Dead Cold Mysteries Books 5-8

by Blake Banner

  “Huh. That was a short-lived conversion.”

  “Asshole.”

  I stayed on Rhineland, headed east. After a while, she said, “I don’t see how this changes anything much. I’m kind of struggling to see why you did it.”

  “Jacob’s new friends were not Sureños. Remember Mary said they were from a non-Christian faith.”

  “Oh.” She thought about it a bit, then scowled at me. “Shit!”

  I turned into Seminole Avenue and pulled up in the parking lot of the Jacobi Hospital. We rode the elevator and found Frank in his lab. He looked surprised to see us. I pulled the plastic evidence bag and the envelope from my pocket and showed them to him.

  “Frank, what do I need to do to get you to do this today? Name it. Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”

  He frowned. “Why is it so important?”

  “Because it involves the murder of a child, and there could be other lives at stake.”

  “Jacob Martin?”

  I nodded.

  He sighed. “Every case I have is a priority, John. You know that. Every one of them involves somebody’s life, somebody’s loved one.”

  “I know. And you know I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t really important. It’s a clean sample. I know you can do this in eight hours. The prints in less. The clock is ticking on this one.”

  He sighed. “Leave it on my desk. I’ll get to it as soon as I can.”

  I went into the small cubicle of his office, found a scrap of paper and jotted down exactly what I wanted. Then I found a paper clip and stuck it to the envelope and the bag. I didn’t leave them on his desk. I took them and put them in his hand.

  “I owe you. If you ever want to use my place in Florida, or the boat, you only have to ask.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “You have a boat and a place in Florida?”

  “No. But if I ever have, they are yours for the asking.”

  Dehan was leaning on the doorjamb. She shook her head at Frank. “I told him already today. He’s an asshole.”

  TWENTY ONE

  We stepped out into the fading evening sunshine. There were expanding patches of dark blue sky above. I looked up at the dissipating clouds, but in my mind, I was struggling to fit all the pieces of the puzzle together. It was like doing a jigsaw blindfolded in a dense fog. There were no dissipating clouds there. I walked toward my car, thinking about what I had asked Frank to do. I was pretty sure what the answers would be, and I was wondering about the implications. I heard Dehan’s voice behind me.

  “Okay Stone, you need to stop.” I did. I stopped and turned to frown at her. She spread her hands. “Clue me in, Sensei! I feel like I’m tagging along for the ride!”

  I looked at my watch. It was not too early for supper. “Yeah. Let’s grab some food and a beer and I’ll share my thoughts with you.”

  “Jeez, boss! Thanks!”

  “There’s a pizza place near here. You like pizza.”

  “Yeah. I like pizza. I like being kept in the loop more.”

  We climbed in the car and pulled out of the lot. All the way down Seminole Avenue and half the way down Morris Park, she stared at me, and I tried to articulate my thoughts. Finally, I pulled up outside Patsy’s Pizzeria, we went inside, and I ordered two pepperoni pizzas and two beers.

  We sat at a table by the window, with a red gingham tablecloth and a small vase of flowers on it. She took a pull of her beer, leaving herself a white mustache on her upper lip, which she wiped away with the back of her hand.

  “I haven’t worked it out, Dehan. But I have a gut feeling.”

  “So tell me.”

  I sighed. “Okay, so the first thing is, we know that the bowie knife was the weapon used to kill Simon Martin. Agreed?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, now we know that Humberto handled the bag, and so did somebody else. But there are no prints on the knife.”

  “Sure, but we were already speculating that El Chato could have killed Simon and given the knife, in the bag, to Humberto.”

  I spread my hands and leaned back to allow Patsy to deliver the two pizzas. She smiled at us. “Enjoy!”

  When she’d gone, I said to Dehan, “But the second set of prints, the one’s that are not Humberto’s, are not in IAFIS.”

  She stopped with her knife half way to the pizza. “Oh… And they would be if they were El Chato’s.”

  “Precisely. And the kitchen knife, which we now know was used to kill Jacob, has Humberto’s prints, but finger prints, not palm prints, and made post mortem! As though he had been handling the knife with great care, after it had been wiped. Like it was part of his treasure collection.”

