Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #4: Books 13-16 (A Dead Cold Box Set)

by Blake Banner

  “Could you not have telephoned? Do you not have telephones in New York?”

  I smiled a bland kind of smile. “Ms. Browne, we have traveled two and a half thousand miles to ask you a couple of questions. We won’t take up much of your time, but we would be very grateful if you would let us in.”

  “I have nothing to say.”

  “If this is not a convenient time, we can come back…”

  “I have told you, I have nothing to say.”

  I sighed. She reached for the door to slam it in my face. I spoke quietly. “We will come back with the Elk Grove PD, ma’am, in cars, with sirens, with a search warrant, and we will take you in cuffs to the station for questioning.”

  Her face went like chalk and her mouth sagged. “You can’t do that! On what grounds?”

  “Obstruction of justice is the least of the charges I will bring against you. Aiding and abetting a murder suspect, harboring a suspected criminal… That’s just for starters. Now, Ms. Browne, why don’t you do yourself a favor, let us in and just answer a few, simple questions.”

  She stood back and held the door.

  We went through to a large, open-plan room with a mezzanine floor. One wall taken up with sliding glass doors that led onto a patio and a back lawn. The floors were polished hardwood with rugs, and the chairs and the sofa were in dark leather. There was a cold, empty fireplace. Two small steps led to the higher level where there was a dining table. I looked for family photographs. There were none.

  On the sofa, I noticed an embroidery basket and a hoop. Held in the hoop was a piece of white linen with an attractive and intricate peacock embroidered on it. The work was almost finished but for a few tail feathers. Pierced into the cloth, as though she had been embroidering when we called, was a small needle with a trailing red thread, knotted at the end.

  I sat in an armchair without being asked. Mary’s face said she didn’t like that, but I didn’t care and my face said that. She sat at the far end of the sofa and Dehan took the other chair. I said:

  “Ms. Browne, I think I had better explain the situation to you. It is important that you understand exactly what is going on here. Your brother was a suspect in the murder of Sue Benedict, twelve years ago. DNA and fingerprints were found on the victim, but no match was found in the police databases. Everybody who was at the Halloween party Sue had attended just before she was killed gave samples of DNA and their prints. None of them matched. The only person who was at the party and did not provide a sample was Cyril. Because he had vanished.”

  I waited a moment to see if she would say anything. She remained immobile and silent, with her hands clasped in her lap.

  “These circumstances naturally made him a suspect. However, in the last couple of days, since my partner and I have taken this case, we have come across evidence that suggests very strongly that he did not kill Sue Benedict.”

  A cautious frown creased her brow. “What kind of evidence?”

  I drew breath, but it was Dehan who answered. “Sue was raped by whoever killed her. Your brother had severe erectile dysfunction. He couldn’t achieve an erection even with the help of Viagra. Therefore he could not have raped her, even if he’d wanted to.”

  Her expression said it was the first time in her life she had ever heard the word ‘erection’ spoke aloud. Then, as the implications of what she had been told began to sink in, her expression changed. Her eyes jerked this way and that, with little twitches of her eyebrows. I gave her a moment to assimilate the importance of what Dehan had said.

  “It is still extremely important that we talk to Cyril. Apart from the killer, he may be the last person to have seen Sue Benedict alive. We believe he may well have seen the killer. Besides which, Ms. Browne, if he is innocent he needs to be cleared. He must be living in hell right now.”

  She raised her eyes to meet mine. “I actually have no idea where he is, Detective Stone.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t believe you.”

  “I can’t help that.” She straightened her tweed skirt over her knees. The room was very quiet. Somewhere I could hear the tick of an old fashioned clock. It made the house seem quieter.

  “Cyril and I were very close as children. But after he went to New York, we lost touch. I always tried to look out for him, but it seems he didn’t appreciate that. We didn’t communicate for quite a few years. Not even Christmas cards.”

