Knife Edge (A Dead Cold Mystery Book 27) Page 9

  “And there was no other forensic evidence?”

  “No.” I picked up my glass. “A shed of that type is not ideal for recovering forensic evidence. There’s a lot of dust, a lot of contaminants…”

  “Plus a lot of people were moving about in there.” She paused and sighed, gazing out at the cold, Manhattan night. “I have to say, Stone, it’s hard to see a way forward. We have only one witness, and he’s in a catatonic state.”

  She cut a piece of Stilton, popped it in her mouth and grimaced.

  “Why would anyone eat rotting feet?”

  “It’s an acquired taste.”

  She gave me a doubtful look. “I mean, even if we get the court order to be able to see Marcus and talk to him, there is no guarantee that he will talk to us.”

  “None.”

  She sipped her whiskey and leaned her elbows on the table, gazing at me. “What did that boy see, Stone? What did he see that traumatized him so deeply he stopped moving or talking?”

  “He seems to have been a sensitive kid…”

  “OK, so a sensitive kid witnesses the murder of his sister and his adoptive brother, that is going to be traumatic, very traumatic. But, it is going to be that much more traumatic if it’s his dad, or, let’s face it, his mother, who strikes the blow.”

  I grunted and sliced at the Brie.

  “You were against that idea this afternoon. Are we now saying our suspect pool is both the Dr. Mitchells and Sonia?”

  She ran her fingers through her hair and looked cutely frazzled. “I know. I know, but it has to be one of those three, doesn’t it?”

  I pierced the Brie with my knife and looked her in the eye.

  “There is somebody we have been overlooking, Dehan, and I don’t know why.”

  She frowned. “Who?”

  “Dr. Wagner.”

  “Hell. She had as much to lose from Leroy’s blackmail as the Mitchells did. It may have struck the Mitchells as funny, but it probably didn’t strike her as funny at all.”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “How would that work?”

  I signaled the waiter to bring us another couple of whiskeys.

  “How would that work?” I thought about it. “Assuming there is more to the relationship between Wagner and Mitchell than just work, he would tell her about Leroy. He’d tell her they managed to laugh it off but that they need to be careful with the kid.” I cut a slice of Wensleydale and put it in my mouth, savoring the blueberries in the creamy cheese. Then I pointed at Dehan. “She would advise him to get rid of the kid, send him back to the orphanage, something of that sort. He does not 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 look cramped. He glanced up at us, but said nothing and looked back at Sonia. I said:

  “I saw her yesterday morning. Dehan and I both saw her yesterday afternoon. She’s Sonia Laplant.”

  He cleared his throat and stood, pulling off his plastic gloves. “That’s what her ID says. A tragic, blighted family. Her nephew, as you know, was the boy killed in the Mitchell case, which you are currently warming over.”

  Dehan asked, “How’d she die?”

  “She was shot; in the chest, at short range. Obviously I’ll be able to tell you more once I get her to the lab, but prima facie, it seems the first shot went in straight, horizontal. The killer stood thus…”

  He stood a couple of yards from the soles of Sonia’s feet and thrust out his arm in front of him.

  “So the killer is probably a little shorter than me, maybe five ten or five eight. The first shot punches into her chest and makes her fall back. Then he closes in and stands over her, and the next two bullets enter her chest at an angle of about forty or forty-five degrees. He is standing roughly at her feet. He is not a good shot, because only one of the bullets hits the heart. Two others puncture the lungs and a fourth misses altogether and grazes her shoulder to strike the floor. The erratic shooting is consistent with a trembling hand. Joe has the slug. It’s a .22.” He paused, still staring down at the body. “Such a shame,” and then, “Joe is upstairs. He’ll tell you there are no casings, so it was probably a revolver. Twenty-two revolver, the perfect murder weapon.”

  He turned to Dehan, as though she had asked a question. “There is rarely an exit wound with a .22, so the slug stays inside, ricocheting and causing more damage than a mere entry wound. Plus there are no casings for people like Joe to find and lift prints from. They are small and thus easy to conceal, but with a Smith & Wesson 617, for example, or the Ruger, you’re looking at ten rounds in the cylinder, as opposed to just five or six in a larger caliber. Very handy.”

  I turned to Gunther. “Where’s Garrido?”

  “The boss? He’s in the kitchen, back of the house.”

  We stepped into the small kitchen. Dr. Garrido was sitting at an imitation pine table. He looked up at us as we entered. There was a kind of mindless reproach in his eyes. He was drawn and a sickly gray color. There was a female police officer sitting at the table with him scribbling in a pad.

  “Dr. Garrido.” He nodded once. I went on, “We met briefly yesterday.”

  He pointed toward the living room and his voice wavered when he spoke. “Did you do this? Did you make this happen?”

  I frowned. “What are you talking about, Dr. Garrido?”

  “Butting in, stirring things up, asking questions. I was trying to make her forget, and you come and bring it all back. I told her to leave it be!”

  Dehan replied. “You have a family, Dr. Garrido?”

  His voice was defensive when he said, “Yeah. What’s it to you?”

  “You have kids?”

  “What of it?”

  “If they were murdered, would you prefer the police refused to investigate, in case somebody else got hurt?”

  Before he could answer I asked him, “Why are you here, Dr. Garrido?”

  He erupted, “I did not kill Sonia, if that’s what you’re implying!”

  “That’s not what I’m implying.” I pulled out a chair and sat at the table. Dehan leaned against the doorjamb. “I’m not implying anything. I am asking you what you are doing here.”

