Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #1: Books 1-4 (A Dead Cold Box Set) by Blake Banner (top 5 ebook reader .txt) 📗

She shrugged. “They were probably there, but then, they are everywhere. It’s a bit early to say.”

I had pulled off onto East 163rd and was headed west toward Morrisiana.

“He won’t want to tell us who his client is, and he doesn’t have to. But he’s ready to trade something, or he wouldn’t have invited us to go see him.”

Ten minutes later, I pulled up across the road from the African hair stylist. The hot air as we climbed out of the Jag was like a furnace blast. We dodged through the traffic and buzzed at the door. The door opened and we stepped into the relative cool of the lobby. An old-fashioned elevator with concertina doors carried us to the fourth floor. Baxter’s was the second door down. It had a frosted glass pane with his name on it in gold letters, like in the movies. We knocked and went in. There was no gorgeous secretary, but I guess you can’t have everything.

He stood as we came in and approached us smiling, with his hand stuck out.

“Karl Baxter. Thanks so much for taking the trouble to come and see me.”

We shook and showed him our badges. He glanced at them as he ushered us toward two chairs across from his desk. He was no Philip Marlow or Sam Spade, more the Continental Op. He was short, maybe five five, with balding, black hair and horn-rimmed glasses. He was perspiring, his belly was becoming a paunch, and he hadn’t shaved that morning. He was nervous, too; of a nervous disposition.

We sat and declined coffee. There was a fan in the corner blowing warm air around the room and occasionally ruffling the papers on his desk. When he’d finally sat down, I smiled at him and asked, “Mr. Baxter, what is your interest in the Stephen Springfellow case?”

He hesitated a moment, like he had several lies lined up and hadn’t decided which one to use yet. In the end, he plumbed for, “As a matter of fact, I am writing a book on cold cases.”

Dehan raised an eyebrow. “You reckon you can get a whole paragraph out of that case?”

His cheeks colored. “It has some interesting features.”

“Like?”

He smiled nervously. He was obviously wishing he’d gone with one of his other lies. I offered him a tolerant smile.

“How about we start again, and this time you tell us the truth? I am not opposed in principle to letting you see the file, Mr. Baxter, but please, don’t insult our intelligence.” I shrugged. “And play ball with us; we’ll play back.”

He looked embarrassed. “I apologize. My client insists on the utmost discretion…”

“I understand. Can you tell us who your client is?”

“Out of the question.”

“What can you tell us?”

He sighed deeply and made a big show of looking reluctant. “You may not be aware of this, Detectives, but besides Springfellow and his killer, or killers, there was somebody else in the apartment.”

I looked skeptical and glanced at Dehan. She made a ‘yeah, right’ face. “What makes you say so?”

“If you examine the photographs—refer to the ones that were published in the press—you’ll see there is a patch of blood that does not belong to Springfellow.”

I shrugged. “So Springfellow cut one of his attackers before they subdued him and tied him to the chair.”

He smiled and blinked a few times. “No, Detective, there was somebody else in the room.”

“How do you know?”

“I am not at liberty to tell you that.”

Dehan sighed loudly and looked as though she was about to stand and leave. “You’re blowing smoke, Baxter. We’ve gone to the trouble of coming here, and we are willing to cooperate with you. But you’ve got to do better than, ‘there was somebody else in the room.’ That’s bullshit and you know it.”

I gave him a bland smile and said, “I might express myself differently, Baxter, but my sentiments are the same. You are wasting our time and your own.”

I made to stand.

“Wait.”

I paused and looked at him.

“I can tell you who was there.”

I sat. “You mean you know who the killer was?”

“No. I don’t. I mean I can tell you who else was there.”

“The other victim?”

“The other person who was present, besides Stephen Springfellow and his killers, was a woman. Her name was Tamara Gunthersen—Tammy. She disappeared and has never been seen or heard of again.”

“And this is who your client is looking for?”

“I am not at liberty to tell you that, Detective.” He shrugged and smiled. “But if you draw that conclusion, I can’t stop you. Now… do I get to look at the file?”

I’d brought it with me, and it was sitting on my lap. I dropped it on the desk in front of him. “I made a copy for you. There isn’t a lot in it. You understand that any information you uncover that is, or could be, relevant to a criminal investigation, you are obliged to share with us.”

“I am aware of that, Detective.”

Dehan said, “In that case, Baxter, can you tell us what Tammy was doing at Stephen’s house, and what interest his killers could have had in her? Why would they remove her body, or indeed kill her, in the first place?”

He spread his hands. “I don’t know. That is what I have been hired to find out. That really is all I know.” He gestured with both hands at the file. “Why else would I be asking you for this file?”

I nodded. He had a point. “What else can you tell me about Tamara Gunthersen? You must know something about her.”

“I can tell you she was born in San Francisco on January 5, 1993. And that really is all I can tell you for now. You have my word