Knife Edge (A Dead Cold Mystery Book 27) by Blake Banner (most inspirational books of all time .TXT) 📗

“So you want me to seek a court order compelling the Mitchells to give you access to Marcus.”

I shook my head. “No, I want a court order compelling her to allow Marcus to have appropriate therapy, as dictated by the court, on the grounds that, A, he has evidence crucial to the investigation of his brother and sister’s murder, and B, that his parents have proved incompetent in providing him with appropriate therapy. Catatonic depression is not an incurable disease. This happened over six years ago; he should at least be talking by now.”

He drummed his fingers on the desk and chewed his lip.

“These are influential people, in their own way. They are active politically, behind the scenes. Don’t be fooled by the fact that they live in the Bronx. They have friends in the liberal community who wield quite a lot of power.”

Dehan gave a cynical grunt. “Beautiful real estate at a fraction of the price it would cost anywhere else, it bolsters your credibility as a person of the people and at the same time, as the area becomes gentrified, you make a killing on your investment.” She arched an eyebrow. “They may invest in Bronx realty, but they work and dine in Manhattan.”

“Quite so. All right, I’ll see if I can dig up a sympathetic judge. I might get you access, but for anything more there will have to be a hearing…”

I nodded. “I know. Maybe the threat of that will be enough.”

“Let’s hope so. I’ll let you know as soon as I have an answer.”

It was our cue to go and we went downstairs and took a stroll through the cold afternoon light to the deli on the corner. We walked in silence as far as Banyer Place. Then Dehan stopped and said, “OK, let’s be a bit lateral.” I made a question with my face and showed it to her. She ignored it and went on. “Let’s just suppose for a moment that you were right.”

“It has been known, Dehan.”

She ignored me some more. “Let’s suppose there is a connection between the killing of Leroy’s parents, with a knife, like you said, and the killing of Lea and Leroy. What…?” She made horizontal circular motions with her hands and hunched her shoulders. “What is that connection? How does that work? What were you thinking when you said that?”

I smiled and we started walking again. “It’s not just the knives. Have you read the Brown file?”

“I haven’t had time. We only picked up the case this morning, Stone.”

“Well, I’ve only glanced over it, but a couple of things stand out as noticeable parallels. Obviously the murder weapon is the first thing. Statistically it is comparatively rare, but that Leroy’s parents should be killed with a knife, and then he should, that is a statistical anomaly.”

“OK, that’s the first thing, what else?”

We came to the corner deli and stopped.

“In both cases there were two victims, one male and one female, and in both cases there was a traumatized child—the brother of the female victim—left behind.”

She was frowning hard. She turned that frown toward the Bruckner Boulevard for a while and then screwed up her eyes at me.

“I mean, that’s true, Stone. And it is weird.”

“Remarkable.”

“OK, remarkable, but it doesn’t mean anything. Does it? What can it possibly tell us about either crime?”

There was an icy breeze creeping down Fteley Avenue and she stamped her feet and jumped up and down a couple of times. I shrugged and moved toward the deli door. “I’m not sure,” I said, and pulled the door open for her, “but I don’t buy that it’s just a coincidence.”

“You think it’s the same killer? I thought it was established that they killed each other.”

I shook my head and followed her in. “No, it’s not the same killer, but I am damned sure they are connected.”

We bought pastrami on rye and roast beef on whole wheat, and two double espressos, then walked slowly back toward the stationhouse with the cold breeze creeping into our ankles and down the back of our necks.

“The killings are connected somehow,” I said.

“How? In what way? If it’s not the same killer, what then?”

I didn’t answer for a while, thinking over her questions. Eventually I smiled at her and said, “Maybe…” I shrugged. “I don’t know. I can’t put it into words yet. I guess I just think that, while we wait for the chief to get back to us, it would be a good idea to look into what happened in that first murder. Let’s just say for now that the roots of the second killing might well be in the first one.”

She gave me the kind of slit-eyed look that would have made a lesser man’s toes curl. “If I said something like that, you would tell me it was woolly and vague, and to be more precise.”

I wagged a manly finger at her. “And I would be right, little lady, I would be right!”

“Keep that up and I’s gonna take my whip to you, boy.”

“Ha!” We climbed the steps to the station door and I stood aside for her to go in, muttering, “Promises, promises.”

She dropped into her chair, retied her hair behind her head in a knot and placed her boots on the edge of her desk. After she’d carefully unwrapped her sandwich she shook her head at me before taking a bite and said, “I don’t get it.” She pulled over the Brown file as I sat and sipped my coffee, and started to read with her mouth full.

“Cherise Brown, married to Earl Brown. He’s not a registered alcoholic, but widely known to drink heavily and regularly. Rap sheet with several charges for possession of marijuana, violence blah blah. No regular employment. Word was he made his money selling dope. She worked the till and stacked shelves at Kmart. They had two kids, Leroy and Shevron. So he stayed at home, looking after the kids—for which read watching TV and smoking dope—while