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

A couple of days rolled by. I tried the Jesuits, but they were politely vague and gently unhelpful, suggesting I try various different departments and archives, usually in writing, and managing to convey a feeling that my pursuit was not a very hopeful one.

Dehan searched on Google and found a Brazilian mixed martial arts fighter who didn’t look much like a Jesuit collector of rare tomes.

I called Bernie at the bureau.

“Hey, Stone, long time. You only call me when you need something. You’re not the only man in my life, you know?”

“Honey, don’t talk like that. You know it makes me sad.”

He gave a fat laugh and rounded it off with, “What do you want, Stone?”

“A Jesuit priest, a collector of rare books, probably Portuguese or Spanish, name of dos Santos, Geronimo. Ring any bells?”

He made a long “pfffff” sound. “Off the top of my head, ol’ buddy, not the slightest chime. I can have a snoop around, get back to you if any flags pop up.”

“Appreciate it, Bernie.”

“You owe me.”

“I know. I’ll buy you something nice. Frilly.”

He gave another fat laugh, and I hung up. Dehan was watching me.

“You really do need a woman in your life.”

“I already have a woman in my life. You think I need another one?”

My phone rang. I looked at the screen. It was Frank. I put him on speaker.

“What have you got, Frank?”

“Okay, the hairbrush.”

“Good, what?”

“Not a match.”

I stared at Dehan.

“The blood on the carpet and the hair on the brush are not from the same person.” He waited. I was silent, trying to process the implications. He went on. “I don’t know why the blood from the floor was not processed back in 2015, but it wasn’t. It is clearly not Springfellow’s. We ran it through CODIS and we got a hit.”

“You did? Who?”

“Ernesto Sanchez, a member of the Sureños gang.” Dehan and I were still staring at each other. I heard Frank say, “Stone? You still there?”

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks, Frank. That’s…”

“Clearly not what you expected.”

“You could say that.”

“Sorry!”

He hung up.

“Mindfuck is right, Dehan.”

She was already on the computer, checking the database. “I remember Ernesto Sanchez. He was a real asshole. He lived a couple of streets from me. He had an older brother, Alfonso, another asshole. They used to hang out and be assholes together. If I remember rightly…” She stopped talking and stared at the screen. “Yeah, Alfonso is in jail, Attica, upstate. He’s halfway through a two-year sentence.”

“What about Ernesto?”

She shook her head. “He’s been off the radar for a while.” She got up and went and stuck her head out the door. She looked around a bit and suddenly bellowed, “Hey, Chavez! Come here!”

She came back to the desk, and after a moment a uniformed cop walked into the detectives’ room. He looked as though he was trying not to look pissed.

“Yes, Detective.”

“You patrol Garrison Avenue, Bryants Hill Gardens, Seneca…” She made a “and so on” gesture with her hand. “Right?”

He nodded. “Sure.”

“You know the Sanchez boys, Alfonso and Ernesto?”

He frowned. “Yeah. Alfonso’s inside.”

I said, “What about Ernesto? You seen him around?”

He pulled a face. “Now you mention it… I ain’t seen him for a while.”

“How long, would you say?”

Chavez looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Detectives, I couldn’t say.”

Dehan said, “More than a year?”

He nodded. “I’d say so.”

“More than two?”

He danced his head from side to side. “Maybe a couple of years.”

I reached for my phone. “Thanks, Chavez. That’s great.”

He left, looking uncertain.

“Dehan, we want an APB on Ernesto Sanchez. I want to know if he is dead or alive. If he’s alive, I want to talk to him.”

“I’m on it!”

“Meantime, I am going to call Attica.”

She grinned. “Road trip!”

I arranged a meeting with Alfonso Sanchez for the following day at twelve noon, which meant setting out at six or six thirty a.m. I hung up and looked at my watch. It was only five, but I was beat. Dehan stretched and cracked her vertebrae over the back of her chair, then went to stand in front of the fan with her arms held out.

I said, “We’ve got an early start. Up at five. You want to stay over?”

She yawned and gave me the thumbs-up.

We stopped at Kmart on the way and bought some groceries. Dehan led the way, talking over her shoulder as I followed. “I thought maybe spaghetti? It’s easy, but it’s filling. What do you think? Or maybe baked potatoes, but it takes at least an hour. I think spaghetti. You got any preference?”

I smiled but didn’t bother answering because she’d already put the ingredients in the basket and was walking toward the wine section.

“I don’t normally drink wine midweek, Stone, but spaghetti without wine? It’s like oysters without champagne, burger without beer. It’s not right, is it?”

“No.”

“They say the man should choose the wine. I don’t see why. Women can’t choose wine? Plus, you’re just standing there like Friday on Monday. I like this one.”

She chose a wine.

“Like Friday on Monday?”

“My dad used to say it. What does Friday do on Monday?”

“Not a lot.”

“Exactly. I also need a toothbrush and shampoo.” She grinned. “Don’t worry. I won’t leave them in your bathroom.” I followed her back toward the checkout. “Most men, you start leaving your toothbrush and your shampoo at their house, they freak out.”

When we got to my house, she went to the kitchen and started unpacking. I said, “You want a drink?”

“What you got there?”

“Beer, whiskey, martini, gin…”

She opened the fridge. “I found the beer.”

She cracked it and drank from the bottle. I poured myself a whiskey. She had started chopping onions on