  She looked up, raised her chin, as though challenging me to make something of the fact that they hadn’t exchanged Christmas cards. When I said nothing, she looked back at the hem of her skirt.

  “Then, quite suddenly, twelve years ago, out of the blue, he telephoned me. He said he was in serious trouble and needed my help, just for a few days.”

  Dehan asked her, “What kind of help?”

  Mary closed her eyes. She made an eloquent expression of impatience. “It was absolute nonsense. Typical of Cyril’s. Melodramatic nonsense. He said he was in trouble with the police. He had been framed for murder, for goodness sake! He needed to stay with me for a couple of days and then he would be gone. If the police called, I was to tell them I had not heard from him.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well naturally I told him not to be so foolish. That if the police wanted to talk to him he should go to them, but he became almost hysterical, so I told him to come home.”

  “Is that what he did?”

  “Yes. He was in a frightful state, sobbing like a little girl, half hysterical. I gave him a hot bath and a hot meal and that seemed to soothe him. He wanted to tell me some ridiculous story about a girl who had been killed, and somebody who was trying to frame him. I didn’t want to hear it and I told him so.”

  I frowned. “But when the police telephoned you…”

  “I told them what I told you: I had nothing to say. Our family business is none of your concern. I am only talking to you, Detective Stone, because you threatened me.”

  “Where is he now, Ms. Browne?”

  “I have already told you I don’t know. He stayed a couple of days, then flew to somewhere in Europe. He didn’t want to tell me where, and frankly his behavior was so absurd I didn’t want to know.”

  Dehan was making a face like brain-ache. “But everything he told you was true.”

  Mary gave her head a stiff little shake. “You don’t know Cyril. He is always making up absurd stories and getting ridiculously emotional over them.”

  Dehan gave a small laugh and shook her head too. “No, Ms. Browne. What he told you was true. Do you not understand that?”

  Her cheeks flushed. “Don’t try to tell me about my own brother! I know what he is like! Before long, he’ll come running back because he has wet his pants, or grazed his knee and I will have to bathe him and cook him a meal and then he’ll cry himself to sleep like a silly little girl. He is hopeless.”

  I gave Dehan a glance to shut her up and asked, “What is the age difference between you, Ms. Browne?”

  “What has that to do with anything?”

  “Please answer the question.”

  “I am ten years his senior.”

  “Are you blood relations?”

  “Of course we are! What an absurd question!”

  “Ms. Browne, we are nearly done. Please bear with us a little longer. Can you tell me about your parents?”

  She faltered, shrugged, gave her head another little shake. “I mean… like what?”

  “Well, for example, they left you a substantial inheritance. You’re a school teacher, he was a librarian, they are not the best paid jobs in the world, yet…”

  She cut me dead. “Both of our parents died when I was fifteen and Cyril was just five. The house was paid for and both mother and father had substantial life insurance. By the time the authorities had finished messing around, I had turned sixteen. They put us through hell in the courts, trying to take Cyril away from me. But I fought them every step of the way, and in the end the judge decided we had been through enough, and it would do
Cyril more harm than good to be placed with a foster family. So I brought him up on my own. They appointed us a social worker, but it didn’t take me long to get rid of her.”

  I looked around the room and gestured with my hand. “I don’t see any pictures of your parents, or of Cyril.”

  “They were good, strict Catholics. They didn’t encourage sentimentality. Love and devotion should be for God. I brought Cyril up in the same way.”

  “Where in Europe did he go?”

  “I told you I don’t know. I don’t want to know. He’ll come back soon enough.”

  “Where in Europe would he go?”

  “I don’t know!”

  Dehan said, “Why would he choose Europe? He must have had a reason to go there. Was there some place he always wanted to visit? There must be some reason he went there.”

  “How many times do I need to tell you? I don’t know! When he was small he never stopped yammering. I spent my whole time telling him to shut up. And when he turned twelve you couldn’t get him to utter a word. I don’t know why he went to Europe, or where he went in Europe, and frankly I don’t want to know because it is just another one of his stupid fantasies!”

