Page 33 of Fatal Pattern

She held up the paper. “There.”

“Looks like a star you’d put on top of a Christmas tree. What do they call those? Capiz star?”

“Yes! That’s it.” Tori’s face lit up. “I’d forgotten the name for it.”

“And you call yourself educated.” Blade grinned. “Thought you were supposed to be good at math and all that brainy stuff.”

“Hey, I’m better with words than numbers.”

“Debatable.” He slid the notebook into his jacket and raised his phone again, the shape glowing against the screen. His eyes tracked the careful lines. “I guess now we need to figure out if this was a mindless doodle drawn by our victim or a killer signing his work.”

“What happened to the original drawing? Did Florek toss it, or did the killer take it?”

Across the room, the receptionist pushed back from her desk, heels quiet on the carpet. “Dr. Stone will see you now,” she said, opening a heavy oak door.

Blade stepped into a room built to impress. Leather chairs squared off in tight groupings, not a cushion out of place. Bookshelves climbed to the ceiling, stuffed with journals and gilt-spined tomes that looked only for show. A mahogany desk squatted in the corner, surface clean as glass.

One thing broke the order. A crystal block with a monarch butterfly frozen mid-wing. Afternoon sun struck it and sprayed ribbons of color across the walls, as if even in death the thing wouldn’t let anyone forget it was here.

Dr. Anton Stone pushed up from the leather chair, coming around the desk with his hand already extended. His grip waited, steady, while that flawless smile locked in place. Early thirties, hair shaggy long with stray curls brushing the edge of his glasses. Charcoal suit sharp enough to pass for courtroom wear, top button loose for comfort rather than style.

“Dr. Crew. Detective St. James. Welcome.”

Blade let his eyes track to the closed door in the far corner. “Thought you had a patient.”

Stone angled a hand toward it. “We have an exit. Discretion, of course.”

So nobody brushed shoulders in the waiting room. Smart. Blade opened the subpoena on his phone and set it on the desk in front of Dr. Stone.

“We’re here for information about a patient who was murdered. Donald Florek,” he said.

Stone’s gaze hit the screen, and he dropped back into his chair. “This is . . . unusual.”

“Murder investigations often are.” Tori stood, arms crossed, watching him.

The clock on the far wall marked the seconds with precise tick-tick-tick sounds that seemed louder now, counting down to something inevitable.

Stone lifted the phone with careful fingers, scanning the legal language laid out on the screen. “This is quite specific. ‘Any session notes, recordings, or documentation pertaining to threats made against or by Donald Florek during the course of treatment.’”

“That’s right,” Tori said. “We have reason to believe Mr. Florek discussed specific fears for his safety during your sessions.”

“Even if that were true, doctor-patient privilege—”

“Is superseded by court order,” Blade finished. “As you can see from the judge’s signature.”

Stone set the phone down. “Of course. I’ll need to review my files.” He stood and moved to a locked filing cabinet, producing a key from his vest pocket. “This will take a few minutes.

“I was absolutely horrified when I heard about Donald’s murder on the news,” he said, pulling out a thick manila folder. “Such a senseless tragedy. I haven’t had time to review my notes before your arrival.” He gestured to the chairs positioned across from his desk. “Please, make yourselves comfortable. Can I offer you coffee? Water?”

“We’re fine,” Blade said, settling into the leather chair. The seat was positioned at exactly the right height to make him feel slightly lower than Stone behind the desk. A psychological trick?

Tori remained standing near the bookshelf, her fingers trailing along the spine of a volume on behavioral psychology.

“Donald and I had twelve sessions over the past six months,” Stone said, opening the folder. “He was originally referred by his primary care physician for anxiety management.” He adjusted his glasses. “He terminated treatment just two days before his death.”

Stone’s fingers found a specific page in the file. “Session seven, patient reports increased workplace stress. Session nine, patient discusses concerns about professional reputation. Session eleven, patient expresses generalized anxiety about unnamed threats and states he reported information and now believes this was a mistake. Patient described feeling watched. Session terminated early at patient’s request.”

The clinical tone grated against Blade’s nerves. Stone was giving them exactly what the subpoena demanded while revealing absolutely nothing useful. Clinical psychobabble designed to satisfy the letter of the law without violating the spirit of confidentiality.