Dead Cold Mysteries Books 5-8

by Blake Banner

  “We may yet free the nun. What I need is a lead on this hired gun, Bernie, whoever he is. I need to know if he actually exists, and if he does, is there anyone on your wanted lists who might fit the profile.”

  He pulled a sheet of paper from his inside pocket. “I brought this.” He opened it and handed it to me. “These were the hired killers that we were aware of in the period you mentioned. Since the ’90s, hired assassins have been increasingly affiliated with terrorist groups. During the cold war and the ’80s you had a number of pros out there who were ex-military, or trained by one of the secret services, and they were strictly mercenaries, guns for hire.”

  Dehan said, “Like the famous Jackal who tried to take out De Gaul.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, exactly. But these days you really don’t get that so much. The market for that kind of hit man is much smaller than it was, and not so lucrative. What you have now is jihadists, or in-house operatives working for the Russian Mafia or the Mob.”

  I shrugged with my right shoulder. “So that means our list of possibles is small.”

  “Yeah, pretty small. Active between the turn of the century and 2008, that we were aware of, and that the CIA shared with us, were Sean Hagan, trained by the IRA back in the day. When the IRA called the ceasefire, he put himself on the market as a hired gun. He worked for the Russians, did a few jobs for the Mob, retired about 2008.

  “Then there was Saul David. We’re not sure if that’s his real name. He was trained by MOSAD, though they later disowned him. Like Hagan, he worked for the Russians and organized crime generally. As far as we know he is still active. Our intel is that he was operating mainly in Europe from 2000 to 2010.

  “Then there is Adrian Philips, British subject, trained by the SAS but dishonorably discharged for torturing a prisoner. Known to have right-wing political views. Believed to be responsible for taking out several Mullahs and terrorist cells, not clear on whose orders, possibly CIA black ops. He was active in the States during the period you’re interested in.”

  Dehan said, “Sounds like he could be our man.”

  Bernie smiled. “Only problem is he could not have been talking to David Thorndike.”

  I asked, “Why?”

  “Because he was killed in a bomb blast in Pakistan in late October, 2007.” He pointed at the last name on the list. “And finally you have Hector Hernandez. No formal training, just a love of his work. Free-lances for the Cartels when they need a quiet job done, and has been employed by the mob for some jobs.”

  I sighed. “None of them leaps out me. Did any of them have a special MO, a preferred method…?”

  He shrugged and pushed out his bottom lip. “Hernandez liked the knife. Most of his kills were stabbings. Hagan tended to shoot his victims. He was a good marksman. Saul David and Philips were the real pros. They would use whatever method was to hand and most times they would make it look like an accident.”

  I nodded and looked at Dehan. She said, “That’s our man. Saul David.”

  I scratched my head. “Only David is still active, which doesn’t make a lot of sense, and Philips is dead.”

  Bernie studied my face a moment. “Why doesn’t it make sense that he’s still active?”

  I gazed at the pond. “In the anonymous letter, it said that he had decided to tell Thorndike about the killing for reasons that were not clear to the person writing the letter. I always assumed that he had retired and was trying to clear his conscience in some way.”

  Bernie didn’t look convinced. “If that was true, Stone, wouldn’t he just come forward and inform the Bureau?”

  “What other reason could he have?”

  Dehan said, “Money? Maybe Dave offered him a cut of the proceeds.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, it could be that. Or it could be political. If he was radical right-wing, and his employer was left-wing, he might want to cause her damage.”

  Bernie spread his hands. “But then you’re back to square one. Why not go directly to the Feds?”

  I sighed and shook my head. “We keep going in circles. If it was money he was after, when David was killed, why didn’t he approach Bob Shaw, or Shelly Pearce? Why did he go quiet?”

  Dehan stared at me. “Maybe he’s dead.”

  I looked down at the sheet of paper. “Philips died October 2007. David died 6th March, 2008. Just four or five months later.”

  The sun had dropped behind the trees and the air had turned suddenly icy. Bernie shuddered and said, “I ought to be getting back. Look, you know that the minute you get something solid, this becomes a federal case, right?”