  I scratched my chin. “‘Another one of his fantasies.’ Did he have a lot of fantasies?”

  “All the time.”

  “Can you give us an example?”

  “More? How about moving to New York? Or his idea he was going to be, ‘independent’? Or that he would have a family of his own? The notion that he had been framed for murder, flying off to Europe. Why do you think I simply stopped listening to him? Every word that came out of his mouth was some kind of stupid fantasy.”

  Dehan sighed and sat forward, with her elbows on her knees. The gesture was loud in the silent house. “Do you keep his bedroom ready for him to return?”

  She shrugged. “It’s his bedroom.”

  “Has he anything in there like a hairbrush from which we might be able to get a sample of his DNA?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “Certainly not, you won’t let us, or certainly not there is nothing of that sort?”

  “Certainly not, there is nothing of the kind. This is a clean, respectable house, Detective. Do you honestly think I would have a dirty hairbrush hanging around for twelve years?”

  Dehan sighed again and muttered, “Certainly not.”

  “I should think not.”

  I said, “Would you allow us then, Ms. Browne, to take a sample of DNA from you? We would be able to establish from that whether the samples at the scene were from a relative of yours.”

  “Not,” she said, “under any circumstances whatsoever. And if you have finished with your absurd questions, I would now like you to leave. This ridiculous situation has gone on far to long. Now, please.” She stood. “Leave, and leave me and my family alone!”

  I sat watching her a moment, then stood. She was almost as tall as I was. Dehan stood too and I said, “How did your parents die, Mary?”

  “It was a car crash. Why?”

  “Did Cyril witness it?”

  She hesitated before answering. “He was in the car, if you must know. What is this, some psychological nonsense? God saw fit to take them. We accept His will and get on with it.”

  I offered her a sad smile and nodded, like I knew what she was talking about only too well. “Sure. Thank you for your time, Ms. Browne. I am sorry if we’ve brought up distressing memories.” I pointed at the embroidery on the sofa. “That is quite lovely.”

  She was taken aback. “Oh, thank you.”

  I laughed. “You’ll think me stupid, but I have a small request. I have had a splinter in my finger since yesterday. I can’t seem to get rid of it. I wonder if I could borrow your needle…”

  “Oh, good heavens! Of course!”

  She reached for her sewing basket, but I stepped over and removed the needle from her hoop and put it in my pocket. “Thank you so much. You have been extremely helpful and kind. My apologies once again for disturbing you. We’ll see ourselves out.”

  We stepped back out into the gentle, Californian sunshine and closed the door behind us. We walked back toward the car. It bleeped loudly as we approached, and Dehan asked me, “So that was weird. You want me to pick out that splinter for you?”

  I stood staring across the road and shook my head. “No, thanks…”

  “So what do we do now?”

  “We go to church, Dehan. We go to church and pray for guidance…”

  Nine

  Across the road from Mary Browne’s house was the school where she taught. Next door to it, and apparently attached, was the Good Shepherd Catholic Church. It was huge, and set in the middle of a large parking lot, resembling more a vast, modern conference center than the traditional idea of a church.

  We crossed the road, and then the parking lot, and pushed through the large, plate glass doors into a cool, shaded reception area with high ceilings and marble floors. There was a desk, with leaflets on it, and behind the desk there was a smiling woman in a dark blue suit. I returned her smile and said, “I never saw a church with a receptionist before.”

  “This is the twenty-first century! And after all, isn’t St. Peter Heaven’s receptionist?”

  Dehan made a noise that might have been a laugh but sounded more like a gurgle. I said, “I had never thought of it like that. I was wondering if we could have a talk to whoever is in charge…”

  Her eyes twinkled with religious humor. “I think the Lord might be a little busy at the moment, but I’ll see if Father Cohen is free.”

