Page 30 of Fatal Pattern

He hung up, snapped the phone to the magnetic cradle mounted on the dash, and shifted the car into gear. The Charger rolled forward, headlights scything through the dim ramp as they circled out of the garage. Morning light poured in through the Charger’s windshield, flattening the dust on the dash into pale gold.

Tori pulled out her phone and typed “Dr. Anton Stone psychiatrist Palm Beach.” Results flooded the screen. “Got him. Office is on Worth Street.” She scrolled through his credentials. “Surprised I never heard of him. He’s published several papers on trauma therapy.”

Blade tapped the wheel in a restless cadence, eyes narrowed on the asphalt ribbon cutting north. “What’re the odds both Florek and Madison end up with the same shrink?”

“Insurance network?” Even as Tori made the suggestion, it didn’t fit. “Still feels off.”

“Yeah.” He cut a glance at her, then back to the road. “So how do we get Stone to talk?”

Tori angled toward him, knees pressing the console. “We don’t. Patient privilege survives the patient.”

He flicked his thumb against the leather-wrapped steering wheel. “So subpoena. But unless we’ve got a hook, judge’ll swat us off the docket.”

“Which is why we don’t ask for Florek’s whole file. That’s too broad. We go for targeted disclosure. A threat assessment.”

That pulled his attention. A quick look, blue eyes sharpening.

“A threat assessment?”

“Exactly. It’s one of the few cracks in privilege.” She’d walked this path before, with offenders, with institutional reviews. “The doctrine flips if danger’s imminent. Shrink has to warn if someone’s about to hurt a specific person. We argue the reverse. That Florek sat in that office naming someone, a threat closing on him. We show reason to believe Stone might have recorded it.”

“So Madison’s disclosure about Florek’s paranoia, which Madison witnessed, suggests he was in fear for his life.”

“Yes.” Finally, he tracked. “Florek ends up dead; that means his psych files could hold a name. We don’t care about trauma from thirty years ago. We want one thing—session notes that point to a threat. Clean. Direct. That’s our line in.”

He gave the nod, but his gaze didn’t stick with her. Focus shifted inward, something else circling, some other equation pulling at him.

She waved at him. “What’s wrong?”

He kept his eyes forward, jaw set. “Nothing. Just a heavy mess to push through. Even for me.”

That was odd. Blade didn’t usually undercut himself.

She kept watching him. “Out with it.”

He didn’t answer right away. Kept his focus sharp on the ribbon of asphalt slicing through palm scrub. Then he exhaled slowly. “I was going to ask Kiara to access the Crew file in person, but now that we’re on this lead, I think I should call her now before we get buried in the Florek case.”

He put the phone on speaker. The first thing to flood the cabin was Kiara’s bright, almost singsong voice as she answered with, “Hey, you. I missed you last night.”

“Yeah, I missed you too.” Blade shifted lower in his seat, his shoulders sinking back, tone dropping into the one he only used with Kiara. “We’ll lock in that picnic. But that’s not why I’m calling. I’ve got you on speaker. Tori’s with me.”

“Oh, hey Tori. You know I love hearing from you guys anytime. This a break in the day, or am I on the clock?”

“I needed to ask you something important,” Blade said.

“Important like dinner plans, or important like you’re wearing your cop face right now?” Kiara’s tone was like syrup over the speaker.

The corner of Tori’s mouth wanted to curve upward. Kiara had a tell too. Gentle humor when she was unsettled.

“Cop face,” he said. “It’s business.”

Pause. “Okay . . . what’s going on?”

“I need eyes on a file,” Blade said. “Millie Beach PD archive. It’s a homicide sealed and tagged for IA. I can’t touch it. You can.”

The silence on the other end stretched long enough for the hum of the Charger’s tires to register in Tori’s ear.

“Blade . . .” Kiara’s voice lost its lilt. “That’s—if it’s sealed, there’s a reason.”