Knife Edge (A Dead Cold Mystery Book 27)

by Blake Banner

  “Good heavens! This is, of course, all conjecture.”

  “It’s highly educated guessing. It’s also the only possible version of events that works. But as it stands we can’t take it to the DA. We need two things. We need Marcus to be made a ward of court until this is all over, and for him to receive proper therapy so we can find out what really happened that day.”

  “Yes, I think as things stand it would be hard for a judge to refuse.”

  “We also need to go to South Dakota.”

  “South Dakota? What in the world do you want to go there for?”

  “Because, when Emma Mitchell tried to take out Margaret Wagner, in the Macy’s lady’s toilets, in White Plains, we think Wagner disarmed her and shot her. And we are pretty certain she then panicked and fled back home to her parents’ ranch.”

  “In South Dakota.”

  “Yes, and my gut tells me a cowboy rancher is not going to hand over his daughter to some New York cop without some pretty persuasive arguments, especially if he believes that his daughter was acting in self-defense.”

  “And you think you can persuade them?”

  “Yes, sir, because I believe she was acting in self-defense.”

  He gave a small grunt. “You don’t even know for sure that she’s there.”

  “No, but we have BOLOs out just about everywhere, and this is our best bet. We should see it through.”

  He sighed heavily. “Very well. Go to South Dakota. But make it snappy and wrap this up before anybody else gets hurt. I’ll talk to Judge Henderson about Marcus.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  We made our way down the stairs and gathered our essentials from our desks. Dehan pulled on her jacket and I climbed into my gabardine. At the door Dehan stopped and looked up at the cold, blue sky. A few clouds were gathering out over the Atlantic. She went up on her toes, bit her lower lip and turned to me.

  “Something’s wrong.”

  “I know, I just don’t know what it is.”

  “It all fits, it all works, but…” Her eyes flitted over my face. “It’s Lea. Lea is wrong. I can’t see why, but it doesn’t work. That part of the story is wrong.”

  I sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. Lea is wrong. Let’s hope Marcus can tell us why.”

  “Yeah,” she said, “let’s hope so.”

  Eighteen

  Sonia and Mitchell’s financials came through that evening just before I set about roasting a leg of lamb, and Dehan sat at the table and went through them. I had made two very dry martinis, punched holes in the leg and stuffed them with garlic butter, brushed the leg with olive oil and lemon juice and covered it with fresh rosemary and Maldon salt, when Dehan leaned back and appealed to somebody called Jeez.

  “Jeez!” she said, “This is enough to make you miss working with a real pro!”

  I arched an eyebrow at her. “I beg your pardon, Carmen?”

  “Not you, dummy. Sonia and Mitchell. Hell, Sonia looked smart, and Mitchell is supposed to be part of the intellectual elite of this country! Every month, for as far back as these records go…” She leafed through them. “Twelve months. Every month, on the first of the month, Greg Mitchell makes a payment of one thousand dollars. And every month, on the second of the month, sometimes the third, a thousand bucks shows up in Sonia’s checking account. I mean, come on!”

  I smiled and started peeling potatoes. “People don’t realize the skill that goes into being a good criminal.”

  “You ain’t kidding, big guy. Now, a month ago, five weeks, the payments stop. Two gets you twenty there is an exchange of emails, or more likely telephone calls, in which Sonia demands more money and he tells her to take a hike.”

  “No doubt in my mind. Joe should confirm that for us in the next day or two.”

  She got to her feet and stretched, then took her glass and walked to the kitchen door. She opened it and allowed the cold night air to creep in. With one hand on the doorframe, she stood and looked out to the backyard. I knew she was seeing the Mitchells’ backyard, and the shed at the end beside the wall of trees. I put the potatoes on to blanch them, and slipped the lamb into the oven at 400⁰ F. As I closed the oven Dehan spoke absently, like her mind was somewhere else.

  “So all that’s left is to find Wagner and make her understand if she talks to the DA and claims self-defense there may not even be a prosecution…,” she turned and looked at me, “and see if we can get Marcus to talk.”

