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

She glanced at her watch, said she was about to grab some coffee, and would I like to join her? I said I would. We strolled down to the cafeteria and eventually sat. She smiled at me, and I thought that she was pretty, in a neurotic sort of way. She had short blonde hair and very blue eyes that had a tendency to stare while she grinned.

“I am looking for a woman who would have moved out here about ten years ago, as a student. She lost touch with her mother and her brother, who was only ten at the time. Now the mother is very sick, and the boy feels his sister should know. In case she wants to come back and see her…” I shrugged, allowing the implication to sit there between us.

“That is so sad. You think she came here, to Berkeley?”

“It’s probable. She was keen and very bright, and she was very interested in psychology. I’ve tried to access lists of old alumni online, but it isn’t easy.”

She frowned. “Sure. I can tell you if she studied here. But I can’t give you any contact information.” I told her I understood that. “What is her name?”

“Maria Garcia.”

She giggled. “Do you know how many John Smiths we get in a year? Well, we get that many Maria Garcias too. I’ll have a look for you though.”

She took me back to her computer terminal, and I sat next to her while she rattled at the keyboard and entered the filters into the database. After a while she said, “We had four Maria Garcias join the psychology undergraduate program in 2008. One of them was from Mexico City, two were from San Francisco. One of them was from L.A.”

She turned and watched me chew my lip. She must have liked me because she was very patient and tried 2009 too, but with no joy. Finally she said, “Look, I have to get back to work. I shouldn’t do this, but one of the students you just viewed wound up doing her PhD here and now works as a lecturer in child psychology. It’s a long shot, but if your Maria was here at that time, they might have known each other.”

I thanked her and she told me where the lecturer had her office. She had since married and was now Maria Chandler.

I got lost again among the corridors but eventually found her door. I knocked and a voice told me to come in. It was a small office with a window and lots of filing cabinets. There was a woman with disorganized dark hair sitting behind the desk, who must have been in her midthirties. There was a bald man in chinos, and a woman with short, sandy hair and large glasses. They were both of a similar age, and they were sitting in armchairs, also drinking coffee. They all looked at me, and I felt like I was interrupting a break. I didn’t really care and said, “Maria Chandler?”

The woman behind the desk said, “That’s me.”

“I wonder if you could spare me five minutes of your time. It is actually quite serious.”

The man and the woman went to rise, but Maria said, “No, hang on.” And to me, “What’s it about?”

“I am a police detective from New York, and I am trying to trace somebody, unofficially, because they may be in danger.”

The guy said, “Whoa!” and Maria raised an eyebrow at me. I pulled out my badge and handed it over to her. While she examined it, I looked at the other two and said, “Were you all students here back in 2008?”

The girl said, “Yes.”

“Then you might be able to help.” I looked at Maria again and made a question with my face. She said, “Why don’t you tell us, briefly, what this is about and we’ll take it from there.”

I gave them the bones: that it was a cold case, that Maria Garcia had gone missing, that a couple of the people involved had shown up dead, and that we had reason to believe that Maria’s life might be at risk. The woman behind the desk said, “Maria Garcia? That’s my name.”

I smiled. “That’s why I’m here, talking to you.”

“But I’m not from the Bronx…”

“I know that. There were four Maria Garcias in your year. None of them was from New York. But it’s possible that she changed her name. She was escaping from a very violent past, where she had been exploited and abused, so she may have changed her identity.”

The idea that she had been exploited and abused must have appealed to their sensibilities because their demeanor changed and they all frowned in thought at the same time. The woman with the glasses said, “You know who? That girl. She was shy. She said she was from Michigan.” The guy had started nodding. She went on, “But she had that ‘noo yoik’ kind of accent? She used to say ‘caw-fee’ instead of coffee? I never really believed that she was from Michigan. What was her name?”

The guy said, “Mary. Her name was Mary. Mary…” He sighed and looked at Maria, who was staring back at him. She said, suddenly, “Browne, with an e. Mary Browne. That’s right, she said she was from Michigan. What did this girl look like, Detective?”

I was still standing. They hadn’t invited me to sit down, but I leaned my back against the door and said, “I haven’t got a picture, but by all accounts she was pretty. She was of Mexican origin, short, dark hair, olive skin, dark eyes…”

Maria said, “This girl wasn’t pretty.” The girl with the glasses said, “Hmmmm…” like she didn’t agree. “Could have been. Lovely eyes.” The guy said, “She just didn’t look after herself. She looked drawn and tired all the time, but she was quite cute. Lovely