  She nodded repeatedly as she cut her pizza into twelve, almost manageable slices. “And you are thinking, who knew Humberto well enough to know he would take the knives as part of his treasure, and so incriminate himself? And who might be in a position for Humberto to see them in the garden…?”

  We both bit into our pizzas and sat staring at each other and chewing. I swallowed and drank while she bit again. I said, “I am not clear yet, Dehan. That is, I am clear that Humberto is not the guy, and I am clear El Chato is not the guy. But I am not clear about Paul, Mary, Sylvie, or Ahmed. They are all tied up in a kind of spaghetti mess, and I am trying to understand each one of them, what their motivations are…”

  She frowned. “But Ahmed? The guy’s a creep, but I don’t see what motive he would have.”

  I did a little side-to-side dance with my head. “I don’t know…”

  “Unless Paul and Sylvie had persuaded Jacob to come back to the fold, and it was a simple fatwa.”

  “It’s within the bounds of possibility, Dehan. But what about Simon?”

  She made a face like she wasn’t believing her own words. “He blasphemed against Allah?”

  “It’s also possible, but it fails to explain why Sylvie would refuse to name him and pretend to have amnesia.”

  “Man! This is like one of those damn Chinese puzzles. You get one bit, but then you can’t get the other!” She scowled at me. “Son of a bitch! You think you’ve got it, don’t you?”

  I sighed. “There is one scenario that could, possibly, explain everything. But it’s a reach.”

  “So tell me!”

  “I’m not sure…” As I said it, my phone rang. I picked it up and answered, “Stone.”

  I stood as I listened. I signaled Dehan with my head to get up and pay as I headed for the door. “Okay, we’re on our way.”

  Dehan joined me as I was climbing in the car. The sun had gone down and the light was fading. I slammed the door and fired up the engine. She got in beside me and I took off.

  “There’s been an attack at the Martins’. There are two units on their way. There was an intruder in the house. It’s not clear if anyone was hurt. Sylvie and Mary were apparently both pretty incoherent. Bogart is just a block and a half on the left.”

  I took the corner at fifty, which the old Jag did with cool elegance, and hammered the big four liter engine down another block and a half to Sylvie’s house. There I skidded to a halt. As we got out, I could hear the sirens of the approaching patrol cars. Dehan ran up the five stairs of the stoop as the door opened. Warm light flooded out and Mary stood silhouetted in the doorway.

  “Thank God you’re here! Mom is in the living room.”

  I ran up the stairs and followed Dehan in. Sylvie was sitting on the sofa. She was bent forward, sobbing into her hands and occasionally wailing with grief. The French doors were open onto the garden. At a glance, I could see one of the panes of glass was broken. I turned to Mary. She was trembling.

  “What happened?”

  “There was a man in the house.”

  “He escaped?”

  She nodded and pointed at the French doors.

  “How long ago?”

  “Five, ten minutes.”

  I could hear the sirens of the patrol cars pulling up outside. I turned to Dehan. “Go out. Organize a search of the area.
I’ll get the statements.”

  She left to meet the cars. I pointed to the sofa. “Sit down, Mary. Are either of you hurt?”

  She shook her head.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “We’d been at Paul’s… at Reverend Truelove’s. Mom had been cleaning in the church and I was helping at the rectory. I guess we’d been there an hour or so when Mom came in. She didn’t look well. She’s been real stressed lately. She asked the reverend if he had an aspirin, because she had a bad headache. He fetched her one himself and told her she should go home and lie down. They argued for a bit, but he insisted, and finally she left.”

  “Who else was there while all this was happening, Mary?”

  “Just the police sergeant you left there.”

  “Where was Humberto?”

  “Well, he was around. He’s always around somewhere. But I couldn’t tell you exactly where.”

  “So what happened next?”

  “Well, I finished up a couple of chores, and then the reverend told me I should leave the rest and go home to look after Mom.”

  “So you went home.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Mary, do you and your mom always use the gap in the hedge in the garden?”

