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

bell. The sergeant opened up and let me in. I could hear the TV in the next room. I spoke quietly.

“He called.”

“What did he say?”

I shook my head. “Tick tock.”

“You think he’s here?”

“I don’t know. Is she asleep?”

She shook her head.

We went through to the living room. Nancy looked up, questioning me with her eyes. I smiled, though it wasn’t from the heart. “Everything is quiet.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“We are going to catch him.”

I sat on the sofa and pulled out the photograph of the mall. There was something about it that was wrong. I couldn’t put my finger on what it was, but there was something nagging at the back of my mind. Dehan had been smart to see how it had been inverted, the relationship of the tree to the door and the letters. Nine out of ten people would not have spotted it, especially in a rush. That told me this guy was cunning.

The way he had angled and focused the shot so that any identifying marks were outside the frame. All you could really see was the big double glass doors with the light pouring out from inside. Then there was Nancy right in the middle of the doorway, reaching out with what seemed to be her right hand but was really her left. That made sense because she was holding something, a bag, with her right hand.

“You’re right-handed?”

She glanced at me. “Yeah…”

And then everything in the foreground was dark and out of focus. It was as though there was a split, two distinct parts to the picture. The dark blur of the foreground, and the bright clarity of the background.

I felt the hair on my head prickle, and I went cold. I was suddenly aware that I had been extremely stupid. I still wasn’t sure why, or how, but something in my mind was screaming at me that if the background was clear and the foreground was dark and blurry, the foreground was where I needed to be looking.

This was not about Nancy Pierce.

Then things started to slot into place. The hazy, grainy figure getting into or out of the car right in the foreground was wrong. It was what had been troubling me since Dehan spotted that the photograph was inverted. Because the person getting in or out was on the left of the car. You could just make out the steering wheel. But if the picture was inverted it ought to be on the other side.

My brain was scrambling. Had he cut the picture in half and only inverted the top? That didn’t make any sense. What would be the point of doing that? So what other explanation could there be? The only explanation was that the car wasn’t American. The car was English.

“Shit!” I shouted and ran. “Maria! Call Dehan. Tell her to be armed and check her apartment. He’s going after her! I’m on my way!”

I scrambled into my car and hit the gas. I called for backup and burned rubber down Crotona Park North, did sixty the wrong way on Crotona Park East, and skidded onto Southern Boulevard. Then I floored the pedal. It took me less than a minute to cover the mile, and it was a miracle I didn’t kill myself or somebody else. I screamed right into 167th, floored the pedal again, and then screamed left at the junction, going the wrong way again, into Dehan’s street. I skidded to a halt outside her door and jumped out.

My phone was ringing. It was Maria. “She’s not answering.”

I could hear sirens approaching.

“Okay. I’m here.”

I hung up and pressed all the bells at the same time. As they answered, I yelled, “NYPD! Open up!”

The lock buzzed. I slammed through and ran up the stairs. She was on the fifth. By the time I got there I was gasping for air and my legs were shaking, but I didn’t pause. I pulled my piece, shot out the lock and pushed in, screaming, “Dehan! Dehan!”

I checked the kitchen. It was clear. I burst into the living room. The light was on, but the room was empty. I was still screaming her name like a maniac. It was a one-bedroom apartment. I could only have been there a few seconds. I kicked in the bedroom door, holding my gun out in front of me.

The bedroom was dark, but the bathroom door was open and there was light coming out. There was a figure in the bathroom door, in silhouette, staring at me. It took me a full three seconds to register that it was Dehan. She was wearing pajamas, and her hair was wet. “What the fuck, Stone…?”

I was aware that I was shaking. I tried to control it and said, “You’re okay…” It wasn’t a question.

“Yeah. I’m okay…”

I went to her and put my arms around her, hugging her hard for a couple of seconds, more to reassure myself that she was okay. I let her go and looked into her face. She was smiling uncertainly. I heard voices calling from the door.

“Detective Stone! NYPD!”

“Okay, I’m here.” I holstered my piece and stepped out. “Sorry, guys, another false alarm.”

The patrolman pointed at the blown lock. “What’s this?”

“I thought Detective Dehan was at risk.”

He frowned curiously at me. “You got this?”

“I’ve got it.”

“Okay…”

They left and I went back to Dehan. She was standing in her bedroom door.

“You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“You weren’t answering your phone.”

“I was in the shower. I guess I didn’t hear it. But that’s no reason to shoot out my lock, Stone.”

“Sit down.”

She sat on the sofa, and I sat next to her. I showed her the photograph. “Look at the car in the foreground. Look at the woman who’s about to open