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

was a fish sticker in the window that told me that Jesus loved me. Another one told me that even though I did not believe in God, God believed in me. I was pretty sure they were both wrong. Dehan came up beside me and commented, “If they keep putting up enlightening stickers, they are going to block out the light.”

“Droll.”

I rang the bell and knocked on the door. Almost like a weird coincidence, the neighbor’s door opened and a woman with a very large, nosy air about her looked at me like she wanted to accuse me of something, but didn’t know what yet.

“They ain’t in.”

I smiled the smile of an innocent man and said, “Where are they?”

“Church. They are always at church.”

I nodded. “Of course. Can you tell me where the church is?”

She smiled unexpectedly and looked a hundred years younger. “Out back.” She pointed, in case I didn’t know where out back was. “Fowler Avenue. Right at the back, here… You can walk it.”

I thanked her again and we descended the steps we had recently just climbed up. It was a three-hundred-yard stroll through an odd neighborhood that blended leafy trees in the first russet shades of fall, with very homey red brick houses and soulless concrete yards fenced with steel tubing and wire mesh. The overall vibe was a very unhappy one.

The church was small, and judging by the design, early 20th century Methodist. It was a sturdy, red brick building with towering gothic arches and a rotund tower at the very back. It stood in its own grounds, surrounded by towering maple trees and gloomy-looking chestnut trees. There was a cute, red brick rectory on the left. The door, which stood open, was now dull, but once must have been a vibrant red with a set of heavy, black, iron hinges. A flagged path led to a small graveyard on the right, and beyond that there was a large garden. There, some kind of church fête seemed to be in progress. There was bunting strung from the trees and there were stalls selling secondhand clothes, books, vinyl records, record players, and old rusty tools, as well as homemade lemonade, chocolate brownies, cookies, and cakes. There was a big crowd swirling around the church grounds.

We strolled in among the throng of people and headed for the cake stall. A pretty, blonde woman was attending it that must have been in her late thirties, and a pretty girl stood beside her, who had to be her daughter. She was probably in her late teens or early twenties. They both gave us bright smiles that looked as though they belonged in the South, where life is good and morality was uncomplicated.

“Hi there!” It was the woman. She said it like we were old friends, and for a moment I wondered if I knew her. “Welcome! Can we offer you some amazing lemonade?”

Dehan answered before I could draw breath. “You sure can, and we’ll have a couple of those brownies too.”

The daughter poured while the mother shoveled. I took my brownie from her and said, “Maybe you can help us. We are actually looking for somebody.”

“Oh.” She seemed genuinely pleased at the possibility of being able to help. “Well, we know most everyone around here, don’t we, honey?”

Her daughter nodded and also looked equally as eager to help.

Dehan said, “Sylvie Martin?”

They were thrilled and I swear the mother gave a little jump. “Oh, well, that’s me! I am Sylvie Martin!” She took hold of her daughter and added, “And this is Mary, my daughter! How can we help you?”

Dehan’s mouth was full of chocolate brownie, so all she could say was, “Umph…”

I took over, with what is generally termed as ‘an easy smile.’ “We are police officers.” I put down my lemonade, fished out my badge and showed it to her. “I am Detective John Stone and this is my partner, Detective Carmen Dehan.”

A hint of a frown, the smile strained almost imperceptibly by concern as soon as the words ‘police officer’ hit her ears.

“Oh, is there a problem…?”

“No.” I shook my head and bit into the brownie. It was good, and I allowed my face to say so. Speaking with my mouth full, I said, “It is the policy of the 43rd Precinct to review cold cases from time to time, Mrs. Martin, and we are currently conducting a review of…”

I trailed off. She had gone very pale. Her daughter was watching her and had placed her hand on her shoulder. Sylvie said, “I thought that was a permanently closed case.”

Dehan swallowed the last of her brownie and said, “Simon’s murderer is still at large, Sylvie. The case can’t be closed.”

“I would… We would all, really, rather put the whole thing behind us. The Lord dispenses His own justice.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Martin.” I meant it, she looked genuinely distressed. “But we have to do our job. Is there somewhere we can talk privately?”

She gave a deep sigh and searched the crowd for a moment. Then, she raised a hand and called, “Oh, Paul… Reverend Truelove…!”

I turned and watched a large, leonine man, with silver hair swept back from his head in a perfect swoop, move through the crowd towards us. He looked for a moment like a Spanish galleon parting the seas in some forgotten, surrealist book of the Old Testament. He graced us both with the bounty of his kind smile, lingering a little longer and with more bounty upon the beautiful Dehan than on me. Finally, he turned to Sylvie Martin.

“Sylvie, who are your friends?” Then, turning to us again, he said, “Welcome to St George’s.” He had a voice like a particularly excellent church organ.

I showed him my badge. “Detectives Stone and Dehan, NYPD. Superb brownies and lemonade, by the way. We were wondering if