Dead Cold Mystery Box Set 2

by Blake Banner

  “Hey Frank, Stone here. How is it hanging?”

  “Loose. What can I do for you?”

  “5th September, 1999. Simon Martin. Stabbed through the sternum, twice, does that ring any bells?”

  His laugh was mirthless. “You know how many stabbings we’ve had in the last eighteen years, Stone?”

  “No. Can you look it up? Maybe even scare up the pathologist who did the report by this afternoon?”

  “Yes, maybe, no. Yes, I can look it up. Maybe I can scare up the pathologist if he, she, or it is still in a condition to be scared. No, I can’t do it by this afternoon. I’ll call you when I have looked into it.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “No, you don’t. You take me for granted.”

  “You’re right. I do, I’m sorry.”

  He hung up.

  Dehan was strolling back across the room, listening carefully to her cell. She spoke briefly, giving her email address. Then, she sat, hung up, and reached behind her head to tie her hair in a knot at the back of her neck.

  “He had two insurance policies. The first covered the mortgage on the house in the event of his death. Which means that she basically got the house without having to pay for it. The second gave her an income for life of five thousand dollars a month; so sixty grand a year.”

  “Holy cow. That’s like having a million bucks in the bank and living off the interest.”

  She leaned back in her chair and picked up a pencil, which she put in her mouth as though it were a cheroot. “I have a perfect life. The only problem is, this pain in the ass of a husband who keeps pissing on my parade. Now, to make matters worse, he has taken out two insurance policies that make him totally redundant.”

  I thought for a moment and wagged a finger at her. “We need to take a closer look at the nature of those bruises. Frank is looking up the case. He’s going to get back to me.” I checked my watch. “Let’s grab some coffee before the reverend gets here.”

  FOUR

  Reverend Truelove arrived on time and was shown into interview room number three. That seemed to surprise him. As we sat down opposite, he smiled nervously at both of us.

  “It feels as though I am being interrogated.” Then, he laughed like he was inviting us to tell him he was being ridiculous.

  I gave him a second and said, in a neutral voice, “It’s just a little more private than the main lounge.”

  “Of course.”

  Dehan leaned her elbows on the table. “So what did you want to tell us, Reverend?”

  He laid his hands flat on the table and spread his fingers, looking at them like he was counting how many he had. He spoke carefully. “It is about where I was that evening, the evening of the murder, I mean.”

  “You said you didn’t remember.”

  He raised his eyes and spoke to me, even though it was Dehan who’d made the comment. “The question took me somewhat by surprise. But reflecting afterwards, I recalled, of course, I had been to dinner with friends. Which was why I could not be there for poor Sylvie that night.”

  Dehan reclaimed his attention. “Do you mind telling us who those friends where?”

  “No, of course not. I was dining with the Cavendishes, at their home in Eastchester Bay. I did not get home till gone midnight, and went straight to bed.”

  I said, “You understand we will have to check with them. It’s not that we don’t believe you.” I smiled. “It’s just that we are obliged to check.”

  “Naturally, Detective. I don’t expect to be treated differently than anybody else.”

  Dehan gave a small, humorless laugh. “You won’t be. Reverend, you mentioned yesterday that Simon had taken out substantial insurance coverage…”

  He gave two or three big nods. “Oh, indeed. He took his duties as a husband and a father very seriously. Yes, he left Sylvie very well provided for.”

  “Were you aware of the size or nature of the coverage? Was it, for example, something that he or she ever discussed with you?”

  His face went a little pale. He stared at Dehan and then turned back to me. “Am I to understand, Detectives, that I am a suspect in your investigation?”

  I smiled and took a moment to answer. “These are routine questions, Reverend. We are trying to arrive at the truth, and sometimes that means asking innocent people questions that might sound offensive.” I sat forward and leaned my elbows on the table next to Dehan’s. “So, were you aware of the insurance coverage he had taken out for her?”

  He shook his head, frowning. “No, we never discussed anything of the sort. I became aware of it after he had died. Speaking about finances makes me uncomfortable and he knew that.”

