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

may seem absurd, attracts some pretty dangerous customers. I mean that there are a lot of crazy people in this city, and many of them come to us for help. It’s not unusual for a patient to become obsessive about a therapist.”

Something made me ask, “Dr. Wagner is not from New York?”

“No, she’s from South Dakota.” He smiled wistfully. “She’s your classic farmgirl. Grew up on a ranch on the plains, not far from the Missouri River.”

There was a moment’s silence. “So, what gun did you buy her, Dr. Mitchell?”

He gave a small laugh. “Of course, she grew up with guns and her father had taught her to shoot a pistol by the time she was twelve. She was partial to revolvers, so I bought her a single action Colt, a .45. I don’t know much about guns, but it seemed to me to be a hell of a gun for a woman. However, she insisted that was what she was accustomed to. ‘If you’re going to stop somebody,’ she used to say, ‘you have to stop ’em dead.’” His breath shuddered. “In retrospect, perhaps I should have paid more attention.”

“So she was a good shot.”

“Very.” He frowned. “She is a very good shot.”

“Do you own a gun, Dr. Mitchell?”

“Yes, why?”

“What caliber is it?”

“Nothing like Margaret’s. It’s just a .22 revolver. I doubt I would have any accuracy with anything bigger, and frankly I don’t want to kill anybody. If I have the gun it is just to discourage, or perhaps wound, in extremis.”

I glanced at Dehan. She was staring fixedly at him. I asked, “When was the last time you saw that weapon, Dr. Mitchell?”

He went very still. “I don’t know. I keep it locked in a drawer in my consulting room at home. Weeks, perhaps a month. I detest guns.”

Dehan spoke. “We are going to need to see that pistol. Sonia and your wife were not killed with a .45, Dr Mitchell. They were both killed with a .22.”

His face flushed. “I did not kill my wife! I love my wife! I have not killed anybody!”

I nodded. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Dr. Mitchell. Nobody is accusing you of murder. We just need to go and get the gun, and let the lab boys run some ballistics tests on the slugs.”

He half stood. “Look, let me go with you. I have to see my son. You have had me here for hours. He must be very anxious. Please! Let me go home and see my son. I have not hurt anybody. For God’s sake! I wouldn’t even know how to!”

I stood. “Take it easy. We’ll all go to your place. We’ll check on Marcus and you can give us the weapon. Just answer me one more question before we go. Where is Dr. Wagner? Where would she go if she was on the run?”

He stared at me for a long time. “I don’t know. I really don’t know. I have no idea.”

Seventeen

We put out a BOLO in South Dakota generally, but we contacted the Blunt PD and the Hughes County Sheriff’s Office asking them to be on the lookout for Dr. Margaret Wagner, probably driving a Mercedes S Class sedan. Her parents had a ranch on Rocky Road, 206B, about twelve miles northwest out of Blunt. The sheriff told us he’d drop by and talk to them, to see if they had any idea where their daughter was, or might be. I didn’t hold out much hope. Something told me a South Dakota rancher wasn’t all that likely to sell his daughter out to a New York cop.

We got to the Mitchells’ house and Brad Mitchell led us to the room he had at the back of the house where he saw private clients. It was spacious, elegantly furnished in dark wood and leather, and had a consulting area with an old-fashioned couch and an open fireplace. But directly as you came through the door, there was an old oak desk with a big, black leather chair behind it. Dr. Mitchell headed straight for the desk, sat and unlocked the top right drawer. From it he pulled out a steel case and unlocked that. He opened it and sat staring.

“It’s empty.” He looked up at Dehan. “Why?”

“When was the last time Dr. Wagner was here?”

He shook his head, thinking. “Six months? Maybe more. We tended to meet at the university. Sometimes we went to her apartment on the Upper East Side. But she gave that up when she went to White Sands. She has her own apartment in the clinic. The last time she was here must have been six or seven months ago.”

“Have you seen the pistol since the last time she was here?”

“Yes, of course. I told you. I clean it regularly. I must have cleaned it three or four weeks ago…”

I interrupted. “Who else knows you have it?”

He mouthed at me like a goldfish for a few seconds, then said, “Well, just Emma. Nobody else. Marcus of course, but he…”

Dehan cut in. “So, assuming Dr. Wagner has the gun, how did she get it? Has the lock been forced?”

She moved around the desk and hunkered down to inspect it. She looked at me. “Nothing.”

I leaned on the desk and held his eye. “Did you give her the gun and tell her to go and kill Sonia?”

He was shaking his head, but I already knew he hadn’t.

“Good grief, no! Of course not!”

“We’ve requested your financials, Dr. Mitchell. And we’ll be examining Sonia’s financials too.” I lowered myself into a chair and Dehan stood behind him, leaning against the window frame. “You’ve already admitted that Sonia was demanding more money, so what were you going to do? You told her no, and she threatened to make her photographs public. I figure she was going to send them to the university, maybe even the press, and investors in the clinic. What were you going to do? Try to weather the storm?”

“We talked about it…”

Dehan