Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #2: Books 5-8 (A Dead Cold Box Set) by Blake Banner (best desktop ebook reader .TXT) 📗

“Yeah,” he said, “I guess…”

Not everybody is moved to profound statements in profound moments. What can you do?

Dehan said, “So who ordered the hit on Detective Stone, Guzman?”

“A fockin’ Italian guy, name of D’Angelo. He’s Senator Hennessy’s personal sec’atery. He paid me twenty grand, cash. He brought it in a paper bag. I still have the bag. I always keep’em.” He grinned. “You know why I keep ’em?”

I said, “Tell me.”

He pointed at me with a big, sausage finger. “I ain’t as dumb as I look. I read somewhere that paper is one of the best surfaces for keeping fingerprints. Did you know that? So this schmuck D’Angelo—I never did like the fockin’ Italians, you know? They give me a lot of work. The fockin’ Jersey Mob operate a lot down here. Did you know that? They give me a lot of work. But I never liked ’em, you know? You never know if they’re bein’ straight with you. Us, the Mexicans, you know where you stand with a Mexican.” He turned to Dehan. “Vos sois Mejicana, a que si? Am I right?”

She looked at him like she wanted to cut his throat. “Why do you keep the bags, Guzman?”

“Yeah, right, because I figure if I ever need an insurance policy, I got proof, right there, that this fockin’ Italian schmuck has been payin’ me.”

I smiled. “You’re a smart man, Jay. So you keep these bags in your house?”

“Right there, in my wardrobe.”

I knew that as he was saying it, Newman and the DA were applying for a search warrant for his house. D’Angelo didn’t know it, but right then, wherever he was in his sharp, two-thousand-dollar Italian suit, he was going under.

“Was D’Angelo working on his own?”

“You kidding? That schmuck ain’t got the brains to act on his own. Me? I been an independent operator all my career. You know? The fockin Sureños wanted me in the gang. I told them, ‘Fock you!’ I make the hits, I set my price, they pay. The fockin Mob wanted me to join, not as a fockin’ soldier, you know what I’m sayin’? They wanted me as a made man. You know what I told them? I told them, ‘Fock you. Fock you!’ I ain’t no wise guy, I ain’t no Sureño. I’m my own man. So they offered me work, I charge my fee, they pay. Everybody happy. An independent contractor. That was me.”

Dehan sighed. “So about D’Angelo…”

“Yeah. No, he worked for Hennessy. You nail him and he’ll deny it. That is one big, scary organization, you know what I’m sayin’? The Mob is little league compared to that firm. It’s not just her, neither. Her husband is the big honcho. Those guys are above the law. They are untouchable.”

I felt a surge of hot anger in my belly, but I spoke quietly. “Nobody is above the law, Guzman. That’s why it’s the law. Sometimes people forget that, but the bigger they get, the higher they climb, the harder they fall.”

He shrugged and made a face. “Maybe. Either way, D’Angelo was the go-between. He gets his hands dirty so she don’t have to. If things go bad, she washes her hands and he takes the fall.”

“Can you prove that?”

“No. I can tell you about a hundred conversation I had with D’Angelo where he said he was workin’ for Hennessy, but that ain’t worth shit to you. What I can do is give you the name of the guy who can nail Hennessy.”

I could feel my heart pounding. Dehan leaned forward and put her elbows on the table. Her voice was little more than a whisper. “Who’s that?”

“He was the fockin’ Terminator, man. I got so much fockin’ respect for this guy, you know what I’m tellin’ you? This guy is a fockin’ ninja, man. I call him the Aspirin guy. You know why I call him that? Because Hennessy used him to get rid of all her fockin’ headaches. Then he fockin’ retires. He disappears. Is he dead? Nobody knows. And every fockin day of their fockin’ lives they are wondering, ‘Is he gonna come back? Is he gonna spill the fockin’ beans on me?’”

He threw his head back and started laughing.

I said, “And that’s what happened.”

“Too fockin’ right it happened. There ain’t never been so much fockin’ nervous dia-fockin’-rrhea in Washington!”

He roared with laughter again and I couldn’t help smiling. I glanced at Dehan and saw she was smiling too.

“So D’Angelo ordered you to hit Thorndike.”

He nodded. “That’s right. Paid me twenty grand to kill him.”

I shook my head and narrowed my eyes. “How did you get him to let you in? Why did you use his gun? And how did you even know where his gun was?”

He made a face like my stupidity offended his sensibilities. “No, man! You don’t know nothin’! I didn’t kill him! I don’t know who the fock killed him. I was at the plannin’ stage, just observin’ him, know what I’m saying? Like all good jobs, the important thing is the planning and the preparation.” He turned to Dehan. “Am I right? Before I could get to him, somebody else did the job for me.” He held up his hands. “But I kept the fockin’ dough. They want him dead. He’s dead. The fee is the fee.”

I closed my eyes and tried to think through the cloud of pain. It didn’t make any sense right then, so I filed it away and asked the billion dollar question.

“So what’s this Asprin Ninja’s name?”

He chuckled. “Mr. fockin’ anonymous. Adrian Philips.” Then he said with more emphasis, as though correcting himself, “Adrian Simon Philips. It’s like the name of a nobody, right?”

My heart sank. “Adrian Philips is dead, Guzman. He