  I pressed him. “I assume you helped her to sort out all the details…”

  “Naturally, Detective, we all did. We are a Christian community…”

  Dehan grunted. “Did Sylvie know about the insurance?”

  His frown deepened. “How could I possibly know that, Detective?”

  I scratched my chin. “At what time did you leave for the Cavendishes’ that afternoon?”

  “I don’t recall.” He laughed. “It was almost twenty years ago! But if we were due to dine at seven or seven thirty, then I imagine I would have left at five or five thirty.”

  “Sure. You drove?”

  “Almost certainly.”

  “Reverend, what is the nature of the relationship between yourself and Sylvie?”

  “I beg your pardon?” His eyes were bright with anger.

  I frowned at him, like he didn’t make sense to me. I said, “It is a very simple question, Reverend. I don’t know why it should cause offense. I am asking if you and Sylvie are intimate. What is the precise nature of your relationship?”

  “We most certainly are not intimate! I am her pastor and her friend, no more!”

  Dehan was watching him intently. She interrupted him. “What is it about that question that causes you offense, Reverend? As far as I am aware, Methodist pastors can marry…”

  “Naturally, we can…”

  “So a relationship with an attractive, available woman like Sylvie is perfectly feasible…”

  “Well, yes, but I mean to say! That is not the nature of our relationship! What you are implying is appalling!”

  I raised an eyebrow. “That you colluded? That you were accomplices?”

  “How can you even imagine such a thing! I have devoted my entire life to helping people in the service of God. And she… well, she is as close to being as angelic as any woman can be!”

  Dehan raised her eyebrows high on her forehead. “Wow! That is high praise indeed.”

  He took a deep breath. His cheeks were flushed. “I have perhaps expressed myself too forcefully. I must say I do not take it kindly that I came here in good faith to offer information and you have ambushed me into giving you an entirely erroneous impression. I have great admiration for Sylvie, but nothing more. If there had been any more, you may be sure we would have acted on it by now.”

  I made a face like I understood him and regretted our questions. “A murder investigation is not a pretty thing, Reverend. At the moment, nobody is a suspect, and everybody is. That’s just the way it goes. We are grateful for your cooperation, but listen, just before you go. I wanted to ask you about Humberto…”

  I watched his face really carefully. It did a lot of things. He blinked a few times. He frowned and his eyes narrowed. His lips contracted a few times like he was about to say something, but thought better of it. Finally, he said, “What about him? You surely can’t suspect him!”

  I grinned. “I refer you to my previous answer. What’s his story? Where is he from? What is that language he speaks? Rumor has it you adopted him. Is that true?”

  “No, it is not true. I did not adopt him. Rumor is just another word for gossip, Detective, and it is best to be ignored.”

  Dehan snorted. “Unless you’re a cop. Then you find the subject of the gossip and you ask them to clarify the rumor. We call it following
up on a lead.”

  He studied her face a minute, then looked back at me. “The way he speaks is called Idioglossia. It is a form of language which he has created himself, out of Latin, especially liturgical Latin, Spanish, Portuguese, and a wide smattering of neologies, created by himself on a broad Latin base.”

  “What has caused him to create a language based entirely on Latin languages, with no English at all?”

  He shook his head. “I have no way of answering your questions, Detective. Have they any relevance at all to your investigation, or are they merely the product of unseemly curiosity?”

  “I won’t know that,” I said, “until I get the answers.”

  He looked me straight in the eye. “I can assure you that Humberto is the gentlest, kindest person you are ever to likely encounter, and he is incapable of causing harm even to an insect at that.”

  I nodded. “No doubt you are right, Reverend. Thank you for coming in and giving us your information. We really appreciate it.”

  He stood, gave me a look that said he’d think twice before volunteering to help the cops in future, nodded at Dehan, and left without shaking my hand.

  “I think he’s upset,” she said to her fingers as she drummed them on the Formica tabletop. “I think he wanted a smiley sticker for having been a good boy.”

