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

ago. I suppose about six o’clock, perhaps a little earlier. Traffic is heavy at that time of night.”

I nodded and smiled, one New Yorker to another. “You’re not kidding.”

He smiled back, a hint of relief on his face.

I said, “Now here’s the problem, Paul.” His eyebrows twitched at the use of his first name. He had lost his title and that worried him even more. “Can you remember what you did earlier that day?”

“Of course not.”

“You took Ahmed over to Sylvie’s house, to discuss what days and times he would work at the church, and when he would work for her and Simon.”

He shrugged. “Did I? Yes, that’s very possible. But I fail to see…”

“Ahmed came over to the rectory at after five. You chatted. Then you went over to Sylvie’s house and while he collected the plums and the apples from the trees at the end of the garden, you and Sylvie sat and had coffee, and discussed his hours.”

“Clearly you think this is important…”

“It is important, because you left Sylvie’s house just after six. And there is no way you had time to get from there to Country Club in time for dinner. Which means that you and Elizabeth have concocted a false alibi…”

“Now wait just one minute!”

“…which also makes me wonder, what would make you do that?”

“You are leaping to wild, unwarranted conclusions!”

“I don’t see how.”

“If I was not there, then it is a genuine mistake…”

“You said you discovered the next morning what had happened. That is not the kind of thing you suddenly forget.”

“Well, I… It is a long time ago, Detective!”

“But quite a memorable event, wouldn’t you say? So were you there for her, or not? And if not, why not?”

He started to speak three times, and three times stopped himself. Then, he went for it and decided to brazen it out. “No! I am certain that I was dining with Liz! Ahmed and Sylvie must be mistaken.”

I shrugged like it wasn’t important. “You may be right. I just thought I’d better check. Moving on to another matter. What is the norm in Methodist Churches, Reverend, regarding Sunday Mass, as compared for example with the Catholic Church?”

He visibly relaxed and breathed more deeply. “Well, we are somewhat more flexible than our Roman friends.” He smiled as though he’d said something funny. “It varies from church to church. For my part, in the summer we worship in the morning on Sundays to allow people to relax in the afternoon and evening before starting the week. However, in the fall and in the winter, a lot of people find comfort in evening worship. So, as of the first Sunday in September, we meet for prayers and a reading of Scripture on Sunday evenings at about seven. Until the last Sunday in April.”

I nodded and smiled. “That pretty much fits with my research. Have you always followed that regime?”

“Always. Why?”

“September the fifth, 1999, was a Sunday.”

He closed his eyes. Then, after a moment, he buried his face in his hands.

I went on, “You have lied to me consistently and systematically since you first opened your mouth to me. And you are so damned arrogant and stupid that every time I catch you in a lie, you just keep lying more. Now, I told you in the car, nothing says ‘guilty’ like a stupid lie. So right now, you have managed to lie your way right to the top of my list of suspects. You have a big sign nailed to your two inch brow that says, ‘I’m The Guy.’” I sat forward and said, “Look at me.” He removed his hands from his face. I held my forefinger and thumb in front of him, an eighth of an inch apart. “I am this close to arresting you and charging you with Simon’s murder.”

“No! No! No! No! You have it all wrong!”

“If—if!—I have it all wrong, it is because you keep telling me half-assed stupid lies that a four-year-old could see through. Now, keep bullshitting me, Reverend, and you and Humberto…”

“No!”

“…get fast tracked to Attica!”

Our voices clashed, then died away and left a ringing silence. I pointed at him. “Think about it. I’m going to talk to Sylvie. When I get back, I want to hear the truth. If I get more lies, I will charge you and start building my case with the DA. I have means, opportunity and motive.”

“What motive?”

“The oldest two in the book. Your love for Sylvie and your desire to get your hands on her house, including her recently deceased husband’s life insurance. And I have a string of lies long enough to convince any jury that whatever you say, they should believe the opposite.” I stood. “Now, if it don’t work, stop doing it! I have warned you.”

I stepped out into the corridor, grabbed some black, caffeinated coffee from the machine and pushed into interview room two, where Dehan was talking to Sylvie.

Dehan was saying, “Now, see, Sylvie, here is the part I’m having some difficulty with. You are telling me that the reverend left you at around six, while Ahmed was working in the garden, to go to have dinner with Elizabeth Cavendish…”

Sylvie looked pale and drawn. “I don’t know if that’s what he did. I assume that’s what he did if that is what he says.”

“You think he might be lying?”

“No!”

I said, “Have you ever known the reverend to lie?”

“No! Of course not!”

“So you think he did go to Elizabeth’s house?”

“If that’s what he says he did, yes.”

“So the problem I have,” Dehan pressed on, “is that there is no way he could have gotten to Elizabeth’s house on time if he left you after six.”

She spread her hands. “Perhaps he arrived late.”

“No. According to Elizabeth, he