  I took my martini over to her and kissed her nose. I do stupid things like that sometimes when nobody can see me.

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  She was pensive for a while, with one hand on my chest.

  “This is going to sound stupid,” she looked up into my face, “but I don’t want it to be either of the Mitchells. I think the Mitchells were nice people, maybe even good people.” She shrugged and smiled. “A bit French for my taste, all that stripped pine and free love, but basically on the side of the angels. You know what I mean by that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Emma went crazy. Who wouldn’t, when your daughter has had her throat cut, your son has gone catatonic and your husband has spent the last six years falling in love with another woman?”

  “Sure.”

  She gave her head a small shake. “But I don’t want to believe that she was a bad woman. I don’t want to believe that she was capable of murdering a child, however much of a pain in the ass he was.”

  “I know. We’ll know more tomorrow.”

  And I kissed her again, but this time it wasn’t on the nose.

  * * *

  We rose at six the next morning and after a shower and a breakfast of strong black coffee and rye, we headed off at eight AM. It was a long, tedious and uneventful drive along one and a half thousand miles of straight roads and flat horizons. We arrived in Blunt at eight thirty the following morning. There are about three hundred and sixty people in Blunt, there is no deputy sheriff and no police department in Blunt, and, as far as I could make out there was only one restaurant, the Medicine Creek Bar and Grill, at the gas station. So we stopped there for breakfast and to splash some cold water on our faces, before heading on up to the Wagner ranch.

  We had phoned ahead to the sheriff of Hughes County, who was located thirty miles away, at Pierre. He told us that visiting the Wagner ranch was high on his “to do” list, but if we wanted to mosey on up ourselves we were welcome to do that. We also called the Pierre Police Department and spoke to Chief Jonathan Davies JR, to inform him that we were making inquiries regarding a murder investigation in the Bronx, New York. He told us they’d received the BOLO and we should go right ahead, and if we needed anything, all we had to do was ask.

  In Dehan’s words, “They don’t plan to be obstructive, but they sure as hell don’t plan to help either, if they can avoid it.”

  We checked in at the Dakotas Motel, just outside Blunt, dumped our bags and then followed the road for another mile, through endless acres of flat fields under a spotless blue sky till we came to an intersection. There we turned right onto Route 83 and headed north for a couple of miles through the same vast, featureless landscape. There we came to a wide, dirt track on the right of the road. There was no gate. Just a wooden post with a wooden sign nailed to it that read, “Wagner Ranch.” The track ran straight through cornfields to a large, L-shaped building in cream with sloping green roofs.

  We pulled onto the track and rolled and bumped our way for half a mile to a broad expanse of dirt outside the front of the farmhouse. As we pulled up the front door of the house opened and a tall, strongly built man in a blue gingham shirt stepped out to watch us. I put him in his mid-sixties. He had a shock of silver hair and a severe face that said he had little time for BS and none for those who peddled it.

  We climbed out and the car doors had a flat, empty echo when we slammed them shut. We walked toward the man and I pulled my badge from my pocket and held it up for him to see it as I approached.

  “Go
od morning! Detective John Stone, from the New York Police Department.” I gestured at Dehan. “This is my partner, Detective Dehan. Are you Mr. Wagner?”

  He blinked once and his eyes shifted to Dehan, then back to me.

  “I’m not real interested in who y’are, mister. You’re on my land and I ain’t invited you. So y’all can git right back in your fancy car and get the hell outta here.”

  “Sure, that’s no problem. We’ll be moving right along. I just wondered if you’d had any news of your daughter, Margaret.”

  “I already told you once, mister. I ain’t interested in why you’re here. And I already told you to git off of my land. If I have to tell you a third time, you’ll be talkin’ to my shotgun and my dogs.”

  I didn’t say anything for a moment. I just nodded. I turned and took two steps back toward the car. Dehan was watching me and frowning like she thought I was crazy. Then I stopped and looked back at the man.

