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

Author:Blake Banner [Banner, Blake]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-10-14T05:00:00+00:00

TWO

She pulled off her coat, walked away and stood staring out at the street. Her silhouette against the cold, gray light was long and slim. After a moment, she turned and sat on the windowsill.

“They were close. They were probably having an affair. He was going to ditch her, or there was another woman; story as old as hormones. We don’t know anything about them yet.”

“I know…” I looked around the room. “But does this look to you like a place where there was a crime of passion? Even the wine glasses have coasters.”

“What are you getting at?”

“I don’t know. The wine glasses have coasters, everything is neat and tidy, and yet she has blown eight holes in her twenty thousand dollar suede chair. And she has used a silencer.”

“How the hell do you know that? There’s triple glazing…”

“A fact which she would have known. But the penetration, from a 9mm Sig, there would have been deeper penetration into the chair, I think. The silencer reduces the velocity of the bullet.”

I crossed the landing to the bedroom. The drapes were closed. They too were a dark green, and thin cracks of green light glowed down their sides from the park woodland outside. The bed was made and uncreased. I went into the en suite bathroom. There was a shower cubicle, but no bath. The towels were all folded and clean. There was a shower gel scented with lime and lavender, and an anti-frizz shampoo for extra body. And there were a lot of other things I had started to find in my own bathroom since I had married Dehan.

I stepped out of the bathroom and saw Dehan with her arms crossed, leaning against the doorjamb, looking down at the bed.

“I know what you mean,” she said. “There is no disorder.”

“The only disorder is the killing.” I thought a moment. “The killing, and the fact that she is missing. We may find she’s a little OCD when we talk to her workmates.”

“Mm-hm. I think you’re right.”

“This place has nothing to tell me, Dehan. Which, in itself, says something, but I’m not sure what yet. Let’s take a walk and see what his house has to say.”

We stepped out into the cold, still air and walked, hunched into our coats, the two hundred yards back up the road to Jose Robles’ house. This house was, again, peculiar. The first floor was made of raw stone, like big rocks cemented together, then filed down so they were flat. It was indescribably ugly. A flight of steps, which looked like something out of a medieval castle, rose to the front door, not directly, but across the façade of the house; and that front door was not at ground level, but on the second floor. The third floor and the attic were all clapboard, like the back of the house.

As we approached, breathing great clouds of condensation, Dehan, whose nose and cheeks had turned red under her hat, said, “Do you think these houses were designed in the ’60s, and the architects were all high on acid?”

“It would explain a lot.

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