  I nodded. “And we’ll hand it over to you the minute I know it’ll be prosecuted.”

  He laughed. “That is a cagey reply, Stone, but I hear you and that is good enough for me.”

  I thanked him for the list and he shook our hands warmly. “I’ll make my own way back. The less we are seen together at the moment, the better. Be safe.”

  Dehan leaned her elbows on the bridge next to where I was standing and we watched him walk quickly away on his short, energetic legs. His camel coat flapped around his knees as he pulled it tight across his chest and turned up the collar. I sighed and shook my head again. “The information keeps building, and the more it builds the more it incriminates Hennessy and D’Angelo—and Lee, but we still haven’t a shred of anything that we can call actual, real evidence. Every bit of it is circumstantial.”

  She nodded. “We need David’s contact. We need that hit man.”

  I smacked her arm with the paper and said, “Come on. You must be exhausted and I know I am. Let’s get back to the precinct.”

  She stared into my face.

  “What did you leave at the precinct?”

  I frowned. “What?”

  “You’re not going to any precinct, Mr. Stone. You are going home, where I am going to cook you a chicken stew, and you are going to rest!”

  I smiled, perhaps a little smugly, and allowed myself to be pushed toward Park Avenue South. As we walked, my phone rang.

  “Stone? This is Inspector Newman here. We have Thorndike’s records. What do you want me to do with them?”

  “I’m on my way home, sir. Doctor’s orders…”

  “Really? So soon? I thought they were keeping you in.”

  “Yeah. The Stone constitution. Can you email them to me?”

  “Sure thing, John. You make sure you get your rest, you hear?”

  “I hear you, Sir.”

  I hung up and Dehan glanced at me. “Dave’s financials?”

  I nodded. “Yup. Maybe this will give us what we’re looking for, Dehan. It’s either cherchez la femme or cherchez the filthy buck.”

  And as dusk turned to evening, and the lights started to wink on around Central Park, she took my good arm and we headed back toward the car, and home.

  EIGHTEEN

  She sat me on the sofa with my laptop and went upstairs. I’d been putting on a brave show, but the fact is, if somebody drives a half-inch of lead through you, twice, no matter how non-lethal the wound, it’s a deep shock to your system. Our organisms just don’t like having things on the inside that are supposed to be kept on the outside, like half-inch lumps of lead. So the truth was I felt pretty wrecked and grateful for the chance to rest. I lay back on the sofa and closed my eyes, aware that my hands had started to tremble. I heard her go into my bedroom, and a few moments later she came back down with four cushions and a blanket.

  “You’re not stubborn,” she said. “You’re obstinate. It’s different, you know.”

  She lifted my feet onto the couch and took off my shoes. I frowned at her. “What are you doing? I might have had holes in my socks. A man’s socks are a very personal, intimate thing. “

  “Listen to you! You’re rambling. You’re probably feverish.” She packed the cushions behind my back and laid the blanket over me. “You know what the difference is, between stubborn and obstinate? Stubborn is determined and committed, obstinate is just plain stupid.” />
  “Hey! You backed me up in the hospital.”

  “Yeah? That’s ’cause I’m obstinate.” She put my laptop on my lap. “Are you in pain?”

  “Only a lot.”

  “Listen to me! Of course you’re in pain. I’ll get you some pain killers and a whiskey.”

  “That should do the trick.” As she walked away, I said, “I am never sure with you, Dehan, if you put it on for fun, or if this just happens to you when you are in the proximity of a kitchen.”

  She didn’t answer. I opened up my computer and switched it on. My shoulder was beginning to throb badly, making it hard to think and focus. I could hear Dehan banging around in the kitchen. After a bit, she came back and put an occasional table beside me and handed me a glass of water and two painkillers. She had a weird look on her face which I was in too much pain to read. When she’d seen that I’d swallowed the pills, she turned on her heel and marched away to pour me the largest whiskey I had ever been given in my life. I squinted at her and saw that something weird was happening to her face. Her mouth seemed to be twitching.

