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

him. Everybody knew him. It was Mick Harragan, the bent cop who had killed Dehan’s parents.

Twelve

It was a three hundred yard walk to Angela’s house, what used to be Rosario’s house. It was a walk that Rosario and Pauli must have done a thousand times, and Angela with them; until Rosario had been murdered, murdered for being pretty and fun and attractive and curious.

We walked slowly, Dehan with her hands thrust deep into her pockets, frowning at her feet as she went. “It’s not unexpected,” she said after a moment. “This was Harragan’s beat. He had it sewn up. If Ed was up and coming in the barrio as a defense attorney, he would have sought a connection with Mick Harragan, to keep him sweet. And if Harragan saw a young Puerto Rican making a career for himself as a defense attorney, he would have sought that connection, too. For the same reason.”

I nodded. “Yeah, they were natural bedfellows. The question is, did Mick rape her, or was it Ed?” I shrugged. “Or somebody completely different. So far we have little more than hearsay.”

It was getting warm and she reached behind her neck and tied her hair into a knot. “Logically,” she said, “I doubt Mick did it. He knew the Latino culture pretty well by then, and he knew it was very territorial. He may have been an arrogant son of a bitch, but he was also cunning, and he knew how to manage his patch. Rosario was Ed’s. Ed was making a claim in that photograph. Mick was on the outside, so was Ed’s wife. Ed was holding Rosario. She was his.”

“So Mick would not have intruded on that.”

She shook her head. “The fact that he even went along to Ed’s barbeque was a gesture of respect. He was acknowledging that Ed carried weight in the ’hood. He wouldn’t have messed with his girl.”

I nodded again. “OK, that makes sense.”

She shrugged. “I guess he just got sick of waiting.”

I glanced at her. “Sick of waiting?”

“Yeah, he kept promising her marriage, he was going to leave his wife, all that BS, and she just kept telling him, ‘Sure, when you do that, we’ll share a bed.’ He got tired of waiting.”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“After that, Mick Harragan saw to it that the case went cold. He looked out for his pal.”

We turned into Bryant Avenue and started in the direction of Angela’s house. There was a dark blue BMW parked outside. There was no reason why there shouldn’t be, but it caught my eye and my gut told me there was something wrong. I noticed Dehan had gone quiet. Next thing, she was loping across the road toward the car, and I was running after her. We were maybe a hundred yards away. For a moment, there was the sound of a woman screaming. I was pulling my piece, accelerating. Dehan had her weapon in her hand and had broken into a sprint. Then there was a figure, big, dressed in black, barreling down the steps.

I shouted, “Stop! Police! Stop!” He had the passenger door open and he was about to climb in. He stopped and turned to look. I saw he had a ski mask over his face. He thrust out both hands in front of him, leaning on the roof of the car. He had an automatic and he was taking his time to take aim.

To take aim at Dehan.

She stopped dead, raised her weapon. There was a double crack, almost simultaneous. I powered into Dehan and hurled her to the ground, sprawling on top of her. I didn’t stop. I kept sprawling and scrambling to my feet. But I heard the squeal of rubber and the car was away, turning left onto Garrison Avenue.

I turned toward Dehan. “You OK?”

She was getting to her feet, wincing. “Yes.”

I ran for the house.

The door was open and I took the nine steps in two bounds, shouting, “Police! NYPD! Angela, are you OK?”

I froze in the hallway, listening. The bright sunshine lay in a twisted oblong at my feet, framing my shadow. I could hear crying. It was coming from upstairs. Another shadow rose up next to mine. Dehan. She came and stood by my side. I gestured at the living room. She covered me and I went in. It was empty. The back room was the same. Dehan checked the kitchen and we made our way up the stairs, weapons drawn and held out in front of us.

The sobbing grew louder. I shouted again, “Angela! This is Detectives Stone and Dehan! Are you alone? Are you hurt?”

We were on a broad landing. There was a restroom on the right, and three bedrooms making a right angle, two in front of us and one on the left. Only one of the doors was open, and that was were the crying was coming from. It was an ugly, guttural noise, like a young child crying convulsively with an adult’s voice.

A shadow moved in the doorway, and then Angela stepped out, her mouth twisted with grief, her hair disheveled, her nightgown awry and ripped open, drenched in blood that streamed from a gash in her forehead.

I moved past her and into the room while Dehan holstered her weapon and went to her. The sheet and the pillow were stained with blood. The duvet was twisted and half on the floor. It also had blood on it. I pulled my cell from my pocket and stepped back onto the landing. As I dialed, I said to Dehan, “Get her downstairs, to the living room. Don’t touch the blood for now.”

Into the phone, I said, “This is Detective Stone. We need a crime scene team at 899 Bryant Avenue, we also need an ambulance.”

I followed them downstairs. Angela was leaning on Dehan’s shoulder, still