Knife Edge (A Dead Cold Mystery Book 27) by Blake Banner (best motivational books to read .txt) 📕

see it as that important. He thinks the kid is just playing, he’s not serious. So Wagner decides to take matters into her own hands.”

She made a doubtful face. “It’s feasible, but based on…” She spread her hands and shrugged.

I laughed. “Like everything else, it’s based on the fact that we have a pool of suspects so small it barely exists at all, plus a total dearth of forensics and witnesses. Our logical process in this case seems to be, ‘Somebody had to do it, these are the only people with opportunity, it must be one of them.’”

She nodded. “That is our process of deduction in this case, Stone. It’s not good enough, but it’s all we’ve got.”

The waitress brought our whiskeys and I asked for the check. When she’d gone I took a sip and said, “Well, I think it’s got us about as far as it can. If we are going to put together a case the DA can use, we need to start to gather either witness testimony or forensic evidence.” I smiled, a little ruefully. “Or preferably both.”

“That would be nice.”

We stepped out into the cold night. An icy breeze was creeping down Broadway, making you shudder and shiver as it felt its way down collars and into ankles. Dehan came close and put her arms around my waist. I shared my coat with her and hailed a cab.

Eleven

Eight o’clock the next morning the call came from the chief while we were having breakfast:

“John, good morning, I hope I haven’t woken you.”

“No, sir, we’ve been up for a while. Any news on the court order?”

“I spoke to Judge Henderson. He’s usually pretty sound. He has signed an order for you to have access to the boy for as long as you need, reviewable after a week. Obviously that is subject to normal lawful limitations.”

“A week?” I put the phone on speaker and laid it on the table. Dehan froze with a forkful of bacon and eggs halfway to her mouth and stared at me. “That won’t be much use, sir. The kid has been catatonic for about six years. We not only need access to him, we need to get him into therapy.”

“Quite so, John, but as he explained to me, he can’t make an order as sweeping and far reaching as that without a hearing. He would have to make the child—though he is in fact a young man now—a ward of court, when the boy already has responsible parents. He can’t do that without very good reason; reason which must be heard and proven in open court.”

“So where do we go from here?”

“The first step, John, is for you to collect the order, deliver it to the Mitchells and see the boy. On the strength of what you observe there, we may or may not be able to apply for a hearing in which we request the court make an order requiring the parents to provide the boy with appropriate therapy, to be approved by the court.”

I sighed and rubbed my face. “OK, thank you, sir. We’re on our way.”

Dehan mopped the egg from her plate with a hunk of bread and spoke through a mouthful of breakfast.

“Pick up the order, go talk to Marcus, then pick up your car.”

“Makes sense to me.”

But it didn’t work out that way. Halfway down Morris Park Avenue, with Dehan in the driving seat of her Toyota Corolla, my cell rang. It was Maria, the desk sergeant at the station.

“John, you and Carmen need to get to 1001 Elder Avenue, corner of Bruckner Boulevard.”

I frowned. Dehan glanced at me. “What’s it about, Maria? We’re on our way to the station. We need to collect an order from the chief...”

She cut across me. “I’m thinking this has priority, handsome. Sergeant Gunther responded to a nine-one-one just twenty minutes ago. He called in and told me to get you. He said he thought it was your case.”

I was visualizing the map in my head and sighed. “Thanks, Maria.”

I hung up and put my phone away. To Dehan I said, “Elder and Bruckner.”

I heard her swear softly. We followed Morris Park to the end, crossed the tracks and took the Bronx River Avenue to East 173rd and Boynton Avenue. At the end of Boynton we found the end of Elder Avenue, the boulevard, two patrol cars, an ambulance, a crime scene van and Frank, the ME’s, beaten-up old Ford. They were all grouped around number 1001, with the blue tape hanging listless in the cold morning air.

Dehan parked beside the ME’s car and we climbed out. Sergeant Gunther, a tall platinum blond with a face like a slab of chiseled concrete, came down the dogleg iron steps from the front porch to meet us.

“Detectives, you’re looking at a cold case about the Mitchell kids, right? I heard yesterday the kid’s aunt had come in to talk to you about it.”

I nodded. “Yeah.” I pointed at the house. “This is the aunt, right?”

“I think so, but you’d better have a look.”

Dehan asked, “What happened?”

“She’s in the living room. Her boss is there. She didn’t turn up for work and he came to see if she was OK.” He arched his brows. “Apparently he has a key.”

“Thanks, Gunther, good call.”

He raised the tape and we ducked under it, then climbed the eleven metal steps that described a right angle up to the front door.

The living room was small. It was full of two men and a woman dressed in white plastic who were meticulously examining everything and taking photographs of what they examined. As well as them there was Sonia, lying on her back on the floor. She no longer looked elegant or desirable. Her left leg was bent at an odd angle. Her right was straight. She was wearing red shoes and a red dress. Her arms were straight by her side and her eyes were goggling at the ceiling. Frank was hunkered down beside her, making the place