  She smiled. “Why, yes. We all do…”

  Sylvie slowly raised her tear-drenched face and looked at me.

  I met her gaze and after a moment I asked her, “How are you feeling?”

  Her face was bitter. “How do you think? I told you to leave it alone.”

  “I can’t do that, Sylvie. You know I can’t.” I smiled at Mary. “Why don’t you make your mom some tea, Mary?”

  She nodded and went out to the kitchen. Sylvie watched her leave, then said, “You are going to bring disaster on us all.”

  “That’s not my purpose, Sylvie. My purpose is to find the truth and, if necessary, bring the killers to justice. But if you and Paul keep getting in the way, maybe there will be a disaster.”

  “God has his own justice.”

  “Maybe so. Are you going to tell me what happened?”

  She sighed and closed her eyes, then flopped back on the sofa. “I went upstairs to lie down in the dark. I started drifting off to sleep. I don’t know how long I was like that. Next thing, I heard a noise. I’m not sure what it was. Like a bang or something. Then the French windows opened and closed. I assumed it was Mary come home from Paul’s. Shortly after that, I heard feet climbing the stairs…”

  Her face started to contort and tears spilled from her eyes again. She raised her fingers to her mouth. When she spoke, her voice was high pitched, almost strangled.

  “Oh God, help me! I thought the steps sounded heavy. It wasn’t like Mary. I thought maybe Paul…” She sat forward again, convulsing. Her eyes were wide and staring. “The door opened and he just stood there, staring at me.”

  “Who did? Did you recognize him?”

  She stared at me like I had asked some insane question. “No. The lights were off. And he had a kind of hood over his face.” She shuddered and covered her face with her hands. I thought she was going to turn hysterical, but she said, “He just rushed at me, without a word. He just rushed, and I saw he had a huge knife in his hand. I screamed.”

  She looked at me suddenly, as though I might disapprove of her screaming.

  I said, “Okay, you’re doing great, Sylvie. This is really helpful. Now I need you to think carefully before you answer. Did he say anything, anything at all?”

  She shook her head. “No. He just made a horrible noise, like an animal. And when I saw the knife, I started screaming.” She shuddered again. “I must have jumped off the bed. I saw his knife rip at the quilt where I’d been lying.”

  “What kind of knife was it, Sylvie?”

  She froze and her eyes locked onto mine. She took a long moment to answer. “The same. The same kind of knife.”

  “The same as…?”

  “The same as the one he used to kill Simon.”

  “Was it the same man?”

  She covered her mouth and spoke through sobs. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I was so scared. I thought…”

  Mary came in with a cup of tea. Sylvie reached for it with trembling hands. Mary glanced at me. “Detective, can I get you some tea or coffee?”

  I shook my head. “No, thanks, Mary. Sit down, would you. Tell me what you remember. What happened when you got back?”

  She pointed at the French doors. “I was coming across the garden, and I saw the French windows were open. So I went toward them, thinking I could come in that way, and close them from the inside. But as I got closer, I realized the glass was broken. So I hurried over to see what had happened. And as I opened them wide, that’s when I heard the screaming upstairs.” She looked at her mother, as though seeking confirmation. “I could hear her screaming for help. She just kept screaming ‘help, somebody help me.’”

  I turned to Sylvie. “Did he hurt you with the knife?”

  The question seemed to confuse her for a moment. “I don’t think so. I don’t think I’m bleeding.”

  “What happened next, Sylvie?”

  Her face contracted at the memory and she hunched her shoulders. “He jumped on the bed. I thought he was going to kill me. I ran. I don’t know where. I just ran, screaming. I think he grabbed me and threw me. I thought I was going to die. I kept feeling the knife about to stab me, all over my body.”

  “What did you do, Mary?”

  Now she looked scared. “I don’t know if I did wrong, Detective. But I heard mom screaming for help, and all the crashing and tramping around upstairs. So I grabbed a knife from the kitchen and ran to help her. I didn’t think. I just acted from instinct.”

  “That’s fine. So you ran up the stairs…?”