  “You are a heartless, mocking kind of girl, Dehan.”

  “Let’s go to Eastchester, Stone, and call upon the Cavendishes.” She looked up at me without smiling. “I’ve heard they do provide the most splendid alibis. Simply to die for!”

  It took about twenty minutes to get to Country Club. The Cavendishes had their house right on the shore, on Country Club Road. It was a big, sprawling, terra cotta affair with a double-entrance drive. I parked my Jag next to their Buick and Dehan rang the doorbell. The door was blond wood with stained glass panels. I noticed Dehan looking at them and sucking her teeth.

  “What’s the matter? You don’t like the stained glass?”

  “You telling me that’s art? You disappoint me. I’ll give you twenty bucks if that was made a day before 1973.”

  I heard the flap of Havaianas and the door opened onto a woman who had been attractive a decade earlier and thought she still was, despite her sustained efforts at systematic self-destruction. All of this you could read in the mocking regard of her watery, slightly oversized eyes, and the way she held her gin and tonic as though it were an extension of her hand. Her jeans were too tight and her skin was too loose.

  “My God, you look the part,” she said. Dehan’s eyebrows slid toward her hairline and I pulled out my badge. I was about to speak, but she said, “I know who you are. Paul told me to expect you. Come in, the name’s Liz, and for God’s sake, loosen up and have a drink. Or a joint. You want a joint?”

  I said, “Thanks, I’ve already eaten.” But she turned and walked away from us. Dehan followed and I stepped in and closed the door. We followed her voice, which called to tell us she was by the pool.

  We found her sitting in a large wicker chair by a garden table, on a patio by a manicured lawn. The pool was some thirty feet away, shining a luminous turquoise with liquid, silver streaks. She pointed languidly to a trolley of drinks and said, “Make free. Is the sun over the yardarm yet, Detective Stone? Or am I being a very naughty girl?” She leered at Dehan. “You won’t object if he uses his handcuffs on me, will you, Detective Dehan?”

  We sat and I leaned on the table. It was barely midday and I already felt exhausted. “How many of those babies have you had, Mrs. Cavendish?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh, you sound like my mother! What’s it to you? There’s no law…”

  I sighed and interrupted her. “I don’t give a damn how many you’ve had, Mrs. Cavendish. You can drink yourself into oblivion, for all I care. But I am here to check on Reverend Truelove’s alibi, and if you are too drunk to be coherent, then we are all wasting our time. If you’re drunk, we’ll leave. If it’s an act, cut it out.”

  Her cheeks flushed. She had large brown sunglasses perched on the top of her head, which she now lowered over her eyes and looked away.

  “How rude,” she said. “This is my first of the day, in fact.”

  “Good. I need to ask you about the night of the 5th of September, 1999. Now, I know it’s a long time ago, but it’s important that you be very accurate. If you are not sure, it is better that you tell us, rather than lie.”

  “I remember,” she said, still staring at the pool. “Paul came to dinner that night.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because the next morning he telephoned to tell me about poor Sylvie. Such a sad girl.”

  Dehan lifted her aviator shades onto the top of her head, in a strange echo of Liz Cavendish’s recent and opposite movement. She narrowed her eyes and asked, “He phoned you in the morning? Can you remember what time that was?”

  Mrs. Cavendish shrugged. “God, I don’t know. I was still in bed, I remember that much. It must have been nine or ten at the latest.”

  There was something that wasn’t squaring up for me. “How do you know Reverend Truelove, Mrs. Cavendish? Forgive me for being blunt, but you don’t strike me as the Bronx Methodist Community type.”

  She finally looked at me and gave an ironic smile. “Finally, a compliment. Paul and I go back a very long way. We’ve been friends for decades. I met him in Brazil over thirty years ago, in the mid eighties. He was half a ton of trouble back then, I can tell you that for free.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “Not really.”

  I sighed. “Is Mr. Cavendish at home? We would like to talk to him as well.”

  She snorted. “Reggie? Reggie is always at home. He never leaves.”

