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

Do you happen to remember anything else, at all, about this card? The number, perhaps…?”

He straightened his back and dignity stiffened his neck and made him raise his nose and chin in the air. I thought he was going to tell us he threw the card straight in the trash, but instead he said, “In fact, as it happens, I made a note of the details in my address book, because I thought maybe one day the police might be interested.”

“That was very perceptive of you, Mr. Javid.” I tried to keep the irony from my voice and avoided Dehan’s eye. He stood and went out to the hall. There he pulled a slim, black diary from his coat pocket and returned to sit down.

“She goes by the name Xara, Xubmissive. Her telephone number was…” He recited the number and added, “I have never called her, obviously, and this was twelve years ago, so I don’t know if she will still be in New York or if she will be of any help to you. This kind of people are often liars and very duplicitous, as I am sure you know from your work, but I am quite sure he used to visit her.”

Dehan smiled blandly and blinked. “There isn’t much we haven’t come across in our work, Mr. Javid, and we certainly know how to spot a duplicitous lie, believe me.”

He looked uncomfortable and turned to me. “That really is all I can tell you about him. I suppose the most notable thing about Cyril was that there was absolutely nothing notable about him. Apart, of course, from his apparent penchant for naughty women.”

We thanked him, shook hands and stepped out into the icy wind again. We stood at the car a moment, Dehan gazing out at the inky, choppy waters of the river, I gazing up along Thieriot Avenue, toward the corner with Patterson. “What is that?” I said. “Three hundred yards? Two strides per second, a hundred and fifty seconds, two and a half minutes…”

Dehan nodded, and pointed out at the dark water. “And that right there is where the knife and his blood-stained clothes are.” She turned to look at me. “Let’s go talk to the submissive Xara before we go to California.”

I sighed. “For sure. Rogers works Vice. Why don’t you give him a call? He might know her.”

We climbed in the car and as I pulled away, she was dialing. After a moment, she asked to be put through to Detective Rogers, in vice, then said:

“Rogers, hey, it’s Dehan… Yeah, not bad. He’s good too. Listen, we’re looking for a hooker…” She paused, watching the road go by. “Uh-huh, that’s funny. I never heard that one before…” She looked at me, rolled her eyes and shook her head. “No, yeah, things are great with us, don’t worry about it. He told me he wanted me to moan more. I told him, ‘Such a day I had! I never stop working. The car broke down. Now I have no car…’ but apparently that’s not what he meant. Yeah, I thought you’d like that one. Now listen to me, will you? Her name is Xara Xubmissive, Both with an ‘X’ instead of an ‘S’, apparently she’s submissive. Subtle, right?... Yeah? You know her? No, not in the biblical sense. Right, give me her number and address, will you?” She took out her pen, grabbed my left hand and jotted down the number and the address on my palm. “Yeah, thanks Rogers, you’re a real asshole. Take it easy.” She hung up and said again, “Asshole. Thirteen oh nine B, Seneca Avenue. The number has changed.” She grinned. “So Javid hasn’t called in a while.”

Seven

Thirteen oh nine Seneca Avenue was across the river in Hunts Points. It was a redbrick box with an arched porch and a dead tree in the front yard. We rang and hammered for five minutes until we heard the slip and flap of slippers approaching the door. It was yanked open and a large, peroxide blonde in her early fifties stood squinting at us through two coils of smoke that were issuing slowly from her nostrils. She was wearing a large pink bathrobe and pink fluffy slippers. Between her bathrobe and the slippers she had plump white legs that needed shaving. She said:

“You look like cops.”

Dehan was smiling and breathing condensation into her palms. She pulled out her badge and showed it. “I’m Detective Dehan, this is my partner, Detective Stone. Are you Xara, with an ‘X’?”

“Yeah, I’m Xara with an ‘X’, ‘X’ for sex, ‘X’ marks the spot. What do you want?”

“We just want to ask you some questions about Cyril Browne.”

She screwed up her face like she’d bitten into a lemon. “Who? Are you Vice? Why ain’t Rogers with you?”

“Can we come in, Xara? It’s kind of cold out here.”

She sighed a big, noisy sigh, turned and walked away, leaving the door open. I said, “I think that means we can go in. After you, Detective Dehan with an ‘H’.”

We followed her down a dark green, threadbare carpet to a small kitchen at the back of the house. There was a vinyl floor, a sink stacked with dirty dishes, a fold down table made of steel tubing and Formica, and two chairs of the same design. She sat on one of them, beside a mug of coffee, an overfilled ashtray and a cell phone.

“I was working,” she said, as though in answer to an unspoken question. “‘Swhy I couldn’t open the door. They pay before they get put through, so you gotta finish the session, or they don’t call back. You can’t leave the guy half way, right?”

I rested my ass against the draining board and Dehan leaned on the doorjamb. We watched her crush out a cigarette and pull another from a carton. She spoke