Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #1: Books 1-4 (A Dead Cold Box Set) Blake Banner (love books to read .TXT) 📖

bay, bobbing on the gentle waves, was a twelve-seater seaplane. Dos Santos was approaching it fast, and somebody on board was opening the door and firing up the rotors.

Tony grinned. “If I ram him, will the city buy me a new boat?”

“Don’t put yourself at risk, Tony. We stand down. We let them get away.”

“Are you kidding?”

He aimed the prow of the boat at the seaplane and accelerated to top speed. Dos Santos was pulling up by the near float. I was searching in my mind, trying to anticipate what the hell Tamara thought she was going to do. She heard us approaching and turned to look. She raised her gun to careful aim and fired. The shot went wide. Dos Santos was reaching up frantically for the door. I saw Tamara lean against him. She pressed the revolver against his back and fired. Suddenly she had her hands to her face, screaming. The gun went over the side, and she was on her knees, shaking dos Santos like she couldn’t believe he was dead, making out we had shot him. Hands were reaching down for her from the plane.

I saw her hand slip in his pocket, and then she was clambering aboard and the plane was accelerating away down the river, rising, climbing into the air.

We pulled up beside dos Santos’s launch, and I clambered aboard. He was slumped against the gunwale, bleeding profusely. I felt his pulse in his neck; it was just a flutter. I looked back toward the shore. I could see the red-and-blue flashing of police units. I looked over at Tony. “Radio in—we are going to need an ambulance.”

Dos Santos’s eyes seemed to clear for a moment, and he focused on my face. He was an ugly, pasty gray color. He was trying to talk, and I leaned close. “You,” he hissed, “You will go to hell for this…”

The last words he ever heard were his own, telling himself he was going to hell. That’s how I choose to see it anyhow.

I felt in his pocket, but the box was gone, as I knew it would be.

Tony threw me a line, and we tied dos Santos’s boat to his, then towed it back to the harbor. Dehan was there with half a dozen cops waiting for us on the quay. She helped me up out of the launch, searching my very bruised and battered face.

“Are you okay?

I shrugged. “She got away. I’m sorry.”

“And dos Santos?”

“Dead.”

She looked down at his body, where the cops were trying to lift him out.

“I guess he’ll be facing trial somewhere else.”

I snorted. “Yeah, maybe.”

Twenty-Nine

The captain didn’t look pleased. We sat looking at him across his desk, while he sat looking at the glaring sunshine outside.

“It’s a less than satisfactory outcome, John. I’m not blaming you, but I have to say that it isn’t up to your usual standard. Either of you.”

“No, sir,” I said, “We are not satisfied with the result either.”

Dehan said, “Have you heard from the hospital, Captain?”

“Duffy is in a serious condition, but he will live. There is also news of the plane, which is why I asked you to come up here. They found the wreckage of the seaplane out at Montauk Point.”

I frowned. “What about the bodies?”

“Two pilots. Tamara Gunthersen’s body was probably washed out to sea.”

“What does the ME say about cause of death?”

The captain looked surprised. “They crashed in a plane. What do you expect him to say?”

“Well, sir, I am guessing that dos Santos, with his resources, employed competent pilots. In this weather, there is little reason to crash. So I’m wondering why they did.”

He looked impatient. “He has barely had time to look at them, but there will be a full report on the cause of the crash and the cause of death. Let’s not try to complicate it any further.”

“Yes, sir.”

He looked at us in turn and seemed to relent a little. “However,” he said, “I must congratulate you both on resolving a very complex mystery, even if the body count was rather high.”

Dehan spoke up. “Thank you, sir, but we did not in fact cause any of those deaths. Tamara Gunthersen turned out to be a pretty lethal woman. In my opinion, Detective Stone did well to come out of this alive.”

The captain gazed at her through hooded eyes that were probably meant to be intimidating. She met them with a smile. Dehan is not easy to intimidate.

“As I said,” he went on, “I must congratulate you. Your recording via the webcam on your laptop was very effective. You have quite a flair for the dramatic yourself, John. It is just a shame we won’t get to prosecute anyone with the evidence you garnered.”

Dehan was in a voluble mood and spoke up again, with a grin that bordered on the insolent. “Ms. Gunthersen has at least saved the city the cost of an expensive trial. Sir.”

“That is not an appropriate observation, Detective Dehan.”

“No, sir.”

“All right. It has been a very trying case, for both of you, but especially you, John. I suggest you take a few days off to recuperate.”

We thanked him and left. It was six o’clock. I dropped Dehan at her apartment on Simpson Street and made my way home. I had a shower, ate a steak, and by eight o’clock I was in bed with a book, falling asleep as the lines crossed in front of my eyes. Gradually, blissful unconsciousness enfolded me.

I lay staring at the darkened ceiling, wondering what had woken me up. I looked at my clock. It said 2:02. I was still tired. My eyes were heavy. Then the doorbell gave a prolonged jangle, and I knew that was what had woken me. I wondered what the hell Dehan