  “I already told your sergeant, and I have just told your officer here. When Sonia didn’t turn up for work, I came to see if she was all right. I have witnesses who will tell you…”

  Dehan cut him short, “You have keys to all your employees’ houses?”

  He faltered and I asked, “See, that’s what I meant by, what are you doing here? Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think most bosses would phone, or at most knock on the door. I don’t think many of them would let themselves in with their own key.”

  He sighed and sagged, then rubbed his face with his hands. “Sonia has been my personal assistant for a long time, and we have become very close.”

  “How close, Dr. Garrido?”

  He took a deep breath and puffed out his cheeks. He was obviously in a lot of emotional pain. I leaned forward with my elbows on the table. “We’re not here to judge anybody. What you and Sonia did as consenting adults is none of our business. If it had nothing to do with her murder, then I, frankly, don’t want to know about it. But if you try to hide it from me, and I don’t know if it’s relevant or not, then I am going to have to leave no stone unturned until I find out the truth. So believe me, if your affair with Sonia has nothing to do with her death, your best plan is to talk to me.”

  He let me finish without looking at me. Then, after a moment, he started to talk.

  “Sonia and I have been…close, for many years. It suits… suited us both. My wife and I stopped being in love a long time ago, but we agreed to stay together for the sake of the children. For her part, Sonia didn’t want us to live together. After we started seeing each other I offered to get a divorce so we could be married. Personally I would have preferred it. I’m more traditional in that way. But Sonia said she preferred living alone, in her own space. We actually fought about it, years ago, right at the beginning, but eventually,” he shrugged, “we just settled into a comfortable rhythm. Sometimes I would stay the night. My wife knew about it but she never asked questions. It seemed to work. Sonia and I even talked about retiring together. Now that will never happen…” His bottom lip curled in and tears welled in his eyes. He stared at me with wild, injured eyes, then up at Dehan by the door. “Why? Why would somebody do this?”

  “When did you last talk to Sonia, Dr. Garrido?”

  “Last night, about eleven thirty, or shortly before twelve. We didn’t talk. I sent her a WhatsApp wishing her goodnight.”

  “Did she reply?”

  “Yes.” He frowned at me. “It struck me as an odd message at the time. She said, ‘You are too good. Sonia doesn’t deserve you.’ That wasn’t like her, saying that, and in the third person like that. There was no false modesty or cute fishing for compliments with her. She was very direct and very honest.” His face crumpled and there was a madness in his gaze. “You don’t think that message was from…?”

  Dehan had already gone and was crossing the living room, shouting, “Joe! Joe!”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know, Dr. Garrido, but we’ll check and I’ll let you know what the lab says about her phone. Now, I need you to think carefully about this before you answer. Is there anything, anything at all, that you can think of that struck you as odd or unusual in her behavior recently? Anything she did or said, anybody she saw…”

  He took a long time to answer. When he finally did he made a couple of false starts. “She…” He gave his head a small shake and frowned. “About a month ago? She started talking again about her sister, and her nephew, Lee.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Lee?”

  He looked surprised. “Yeah, Lee, the boy whose murder you’re investigating.”

  “I thought she called him Leroy.”

  “No, that’s what his parents called him. She never liked it. It was Sonia who told the Mitchells his nickname was Lee.”

  I thought about that a moment, then made a mental note. To Garrido I said:

  “So what kind of things was she saying about them? What was it she was remembering?”

  He looked me in the eye. “I didn’t like it much, to be honest. She kept talking about Brad Mitchell. She called him a skunk. Said he’d betrayed his wife, how he deserved to be exposed for what he was. She even went so far as to say she believed he might have killed his own daughter, as well as Lee.”

  “What made her
say that? Did she give you any idea of what brought this on?”

  “No, it was sudden. One day she just seemed real mad…”

  “That was all a month ago?”

  “More or less, yeah. I told her if she really believed it, and it was affecting her so much, she should go to the cops.”

  “Was this when she saw the article in the paper? The one about the Mitchell Clinic in White Plains.”

  “Uh…” He made a dubious face and stared up at the ceiling. “Uh…” He shook his head. “No, it was kind of the other way. I showed her the article because she had been talking so much about Mitchell. Otherwise I would probably never have even noticed it. I saw it and showed it to her and she got pretty mad. So I told her, ‘For God’s sake, go to the cops and get this off your chest!’ So she did.”

  “OK.” I nodded, thinking. “I appreciate your candor, Dr. Garrido. You are familiar with the house. Are you aware of anything having been disturbed, turned over, missing?”

  “No, it was the first thing I checked after I called the cops.”

  “Fine. We’d be grateful if you could drop by the station later today to read and sign your statement.” I moved to get up but stopped. “Did Sonia have a computer at work?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “She used her own laptop.”

  “OK, good.” I glanced at the uniform. “You done?”

  She nodded. “Sure.”

  “Dr. Garrido, you can go home now. Be with your family, get some rest. We’ll be in touch.”

  He left and I went to look for Dehan. She was upstairs in the master bedroom talking to Joe. She turned to me as I came in.

  “There’s no sign of forced entry.”

  “Yeah, and Garrido says there’s no sign that anything was stolen.”

  “So she let whoever it was in, probably knew them, and they came for the sole purpose of killing her.”

  “It looks that way.”

  She nodded. “Her cell has been dusted. So far prints show one principal user.”

  Joe added, “Which we can assume to be her. But there are smudges, as though somebody had used it who was wearing gloves. We’ll give it a full analysis at the lab and I’ll let you know.”