Cass Jameson 03 Fresh Kills by Carolyn Wheat

Author:Carolyn Wheat [Wheat, Carolyn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781504002271
Publisher: Open Road Media Mystery & Thriller
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

We walked back to the Chevy in silence; before Artie turned the key in the ignition, he pulled out his pocket phone and talked to someone at the paper. Then he turned to me.

“Kyle and Donna Cheney live in Prohibition Park,” Artie said, putting the car into gear.

“Where?” I had a Staten Island map open on my lap, but that name appeared nowhere.

“It’s called Westerleigh now,” my companion explained with a smug little smile. “But when it was built in the twenties, the streets were named after dry states and anti-booze politicians. Hence Prohibition Park.”

“You are just a fund of Staten Island trivia.”

“Hey, when my editor assigned me to this beat, she told me to learn everything I could about this borough, and by God—”

He broke off as we reached the corner of an unmarked street. “Where the hell are we?”

I consulted the map. “Take a right, then a left,” I ordered, a smug smile of my own playing around my lips.

Kyle and Donna Cheney lived on a wide street with large, lush yards, attached garages, and houses that looked lived in. As we drove toward the split-level stone-and-white house, Artie said, “This one’s mine, Counselor. I doubt these people would be thrilled to spill their guts to a lawyer.”

“Whereas they’ll be happy to see themselves quoted in your paper as would-be baby-buyers,” I countered. But as we walked toward the house, I stayed back, letting Artie make the moves. He walked toward the door and rang the bell.

The door was answered by a short woman with dark hair and a pale face. She gave Artie a wary once-over and asked in a gruff tone what he wanted.

“Mrs. Cheney?” he began. “I’m sorry to disturb you like this. I’m a reporter for the—”

“Go away. I don’t want to talk to you people.” Her voice rose.

I stepped forward and spoke into the screen door. “I’m not with the press,” I called, holding up a conciliatory hand.

“I don’t care who you are or what you want,” she shot back. “I don’t want to talk to anyone about what happened to that girl. It’s nothing to do with me or my family, and I don’t want anyone coming around here and bothering us.”

“Mrs. Cheney, all I want is to—” I wasn’t quite sure what I wanted, but it seemed important to find out what she had to say about my client. And maybe she and her husband hadn’t decided against dealing with Amber; maybe they’d been at the mall the night she was killed.

“I don’t care what you want,” she shouted, her voice rising into a screech. A man next door called through his screened window, “You need some help there, Donna? Want I should call the cops?”

She shook her head. “Thanks, Bernie,” she called back, “but they were just leaving.” She said the words with a pointed little smile of triumph, knowing we had no choice but to obey.

A white van with a rosebush painted on the side pulled into the driveway; the motto on the side was “Cheney Nursery and Landscaping.

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