  “I’m going to have a shower. I may be a while. Then I’ll make you a chicken stew. You’ll eat a chicken stew right? Don’t be obstinate. You need to eat.”

  I nodded and smiled. “I’ll eat a chicken stew. It sounds good.” I deepened my smile. “Thanks, Dehan.”

  “Oh, shut up!”

  She turned and went very quickly up the stairs. I took a long pull on the whiskey and closed my eyes while it did its work. Uisce beatha, the water of life. After a bit, I opened my eyes again and accessed my email. There were two from Inspector John Newman. Each had a PDF attachment. One was David Thorndike’s bank statements for 2007 and 2008, the other was his credit card statements. I saved them to my David Thorndike folder and took another slug of whiskey. It began to mix with the painkillers and life began to seem tolerable.

  Upstairs I heard the shower start to hiss.

  The statements I needed were from October 2007 to February 2008, five months. I began to go through them, item by item. Dimly I was aware that Dehan’s shower was in fact quite a long one, but I paid no real attention. At some point the water stopped hissing, and there was a long silence. But what little concentration I had was focused on the long list of expenses before me: mortgage, electricity, telephone, wi-fi, repayments on his car, ATM cash withdrawals.

  As I came to the end of February, without having found anything significant, but having acquired a feeling of pleasurable ‘otherness’ from the whiskey and the painkillers, I heard Dehan’s feet, brisk on the stairs. She reached the bottom and looked at me.

  “How you doing there, Sensei?” She sounded nasal and puffy.

  I gave her a Cheshire grin. “I’m good. But you sound like you have a cold coming on. Maybe you should have some whiskey, too.”

  “Not a bad idea, Stone. I think I’ll do that.”

  She poured herself a drink and went into the kitchen to start cooking. I moved to his credit card. I closed my eyes for a bit and drifted among the comfortable sounds: the refrigerator opening and closing, a pot extracted from a cupboard and placed on the cooker, vegetables being chopped on a wooden board, the squeak and pop of a cork from a bottle of wine. After a bit, she started to sing softly.

  I may have drifted off, because when I opened my eyes again the stew was on, there was a wonderful smell on the air, and she was washing up.

  I looked at the screen in front of me and saw that in December of 2007 David had used his credit card to buy two tickets to Sri Lanka. A Christmas gift to themselves, perhaps.

  I made a note and kept scrolling. Then, in the last two weeks of January I found a series of credit card payments at gas stations in New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Missouri, Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico and Arizona. Neat. Then, three days later the same thing but in reverse order. There were also a couple of motels.

  I scrolled down a little further and found in the third week of February the same thing. A three day gap and a repeat of the same states, once again in reverse order. I sipped my whiskey and looked up. Dehan was leaning on the breakfast counter looking at me.

  “You want to eat on your lap, or at the table?”

  “At the table. He made three long trips in the period October to March, 2007, 2008. One, which we can probably eliminate, a two week trip to Sri Lanka at the end of December. He bought two tickets so I am guessing it was a Christmas holiday with Samantha. However, mid-January he takes a very long drive to Arizona and back. By the looks of it, he stayed about three days. Then, in the third week of February he repeated the trip. So we can say conclusively that during his investigation into Senator Hennessy, he made two long trips to Arizona, where he stayed a total of six days, three and three.”

  She smiled. “Bingo.”

  “We can also say then, with some degree of certainty, that this putative hit man…”

  “Putative hit man?”

  “Supposed hit man, was in Arizona at that time. We can zero in up to a point with his motel. And a couple of the gas stops in Arizona were probably made on his way to see K, or his way back.”

  “That’s good work, Stone.”

  I closed my eyes. “Tomorrow we’ll call Samantha in, ask her about Arizona. Do they have some connection with the place? What reason would he have for going there? We’ll ask her about Sri Lanka, too. There’s probably nothing in it, but it’s close enough to Pakistan to warrant looking into it.”

