Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #4: Books 13-16 (A Dead Cold Box Set) Blake Banner (ereader iphone txt) 📖

the side and raised her eyebrows. “It could lead to a transformation as huge as the Industrial Revolution, or bigger. But I really can’t discuss it.”

I nodded. “Sure, I understand. And whatever research he conducted would be the property of the university.”

“Those are the standard terms of the contract.” She frowned. “But, I don’t see what that can have to do with Agnes killing Jose. They weren’t even in the same department. Her work was related to socio-economic dynamics and the impact of international finance on cultural development.”

Dehan spoke suddenly, glancing at me like she agreed with Dr. Meigh and wanted to get the conversation back on track. “You said you were about as close to Agnes as anyone. Have you any idea where she might have gone?”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Detective Dehan, none whatsoever. We simply weren’t that close. I was a friend to her in that I was supportive, but she really never confided in me in any way.” She gave a small laugh. “If she has any sense, she’s in the Bahamas!”

Dehan grunted and muttered, “Or Goa,” then asked, “Was there anyone, besides Jose, that she was close to?”

“No. I don’t honestly think she confided in anyone. Jose, maybe, if he were able to listen.”

“How about family?”

She smiled. “You’re out of luck. She was an only child. Father died when she was a young child, drank himself to death. Mother was an art teacher, if I recall. A rather indolent, negligent woman. She died a few years back. Agnes inherited the house from her. I am not aware of any other family.”

Dehan grunted, then sighed. “How about rivals, doctor? The way you’ve described them, they don’t sound like very attractive people, but is it possible that Jose had started seeing somebody else?”

She gave a derisive little snort. “It’s possible, I suppose. Frankly, I find it hard to believe any woman would go for a man like that, but I am constantly amazed at the specimens some women are attracted to. He may well have been seeing someone else. I am just not aware of it. But please don’t get me wrong about Agnes. She is a very sweet person once you get to know her.”

I made to stand. “Who has his class now, Doctor?”

“Donald, Donald Hays.” She glanced at her watch. “He should be finishing his lecture now, two floors down, in the Goodenough Theatre.”

I glanced at Dehan. She shrugged and shook her head. I stood.

“Dr. Meigh, thank you for your time. You have been very helpful.” She stood, we shook hands and I opened the door. As Dehan stepped out, I turned to Meigh and asked her, “By the way, which one are you? A doctor or a scientist?”

She looked surprised. “Me? Neither! I’m an academic. All I want is the corner office with the best view, the best parking lot and a towering reputation.”

“Oh.” I laughed. “Is that what an academic is? I had often wondered.”

I closed the door and we made our way down two floors in the elevator. After a moment, Dehan frowned at me. “The Goodenough Theatre?”

“John Goodenough. He invented the lithium ion battery.”

“Why do you know that?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Why don’t you?”

We found Donald Hays leaving the Goodenough lecture theatre. He was a lean man in his early forties with a big black briefcase, a big, domed head and balding hair that grew long over his collar. His students streamed about him like a river that has broken its banks, and he was pushing through them like a man trying to escape a flood. He was easy to identify.

“Mr. Hays?” I showed him my badge as the students milled around us. “NYPD. This is Detective Dehan, I am Detective Stone.”

He seemed to sag. “Is it about Jose?”

“Yes. Have you somewhere we can go?”

“I have half an hour for lunch. Can we talk in the cafeteria? It’s downstairs.”

He led us down to the cafeteria at a brisk pace that was hard to keep up with, his head down and his legs moving fast, as though he hoped not to be noticed. As we pushed through the glass doors into the spacious, soulless, self-service canteen, he pointed across the room at a table by the glass wall overlooking Washington Square Village and said, “That’s my table. Grab my table. I’ll get the coffee. You want coffee?”

We crossed the room, which was hung with a few listless baubles and bits of tinsel, grabbed his table and sat, watching him load his tray. Dehan dumped her woolen hat on the table and ran her fingers through her hair. “All academics are like this,” she pronounced, like she was passing judgment. “They’re all crazy. My cousin is a lecturer in the classics. He’s the same. Neurotic. Everything is an issue. They’re all out of their minds.”

“Your cousin is a lecturer in the classics?”

“You never met my family.”

“You won’t let me.”

“I’m afraid you’ll judge me.”

“That’s crazy.”

“You see? You’re doing it already.”

Hays approached with his tray, put it down on the table and handed out the coffees. As he set about peeling the plastic off his chicken sandwich, he said, “They’re fifty cents each.”

I gave him a dollar. “How well did you know Jose Robles, Mr. Hays?”

“It’s Dr. Hays, and I imagine they have told you already, we were quite close.” He bit into his sandwich. Picked up his cup, put it down again and spoke with his mouth full. “But not close enough to kill him, for God’s sake.”

He made a face that might have been a smile, tried to sip his coffee, winced and took another bite from his sandwich.

“Did you socialize?”

He swallowed so he could answer. “Well, I mean, how else would be you close to somebody? Short of moving in together.” He