. He didn’t come in today. We need to put out an APB on him. I have Frank waiting. I’ll talk to you in a minute, sir.”

I hung up and immediately it started ringing again. I put it on speaker for Dehan’s benefit. “Frank. What have you got?”

“Let me just tell you these are results that would normally take weeks. You understand that. We are going flat out because of political pressure.”

“OK. What have you got?”

“The Victim was Noelia Gomez, aka Cherry Pie, known to work Lafayette at Hunts Point. That’s a little extra on the house, and you’re welcome. A preliminary examination of the body, and please remember I have only had it a few hours, indicates bruising to the face, particularly around the mouth, consistent with having been punched or slapped. Bruising to the arms consistent with having been gripped tightly, but no prints, so he must have been wearing gloves.”

“Size of his hands?”

“A large man as opposed to a small one, but impossible to be more precise than that, John.”

“OK, anything else?”

“Yes, of course, bruising from ligatures on the wrists and, as with Angela, extensive bruising and damage to the trachea from strangulation, most probably with the thumbs.”

I glanced at Dehan. “What about semen and DNA?”

“There were traces of semen in her vagina and also on her skirt…”

“Whereabouts on her skirt?”

Dehan frowned at me and I could hear in his voice that Frank was frowning too. “On the hem, at the back, where you would expect it to be if it ran out.”

“OK, have you had time to run it?”

“Of course not. It takes time to get a profile, John. You know that. But we are working through the night. We might have something by tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Frank. Stay in touch.”

“Yeah, I don’t stay in touch with my wife, but I should stay in touch with you.”

He hung up and I looked at Dehan. Her eyebrows were high on her brow but her eyes were narrowed at me.

“You knew.”

I nodded. “I told you.”

“What does it mean?”

“It means that we get something to eat and then we go soliciting ladies of the night. Or in this case, ladies of the late afternoon.”

“That’s it. That’s all you’re going to tell me…”

I gave her a smile that was somewhere between smug and complacent. “You know my methods. You know the facts.” I raised an eyebrow. “You and the inspector have underlined them to me often enough. You work it out.”

I stood and went to open the car door. She watched me over her shoulder, muttered an obscene suggestion that was anatomically impossible and got in the passenger side.

FIFTEEN

Zena looked as though she had achieved the anatomically impossible on at least one occasion and survived, at least physically, if not mentally, morally and spiritually, to tell the tale—on a dedicated phone line and for a modest fee. Dehan was in the back seat pretending not to sulk, and I was cruising slowly up Edgewater Road trying to look seedy. I like to think that is not easy in a burgundy, 1964 Jaguar Mk II. Zena was standing at the curb, watching me, chewing gum and looking both sulky and seedy in a black vinyl skirt. I slowed to a halt and leered at her. She gave me a chewing gum smile back. “Hey, handsome, nice car. Lookin’ for a party?”

“I am, and I think you’re just the party I’m looking for.”

She bent forward with her hands on her knees and gave a dirty little laugh. Then she caught site of Dehan in the back and said, “Three way is extra.”

I tried to look like I cared. “How much?”

She glanced at the car, figured it was expensive and said, “Hundred bucks?”

I grinned. “Call it two hundred and we’ll throw in some coke and some French champagne. Hop aboard, sweet cheeks.”

She giggled and ran coyly around the hood toward the passenger side. I heard Dehan from the shadows behind me saying, “Sweet cheeks? Seriously?”

Zena climbed in and closed the door. I pulled away and she turned to smile at Dehan. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Zena.”

I smiled at the road ahead and said, “Hi, Zena, I am Detective Stone and this is Detective Dehan. How are you doing today?”

She flopped back in her seat. “Mother fucker…!”

“Relax,” I said, “We’re not vice. We just want to talk to you about a friend of yours.”

“Yeah, like that’s gonna happen.”

Dehan shifted her position so she could see Zena’s face. “It’s going to happen, Zena, because this guy is wanted for murder, and his latest victim was a sex worker, just like you. Now, we happen to know