"Conference Room 312 is available now. I'll set you up with temporary access cards and get you connected to our network."
The process of getting visitor badges and security clearances took another fifteen minutes, during which Vic found herself growing increasingly impatient with the slow pace of institutional procedures. She watched Miles navigate the bureaucratic requirements with more grace than she felt, answering questions about his security clearance and departmental affiliation with the patience of someone who understood that systems had to be followed regardless of urgency.
Finally armed with temporary ID badges and network access codes, they made their way to the elevators and up to the third floor. Conference Room 312 turned out to be a windowless space with beige walls, a large oval table surrounded by ergonomic chairs, and a whiteboard that showed traces of previous meetings that hadn't been completely erased. A wall-mounted television provided access to federal databases and video conferencing, while power outlets and ethernet connections offered the basic infrastructure they'd need to set up their temporary operations. It smelled of coffee, the scent emanating from the Keurig that was set up on a small table in the back, along with a few snack staples.
"Well, this is depressing," Miles observed, setting his laptop bag on the table and looking around the sterile environment.
"Every field office conference room looks exactly like this," Vic said, claiming a chair that faced the door and pulling out her laptop. "I swear they use the same interior decorator for all of them."
“So it’s not all car chases and gunfights?” Miles asked with a bit of humor injected into his voice.
“God, no. Not by a longshot.”
Miles opened his laptop and began connecting to the network while Vic arranged her case files across the table. But even as she went through the motions of setting up their workspace, she could feel her frustration building with their current investigative position. Here she was, all comfortable and inside, sorting out pictures, while a deranged killer was on the loose.
"So what's our next move?" Miles asked, settling into a chair across from her.
Vic leaned back and studied the whiteboard, trying to organize her thoughts. "That's the problem. I'm not sure we have a clear next move."
"What do you mean?"
"Think about what we learned from Holloway," she said, her voice carrying the weight of someone who had worked enough dead end cases to recognize the pattern. "All three victims were connected to that development deal, but so were dozens of other people. Displaced families, community activists, other attorneys, city officials, construction workers, financial advisors—the list goes on and on."
Miles nodded slowly. "Sounds like too many variables to narrow down effectively."
"Exactly. And even if we focus on the displaced families first, we're talking about interviewing potentially hundreds of people. Elderly residents, single mothers, disabled tenants. Pretty much anyone who was genuinely harmed by this development but whoprobably doesn't have the resources or technical knowledge to pull off these murders."
Vic stood up and began pacing the small conference room, her investigative instincts telling her that they were missing something fundamental about the case. "Plus, I'm starting to doubt whether the development deal is even the real motive here."
"How so?"
"Patricia Vance is dead, but from everything I saw, it seems that her company is still moving forward with the project. The other investors are stepping up to fill the gap, and the displaced families are still being evicted. The schedule was a bit screwed up, but that’s about it. If someone was trying to stop the development by killing the people involved, they've failed completely."
Miles considered this while typing notes on his laptop. "So you're thinking the development connection might be coincidental?"
"Or it's part of a larger pattern that we're not seeing yet." Vic returned to her seat and looked at the crime scene photographs. "These murders are too sophisticated and too elaborate to be simple revenge killings by displaced tenants. The gold leaf application alone requires specialized knowledge and expensive materials. There’s something else going on there."
"Which brings us back to my periodic table theory," Miles said.
"Right. Maybe. If these killings are part of a larger pattern targeting people for symbolic reasons rather than personal grievances, then the development deal might just be how the killer identified these particular victims. What we were thinking of as motive might be some sort of shopping list for the killer."
Vic studied the photographs of the three crime scenes, looking for details she might have missed during her initialinvestigation. The careful positioning of the bodies, the professional quality of the gold application, the theatrical staging—all of it suggested someone with both technical expertise and a flair for dramatic presentation. And maybe, she supposed, someone with a warped and twisted appreciation of art.
Miles looked up from his laptop. "So what are we looking at in terms of approach?"
"I don't know yet," Vic admitted, feeling the frustration that came with cases that defied conventional investigative approaches. The fact that Sterling had been sent to join her spoke to just how unconventional this case was. "But sitting in this conference room running background checks on hundreds of people doesn't feel like the right path."
She could see Miles processing this information, a deep look of concentration coming over his face. The development deal had seemed like a promising lead when they'd discovered it, but the more they examined its implications, the more it felt like a dead end that would consume enormous amounts of time without producing actionable results.
After several more minutes of hunting in silence, Miles slowly got to his feet. "Give me a few minutes, would you? I need to make a call."
"Sure," Vic said.
Miles stepped out of the conference room, and she turned her attention back to the case files, trying to find some angle they hadn't yet explored. She didn’t even stop to wonder what sort of call Miles was making. If he wanted privacy, she could only assume it was personal. That was the good thing about working with a stranger, she supposed; she didn’t really need to care.
But after a few minutes, she found herself distracted by the sound of Miles's voice. It was low and muffled by the door, but she could hear just enough of it—like a whisper from out of acave. If he wanted privacy, he hadn’t stepped far enough away to get it.
"I know, Elena, I know you're worried," she heard him say, his voice carrying the gentle patience of someone who had clearly had this conversation before. "But I'm working with an experienced agent, and we're being careful. Most of what we've done so far is research and interviews, not anything dangerous."
