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

Mitchell. Get Sanchez and Olvera to pick up Emma. Don’t let Brad and Emma talk to each other. I’m going to go get Dr. Wagner. We’ll interview the three of them at the same time.”

She didn’t reply for a while, then said, “What if they refuse to cooperate? Or they lawyer up? We haven’t got enough to arrest anyone.”

“Then we know we’re onto something.” I sighed again, feeling restless, like I was missing something. “One thing is really clear to me, Dehan. The blackmail and the murders are intrinsic to each other. But…,” I gently beat my brow with the heel of my hand, “I am also aware that I am not seeing something. Something fundamental. I am overlooking something obvious. It is right there, staring us in the face… But I’ll be damned if I can nail down what it is.”

“I gotta tell you, sensei. This time I think we are on the wrong track somehow. I know.” She held up one hand. “I know, the pool of suspects is almost nonexistent, but I don’t love any of them. They are all possible, but not a one of them goes ping.”

She dropped me at the French Roast and headed off south down Broadway toward the Psychology Department. I climbed in the Jaguar and headed north toward the Alexandra Hamilton Bridge, and White Plains.

The drive took me a little less than forty-five minutes and at shortly after noon I pulled up outside the clinic and walked into the cool, echoing vault of the reception. There was an attractive woman in her late thirties behind the reception desk, who watched me approach with a smile and an arched eyebrow. I showed her my badge and she arched both of her eyebrows.

“Detective John Stone, I’m here to see Dr. Margaret Wagner.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but it is important.”

“Well, I’m afraid you’re out of luck, Detective Stone. Dr. Wagner went out about an hour ago, and she hasn’t returned.”

“Can you tell me where she went?”

“No. I have no idea where she went. She received a private call, said she was going out and didn’t know when she would be back.”

I looked at the badge on her right breast and read it. I spoke quietly but persistently.

“Mrs. Sykes, we are investigating a homicide in which two children were murdered. They were Dr. Brad Mitchell’s children. Today, another homicide was committed in the same case, and one of the witnesses was murdered. I urgently need to talk to Dr. Wagner because, you see, she is also a witness in that case and she might be at risk. So, I need the number of the person who called her. You don’t have to give it to me, but it would be deeply irresponsible of you if you refused. Do you see that?”

She smiled at me with bedroom eyes. “You don’t need to try that hard, Detective. I assure you, I am easy to persuade.”

She checked the screen in front of her and scribbled a number on a piece of paper, then handed it to me. I thanked her and took the number outside to the car. Sitting behind the wheel I checked Brad Mitchell’s number on my cell. It didn’t match, so I checked Emma Mitchell’s number. It did match. I called Dehan.

“Yeah, Stone.”

“You got Brad but not Emma, am I right?”

“What are you, psychic? Sanchez said both Mitchells went out shortly after we left. Brad went to work, but Emma never turned up.”

“No, she called Dr. Wagner a little over an hour ago and Wagner went out to meet her. She hasn’t returned, and she told her receptionist she didn’t know when she’d be back. Can you get a GPS fix on Wagner and Emma Mitchell’s phones?”

“Yeah, what do you want me to do when I find them?”

“Depends where they are. If they’re in the city, take a couple of cars and pick them up. If they’re in White Plains, tell me and I’ll go talk to them. Make it snappy, I’m on my way back.”

“OK, Boss.”

She hung up and I sat staring at the dash for a couple of minutes, then fired up the big growler and headed down the drive.

She called me back as I was approaching White Plains.

“OK, we have Emma Mitchell at the Farmers Market at the intersection of Martine Avenue and Court Street. I can’t be exactly precise, but she’s either buying tomatoes in the street or she’s in Macy’s. Right now she doesn’t seem to be moving.”

“No sign of Wagner?”

“No, none.”

“OK, I’m on my way.”

It was a five-minute drive. I parked on Mitchell Place—it seemed somehow appropriate—and walked a hundred and fifty yards to the heart of the market at the intersection. There were hundreds of people, perhaps a thousand or two. It was information overload. The stalls: red, green, blue, yellow; the clothes: every shade of color under the sun from beige to crimson, lemon yellow to blue, orange and green; and faces and bodies, thousands of faces and bodies of every shape and description, all of them moving, jostling, walking, pushing; not a single one where it had been fifteen seconds earlier. I felt a sinking sensation in my gut. Where should I begin? How did you search a place that was constantly changing?

I moved slowly through the crowd while it flowed past me like a teeming river. I tried to scan the faces, the clothes, the hair, looking for something recognizable, somebody who might be Emma Mitchell. There was nothing. As I walked I pulled my cell from my pocket and called Dehan.

“Hey.”

“I’m at the market, walking north along Court Street. Where should I be looking?”

“OK, you have Macy’s ahead of you on your left, across Martine Avenue. She’s either at a stall there, beside the store, or she’s inside Macy’s. I figure she’s talking to somebody because she has hardly moved in the last fifteen minutes.”

“OK, I’ll check the market stalls. Stay on the line and tell me if she moves.”

I shouldered my way