  “I ran up the stairs. Mom’s door was open. I rushed in and I saw Mom on the floor by the bed and this man bending over her, and he had a big knife raised up in his hand, like he was about to stab her with it.”

  “What kind of knife was it?”

  “It was like one of those big hunting knives.”

  “What happened next?”

  Mary’s eyes flooded, but she kept her composure. She put her arms around her mother and held her. “I don’t know if I did the wrong thing, but I rushed at him and I slashed at him with the kitchen knife, screaming at him to leave my momma alone.”

  “You were defending your home and your family. You were perfectly entitled to do what you did. But I need to know, did you injure him? Did you stab him? It could really help us identify the man.”

  She thought about it. “Yeah. I am pretty sure I did. Maybe on his shoulder or his right arm.”

  Sudden shouts and the sound of scrambling made me turn and stand and go to the French doors. Evening was turning to night and there were flashlights dancing at the end of the garden. A voice shouted, “Don’t move!”

  There was the sound of scuffling and scrambling. Then Dehan’s voice, authoritative and calming.

  “Okay! Take it easy! I’m not going to hurt you.” There was a pause. Then her voice again. “Stone? Is that you?”

  “Yeah.”

  I could make out a small group of people walking toward me. Dehan’s voice spoke again. “It is Humberto. He was hiding in the bushes. He seems to be hurt.”

  TWENTY TWO

  It was an odd tableau. Sylvie and Mary sitting, holding each other on the sofa, staring at Humberto, looking huge and miserable between two uniformed cops, with Dehan standing beside him, rubbing her hand like it hurt. I went over to him. As I approached, he seemed to cower and wince.

  I smiled. “Amigo.”

  He smiled back, but uncertainly. “Meu amigo.”

  “Are you hurt, Humberto?” I struggled to remember my schoolboy Latin. “Injuria, Doleo, malum?”

  He nodded his massive head and looked at Sylvie. “Diavolo malefico feto injuria mina Donna.”

  I turned to Dehan. “You okay?” She nodded. “Call Paul, will you? Get hi
m over here.”

  She pulled out her phone and stepped into the hall. I reached over and turned Humberto gently around. “Where are you hurt, Humberto?”

  I took hold of his hands and saw his right one was thick with blood. I pointed to it and looked into his face. “Injuria.”

  He pouted. “Diavolo malefico.”

  I examined the sleeve and found the slash on his lower arm, just below his elbow. I turned and called, “Dehan. We need an ambulance too.”

  She stepped back into the room. “I already called them. Paul is on his way.”

  “Did you find a weapon?”

  “Not yet. Jones and Hanson are looking.”

  “Sylvie, is this the man who attacked you?”

  Mary was frowning at her. Sylvie bit her lip and the tears started to spill again. “It might be. I am not sure.”

  “Mary? Is this the man who was attacking your mother?”

  Humberto was looking confused, from Sylvie to me. He said, “None feto malo. None feto malo.”

  “Mary?”

  “I don’t think so…” She turned to her mother, but her mother had her eyes closed and was sobbing again. Mary looked back at me. “I’m not sure.”

  “Where is the knife you used?”

  She half stood. “Oh, it’s on the floor in Mom’s room. Should I go and…?”

  “No. Just leave it where it is. Dehan, we’d better get a CSI team here.”

  “On their way, Sensei.”

  There was a footfall at the French windows and Paul stepped in. He scowled around the room. “What in the name of God is going on?”

  “Sit down, Paul. That is what we are here to find out. Please, none of you leave this room. We’ll be back in a moment. Dehan, let’s take a look upstairs.”

  I put one of the officers on the front door and left the other to stand watch over Sylvie and Paul, and Dehan and I climbed the stairs to the bedroom. The bed was rumpled, as you’d expect after somebody had slept on it and then jumped on it. The lamp on the near bedside table was knocked over, presumably from where Sylvie had been thrown against it, and, on closer inspection, there was an area of the quilt that had been slashed.

  Dehan had hunkered down and was looking at a large kitchen knife that lay on the carpet. There was a substantial amount of blood on the blade. She spoke as though to herself.