  I watched Dehan’s eyebrow climb all the way up to her hairline. “Father Cohen?”

  The woman beamed. “Do you know him?”

  Dehan shook her head. “No, I never met a Father Cohen before.”

  She picked up an internal phone and said, “Whom shall I say…?”

  I showed her my badge. “I’m Detective Stone and this is Detective Dehan, we are here making some inquiries about a case in New York. We would like to ask Father Cohen a couple of questions about a parishioner of his.”

  She made an ‘O’ with her mouth, put the phone down and tapped across the large, echoing reception to disappear through a couple of doors at the far end. Dehan said, “I guess there is no reason why not.”

  “None at all.”

  “You could have a rabbi called O’Malley, couldn’t you?”

  “Or an atheist called Dehan.”

  We stood in silence for a moment, and I had the strange sensation that even the silence was echoing in the vast space. After a moment Dehan whispered, “What are we doing here?”

  I whispered back, “Trying to understand.”

  “In a church?”

  I nodded and the doors across the echoing hall opened again and the receptionist reappeared, accompanied now by a tall man in his sixties with curling red hair not yet turning to gray and a vigorous stride. He was dressed in jeans with a checked shirt and walked toward us smiling, with his hand held out. It was a gesture he had to abandon half way because it was such a long distance to cover before he got to us. When he did arrive, he stuck out his hand again and shook mine, then Dehan’s.

  “Father Cohen,” he said. “And you must be Detectives Stone and Dehan. A pleasure to welcome you to our humble home. I was just about to take my morning constitutional, will you walk with me in the gardens?”

  We said we would and stepped out of the church, back into the sunlight. We crossed the road and entered onto a large common, fringed by trees and dotted here and there with occasional benches. Once on the grass, he slowed his pace and said, “So, how can we help the NYPD?”

  Dehan said, “We are trying to locate Cyril Browne.”

  He stopped dead in his tracks and frowned at her. “Why don’t you speak to his sister? She lives right here.”

  He gestured at her house. I scratched my chin. “We have. Father, if I could explain... Some years ago, Cyril became the prime suspect in a murder case.”

 
His eyes went wide and he stared at me as though he thought I was insane. “That is the single most absurd thing I have ever heard in my life. Forgive me.”

  I nodded. “I know. It’s a long story. Just trust me that at the time, the evidence was compelling. However, my partner and I have uncovered new evidence that would seem to exonerate Cyril. The point is we do need to talk to him.”

  He made a face and pulled his mouth down, shaking his head. “This is all news to me. I am afraid if you think I can tell you where he is, you are barking up the wrong tree. I have had no contact with Cyril for years.”

  “No,” I said. “I imagined as much. But Mary told us that about twelve years ago Cyril flew to Europe. She doesn’t know where, or why for that matter, and she says she has not heard from him since.”

  “I see.” He was frowning down at his feet as he walked, and sounded as though he really didn’t see at all. “But I am sorry, I am still at a loss as to how you think I can help.”

  Dehan was squinting at me as though she agreed with Father Cohen. I plowed on.

  “I don’t believe Cyril stayed in Europe. I don’t see how he could have. He had to have come back by now.”

  “That seems reasonable.”

  “So what I am trying to do is develop some kind of understanding about how Cyril thinks, what makes him tick, so that ultimately I can get some notion of where he is likely to have gone. I’m afraid his sister was not very helpful…”

  He nodded that he understood. “Hmmm…”

  “But if I can understand what makes Cyril tick, how he thinks, what things are important to him, what motivates him, like I say, maybe I can narrow my search down from the whole world, to places in the U.S.A. where he is most likely to have gone.”

  Father Cohen stopped and stared up at the sky, like he was asking his boss what the hell he thought he was playing at, sending this bozo to spoil his constitutional. “Gosh,” he said. “That is a tall order.”

  “No,” I said. “It’s not really. I think there is one, defining event in Cyril’s life that shapes and conditions everything he does.”