  Dehan leaned forward. “Mrs. Cavendish, perhaps we haven’t been clear enough with you. See, here’s our problem. This is a murder investigation, and we have a very small pool of suspects. So that means that these people’s alibis are really important. Because if the alibi doesn’t hold up, or is unconvincing, that person could go to prison for twenty or thirty years. Which I figure would bring Reverend Truelove to somewhere around eighty-five or ninety before he joined you for a dinner party again. We are trying to discuss something important with you, Mrs. Cavendish. And the frivolous act isn’t helping anyone, least of all your pal Paul.”

  She gave Dehan a look that was long and hostile. “My husband is paralyzed from the neck down. He also has brain damage. Forgive me if I seem frivolous, Detective. It’s how I cope.”

  I asked, “How long has he been in this condition?”

  “Twenty-five years. It’s the reason we came back from Brazil. It was an accident, white water rafting.”

  “Was Reverend Truelove already back in the States?”

  She took a long time to answer. “We all came back at roughly the same time.”

  “So, when he said that he was dining with ‘the Cavendishes’, what he actually meant was that he was dining with you.”

  “Yes, Detective, that is what he meant. You have unearthed our sordid little secret.” She heaved a big sigh. “Don’t worry, I am not deluding myself. I know there are others. I told you, he was a ton of trouble back then and probably still is. Even if he has become insufferably pompous, there is no doubt he’s shagging the brains out of this poor Sylvie woman too.”

  Dehan was in like a shot. “What makes you say that?”

  “Sweetheart, because he would shag the table if he could find the right hole. And for some reason that only God understands, all those sweet, beatific Christian women just can’t seem to keep their pure, lily-white legs together when that almighty, bombastic, pompous ass, the Great Reverend Paul Truelove, bestows one of his sainted smiles on them.”

  “He’s a rake.”

  “That’s another way of putting it, yeah. He’s a fucking rake.”

  We sat for a moment in silence. Finally, I said, “Mrs. Cavendish, is there anything of what you’ve just said that you would like to change?”
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  “No.”

  “You are certain that Reverend Truelove was here on the night of the 5th of September, 1999.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we won’t take up any more of your time.”

  We stood but she didn’t look at us. She just said, “See yourselves out, will you? And close the damn door while you are at it.”

  FIVE

  I needed to think, so instead of going back to the precinct, I drove a mile or so north to the Huntington Woods, at Pelham Bay Park. We left the car in the parking lot and walked down through the trees to sit on the grass by the water.

  It was almost midday, but the sun was already beginning to slip toward the south, giving its light a russet hue, making the shadows longer and the small waves look colder. I sat on an old, decaying wall, but Dehan walked on, down onto the mud, leaving deep imprints in the sludge. She had her hands in her back pockets, and the wind out of the south was making a mess of her long, black hair. She looked at the water for a long time, and then turned to face me. The lenses of her shades were like two copper suns. She made her way back toward me with slow, trudging steps, tying her hair in a knot behind her neck as she walked.

  When she was a few feet away, she raised her voice over the wind. “His alibi isn’t worth a thimble of piss.”

  I laughed. “That all depends on how good she is at giving evidence.”

  “They are lovers.”

  “They were lovers, we don’t know if they still are.”

  She climbed up from the mud onto the blacktop and stood stamping the mud from her boots. “Do you believe he was with her that night?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “My gut tells me he called her last night and set it up. Why does a guy set up a false alibi?”

  “Being guilty is only one possible reason. Another is that he is scared he is going to look guilty.”

  “You don’t think he did it?”

  I shook my head. “No, Ritoo Glasshopper. I think there is a damned good chance he did do it, but I just don’t know why exactly. I am trying to listen to what the evidence is telling me. And…” I sighed. “At the moment, it is just burbling meaningless nonsense about Brazil. They were all out in Brazil together. Reggie broke his neck and they all came back to the Big Apple together. Reggie and Liz to their place on Eastchester Bay, and Paul screwing his parishioners in East Bronx. Clearly, Dehan, there is more to this than meets the eye.”