  She came around, switched off the laptop and took it away.

  “Okay, Sensei. That’s enough for today. The stew will be another half hour. Now you sleep for a bit. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

  At least, I’m guessing that’s what she said, because by then I was already asleep.

  * * *

  Samantha arrived at ten thirty the next morning. She didn’t look happy to be there. I wasn’t happy to be there either. Most people don’t realize it, but often as not, healing hurts more than getting injured in the first place. I was doped up and I knew I was going to have to rely on Dehan to make sense of the interview.

  I had asked Samantha when I phoned her whether she still had any of David’s papers and notes from previous investigations. She told me she had and I’d asked her to bring with her anything from the end of 2007 and January 2008. She’d said there wasn’t much, but she’d bring it.

  As we sat across from her she pushed a small stack of notebooks across the table toward me.

  “These are his notes and ramblings from the end of 2007 and early 2008, just before he left. You’re welcome to them. I’m sick of the sight of them. I tried to give them to Bob and Shelly, but they didn’t want them. I just couldn’t quite bring myself to throw them away.”

  I took them and thanked her.

  “Samantha, I have only a few questions for you, but your answers could be extremely important, so I want you to think very carefully and try to be as accurate as you can. You need to be aware that this investigation could go well beyond you and David and your relationship. Do you understand that?”

  She looked at me a moment before answering. Then, she nodded and said, “Yes. Of course.”

  “First of all, in 2007 you spent Christmas in Sri Lanka. Can you tell me about that? Why Sri Lanka of all places?”

  She sighed and made a long suffering face.

  “That was Dave all over. He suddenly developed this interest in Buddhism. All he could talk about was Buddhism. Buddhism this and Buddhism that and Buddhism was the answer to everything. And we had to go to Sri Lanka because Sri Lanka was the home of some special type of original Buddhism.”

  “Theravada.”

  She nodded at me. “Yeah, I think that was it. So as Christmas was coming up I agreed to spend the vacation in Sri Lanka. It was nice, but I missed the snow and the lights.” She smiled and shrugged.

  Dehan asked, “Where did this interest in Buddhism come from?”

  She shook her head. “I have no idea. He was like that. I
deas would just pop into his head. He’d become obsessed for six months and then forget all about them. Buddhism only lasted about a month or so…” She trailed off. “We got back, he went off to investigate his article, and that was the last I ever saw of him alive.”

  Dehan gave her a moment, then pursued her point. “So, your trip was two weeks over the Christmas period. His interest in Buddhism would have started around the beginning of December?”

  “I guess so, yeah.” She frowned. “Is his interest in Buddhism important?”

  I was wondering the same thing. Dehan shrugged, then smiled. “You never know.”

  “Samantha.”

  She turned to face me.

  “Can you think of anything unusual or in any way peculiar that might have happened during your visit?”

  She heaved a big sigh. “I don’t mean to be difficult, Detective Stone, but with Dave, everything was peculiar and unusual. His behavior was never normal.” She ran her fingers through her hair and sighed again. “What stands out most for me is the fact that that trip was supposed to be an opportunity for us to start mending our relationship, to start healing. We had been through a difficult patch and I was getting frankly sick of him. I had hoped, rather naively I guess, that we could turn it around.”

  “What happened?”

  She shrugged. “Buddhism happened. There was a temple…” She paused, thinking, and gave a small laugh. “They have so many syllables in Pali! Jetavanaramaya? Something like that, in the city of Anuradhapura. He used to go there every day to talk with the monks, read, study. The fact is I hardly saw him during the whole holiday.”

  I glanced at Dehan. She was frowning. She asked the question I should have asked, only my brain was wading through sludge.

  “Was there any one, particular monk that he befriended?”

  Samantha looked a little surprised. “Yes, there was. And if you give me a moment I’ll remember his name. Ananda. Ananda Sri Pannasiha. I remember because I used to tease him that he thought this guy was the panacea to all ills. And he wasn’t. Indirectly he was putting the last nails in the coffin of our marriage.”