  “We’ve driven twenty-four hours to be here, because we do not believe your daughter is guilty of murder. We haven’t taken the case to the DA yet. We want to talk to Margaret first. She killed a woman. Did she tell you?”

  He took a deep breath and looked back at his front door, like he was thinking about going in to get his shotgun.

  I pressed on, “If the DA gets the case as it stands, Margaret will become a fugitive from the law. But we believe she killed Dr. Mitchell in self-defense.”

  His eyes were a pale blue and hard as diamonds, but he didn’t move or say anything. I took another step, but back toward him this time.

  “We believe Dr. Wagner tried to kill her, and she protected herself.”

  “That’s a right every man and every woman has.”

  Dehan said, “It’s what we have a Constitution for, right?”

  His cold eyes shifted to her and for a moment I thought I saw a glimmer of humor. It wasn’t reassuring.

  “I wouldn’t give you an ounce of horseshit for the Constitution, ’Tective Dehan. My rights and my liberties are my own and I don’t need no Constitution to give ’em to me. Neither do I need no judge in Washington to tell me what they are. You tellin’ me Maggie killed a woman protectin’ herself. She got a right to do that. So what the hell are you doin’ here on my land?”

  I took another step. “I didn’t tell you that Maggie killed a woman trying to protect herself, Mr. Wagner. I told you we thought she killed that woman in self-defense. But that doesn’t make a damn piece of difference if I can’t prove it to the DA.”

  “You take one more step, son, and I’ll blow your head clean off your shoulders.”

  “Fine, Mr. Wagner, you do that. But it won’t make any difference, except that you will then be dealing with the FBI instead of the NYPD, and they will be out to make an example of you, to prove to the nation that gun-toting, NRA rednecks will not be allowed to ride roughshod over the law and go around shooting law enforcement officers.”

  “You better watch that tongue o’ yours, boy.”

  “Right now all you have to contend with, Mr. Wagner, is a couple of cops working a low-key case who want to hear your daughter’s story because they believe she shot a woman in self-defense. Send us away, or shoot us, and you will have the whole damned federal system grinding into gear to come and get you. Not to mention the anti-gun lobby making a national issue out of you and your daughter.”

  He stood watching us for a long moment, then reached back, opened his front door and called inside, “Honey, bring me my rifle, will you?”

  I sighed. “Mr. Wagner, that is not necessary. We are going to leave. But you need to give our message to Margaret. Right now, with the help of a good lawyer, she could walk away from this scot free. But keep this up, refuse to cooperate with the authorities and she could be facing very serious trouble.”

  “I don’t take kindly to threats, son.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” It was Dehan who had exploded out of her silence. “He is not threatening you, you great lunk! He is trying to help you! And what should be more important to you, he is trying to help your daughter! You want your daughter to spend the next fifteen years in a state penitentiary? Have you any idea the kind of life your daughter has grown used to in New York? She lives in luxury in an old manor house, respected as an eminent expert in her field! You know what it would do to her to spend ten or fifteen years among killers? Do you know what they would do to a woman like her inside? You better put your dick away, Yosemite Sam, and start thinking with your brain!”

  The door opened behind him and a woman stepped out. Her dress was a nondescript gray blue, as was her hair and her complexion, and her general aura. The one thing that was remarkable and memorable about her was the double-barreled shotgun she had open over her arm. She didn’t hand it to her husband. She just stood staring at us, while he looked quietly back at her.

  “Give me the gun, honey.”

  She glanced at him briefly, then looked back at Dehan. “No.”

  “Give me the gun.”

  “No, Hank, I wanna hear what they have to say.”

  “They ain’t got nothin’ t’say, goddamn it! They’re just tryin’ to persuade us to hand over Maggie.” He looked at me with murder in his eyes. “Well that ain’t never gonna happen.”

  I shook my head. “You don’t have to hand her over. You just need to listen to what we are telling you, and then give my card to Margaret. She can call me and talk to me whenever she likes. All I want is to hear her story.” I held up both hands. “I am going to reach for my wallet and pull out a card. Don’t shoot me.”

