Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #2: Books 5-8 (A Dead Cold Box Set) Blake Banner (read out loud books txt) 📖

“Yes, Dehan, I am sure I will be there. Don’t be an ass.”

She swiveled her eyes back to the screen, and after a couple of minutes she picked up the keys and put them in her pocket.

* * *

The Rockford Center was a permanent exhibition located in a large dome, set in its own garden and surrounded by fountains. Opposite was the Rockford Building on the Avenue of the Americas in Manhattan. The exhibition it hosted was described as ‘an ongoing tribute to those philanthropists committed to elevating humanity to its highest potential’. It consisted of an ever changing display of photographs, films, and installations that illustrated variously how wonderful these philanthropists were, how limited the potential of those they helped was in comparison to the potential of the philanthropists, and how starkly impoverished were the lives of those who were poor—truly poor—in the poorest countries of the world. Put more briefly, it seemed to say, “Look at us, aren’t we wonderful!”

Shelly had picked me up in a limo. She looked aggressively attractive in a crimson dress with a gash up to her right hip, and a diamond necklace that looked real and did nice things for her cleavage.

The chauffeur deposited us at the end of a red carpet that led to the glistening, plate-glass entrance of the exhibition center. There was a handful of photographers and a small crowd of celebrity spotters, but they ignored us because Mark Zuckerberg and his wife were just ahead of us. Shelly took my arm and leaned in to me.

“Have you read the guest list?”

I tried not to sigh. “No.”

“It reads like the Forbes 400. Bill Gates is here, George Soros… All of them.”

I wondered for a moment how it felt for Carol Hennessy to know that there were almost sixty people in America whom were richer and more powerful than she was. I put the question to Shelly as we stepped through the door and she handed over her invitation. I took two glasses of champagne from a passing tray and gave one to her. She took it and studied my face as she sipped.

“You’re gunning for her, but have you any actual, concrete evidence?”

“You know I can’t answer that question.”

She thought for a moment, then said, “You know, John, we are both investigators and we both know that evidence is a very subjective thing.”

I shook my head. “No it isn’t. Evidence should be objective.”

“Okay, if you are talking about DNA or fingerprints. But you know as well as I do, that if one person states firmly enough on TV that they saw smoke beyond the trees, by the end of the day there will be a hundred people who believe they saw smoke beyond the trees, even though there was no smoke to be seen. And within a week there will have been a raging forest fire, where there was none.”

I sighed. “Shelly, I am not in the business of framing innocent people. I am not here to take somebody down just because they look guilty. I’m with William Blackstone when he says that it’s better that ten guilty men go free than that one innocent one should suffer…”

She smiled. “It’s a hundred guilty men and it was Benjamin Franklin.”

I smiled back. “In a letter to Benjamin Vaughn in 1785, paraphrasing William Blackstone in his Commentaries on the Laws of England in 1765. You see, you are not the only one, Shelly, who likes to be sure of her facts.”

“Touché. But be careful, John Stone, nobody likes a know-it-all.”

“That would explain a few things.”

She laid her hand on my chest. “Come on, let’s mix.”

For the next hour, we sipped and mixed and chatted, mainly with other members of the press and very few billionaires. Eventually, I found Hennessy. She was talking to a small crowd of people who had the look of foreign dignitaries from developing countries. D’Angelo was there, in the background. He caught sight of me and Shelly and looked away. But after a moment, he muttered something in his mistress’ ear. She seemed to ignore him, but after a while she looked over to us. I glanced at Shelly and saw that their eyes met. But Shelly looked away, and so did Hennessy.

I raised an eyebrow. “I guess you’re not going to introduce me, then.”

She shook her head. “No. I believe she is a good person, John. I don’t believe any of the stories about her, and I don’t believe she is capable of murder.” She shrugged. “She has devoted her life to helping the dispossessed and the underprivileged. I admire her.”

“But you won’t obstruct me.”

“If you can prove—with hard facts—what you believe to be true, then you should do your job. But don’t expect me to help you in persecuting her.”

“You’re close, aren’t you?”

She hesitated. “We were once. But that’s another story. I admire her.”

That was when I saw him. He was about twenty yards away, beyond an ice sculpture, in an evening suit that probably cost as much as my car.

I turned to Shelly. “Will you excuse me for a moment, Shelly? I’ll be right back.”

She looked a little sad. “Of course. Go do your job, Detective Stone.”

I crossed the room and strolled up to Jackson Lee. He was chatting urbanely to a cluster of attractive women in sparkling dresses. They seemed to think that what he was saying was funny. I wondered if he would think that I was funny.

“Good evening, Lee. What a surprise to find you here.”

The women all turned to stare at me. Lee blinked at least half a dozen times. “Detective Stone. What are you doing here?”

I smiled as though his question surprised me. “The same as you. I was invited. Didn’t you know, Lee? I am a great benefactor of the underprivileged,