  They watched me pull out my wallet and extract a card from it. I walked the short distance between us and handed the card to Mrs. Wagner. “Please, ask her to call us.”

  She didn’t say anything, but her eyes were eloquent. I gave Hank a brief look and his eyes were eloquent too, though they said something different. I turned and walked back toward Dehan and the Jaguar. On the way I caught Dehan’s eyes and I saw her eyebrows rise and she jutted her jaw back toward the ranch house. Then I heard a voice.

  “Detective Stone. Please, wait.”

  I turned. Margaret Wagner was in the doorway. She held a revolver in her hand, hanging loose by her side. Her father was glaring at her.

  “Get back inside, girl! Are you out of your mind?”

  “No, Dad. I’m not going to hide.” To me she said, “What is the law, Detective Stone? If Mom and Dad are prosecuted for aiding and abetting a fugitive…”

  I didn’t answer straight away. I sighed, feeling suddenly weary, sick of this case.

  “That’s not what should be worrying you, Dr. Wagner. The DA is not keen to prosecute cases that will be unpopular, or a waste of public money. Loyal fathers who protect their daughters from unfair prosecutions are not the flavor of the month. Nor are DAs who prosecute legitimate self-defense cases. But yes, if you refuse to come with us, and your parents persist in refusing to give us access to you, we will need to call in backup from the Pierre PD. And then there will probably have to be a prosecution.”

  Hank Wagner roared. “Don’t listen to him! This is your home! These bastards will not take my daughter!”

  “I don’t want to take your daughter, Mr. Wagner. I just want to talk to her!”

  Margaret Wagner placed her hand on her father’s shoulder.

  “Dad, it’s OK. I am not going to drag you into this affair. I’ve caused enough trouble as it is. It’s time to face the music and come clean.”

  She handed her mother the revolver she held in her hand and crossed the dirt to where Dehan and I were standing. She held out her wrists to me.

  I shook my head. “Do you plan to shoot or strangle either of us on the way to the motel?”

  Her eyebrows drew together. “No…”

  “Then we don’t need to cuff you. All we want is to talk to you, Dr. Wagner.”

  She dropped her hands to her side. “Oh,” she said simply, and sighed. “Let’s go then.”

  Nineteen

&
nbsp; We had bought coffee at the gas station and now we sat in our motel room, with the window open to the cold sunlight, and the distant, vague sounds of voices, dogs, birds and tractors. Dehan sat on the bed, Margaret Wagner sat in a sage green, vinyl armchair by the window, and I sat on a straight-back hard chair in front of the TV. Dehan was the first to speak.

  “What happened in White Plains, Dr. Wagner?”

  She took a moment, gazing out of the window, then met Dehan’s eye and said, “To be honest, I am not exactly sure.” She took a very deep breath and let it out as a heavy sigh. “This is not easy to explain. It goes back a long way.”

  I said, “So start at the beginning. We’re not going anywhere.”

  “It all started when Brad had this brilliant idea of adopting some kid he’d read about in the paper.”

  “Leroy Brown.”

  “Lee, his aunt insisted his name was Lee. Anyhow, Brad is a real dreamer and an idealist. He can also be a very selfish bastard. When he had this idea, he didn’t stop to think how it was going to affect his kids or his wife or his family as a whole. It was his latest fancy and we all had to go along with it. I told him, right from the start, this is going to be a disaster and you are going to be picking up the pieces for the rest of your life. He wouldn’t listen, and back then Emma did whatever Brad said. He was a bully, too.”

  Dehan asked, “So Emma was OK with the adoption?”

  “She said she was, but the truth is the only person who had any real enthusiasm for it was Brad, because the ones who were going to have to deal with it day to day were his wife and his kids.”

  “What about you?”

  She sighed again. “Yeah, what about me?” She made a helpless gesture. “We had a complicated relationship. I was in love with Brad. I have always been in love with Brad. Emma and I got on well, there was never any real jealousy, but we were both in love with Brad and somehow that formed a bond between us. In the end we became a kind of family, but I was always on the outside. Emma was the queen of the house, I was part of the harem.”