Vic felt an unexpected stab of something that might have been envy as she listened to Miles reassure Elena—a girlfriend she assumed, because she’d not seen a wedding ring on his finger—about his safety. It had been far too long since she'd had anyone in her life who worried about her well-being, anyone who expected phone calls and updates about dangerous cases. Her last serious relationship had ended nearly two years ago, destroyed by the combination of her unpredictable schedule and her partner's inability to understand the emotional demands of her work.
"I promise I'll be careful," Miles continued. "And I'll call you later tonight to let you know how everything went. Yes, I love you, too."
The tenderness in his voice made Vic acutely aware of her own isolation, of the price she'd paid for building a career that consumed most of her emotional energy. She'd told herself for years that the work was enough, that the satisfaction of solving cases and bringing killers to justice filled the void left by failed relationships and sacrificed personal connections. But hearing Miles's quiet conversation with Elena reminded her of what she'd given up in pursuit of professional success. She envied him.
She shook off the unwelcome emotional intrusion and forced her attention back to the case files. There was work to be done, and personal feelings had no place in an active investigation. She'd learned long ago to compartmentalize her emotionalresponses, to focus on the task at hand regardless of whatever personal issues might be troubling her.
Miles returned to the conference room a few minutes later, his expression apologetic. "Sorry about that. My fiancée gets worried when I'm working active cases. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does…" He shrugged as if that said it all.
"It’s understandable," Vic said, keeping her voice neutral. "This kind of work isn't easy on relationships."
"We're getting married in six months, assuming this case doesn't completely derail our wedding plans."
The casual mention of his upcoming marriage drove home the contrast between their personal situations, but Vic pushed the thought aside and focused on the professional aspects of their partnership. They’d only been working together for about five hours now; she didn’t see the point of opening those sort of personal doors. Plus, Miles was proving to be a valuable investigative partner despite his limited field experience, and his analytical skills were complementing her street-level investigative instincts in ways that were helping them see the case from new angles.
"So," she said, opening another case file. "Back to our problem. We've got three dead people, a development deal connection that might be meaningless, and no clear path forward."
"What if we approach it differently?" Miles suggested. "Instead of trying to work backward from the victims to find the killer, what if we try to predict who the next victim might be?"
Vic looked up from the photographs, intrigued by the suggestion. "Based on what criteria?"
"If your killer is really following some kind of pattern related to wealth and corruption, there might be other people in San Francisco who fit the same profile as our three victims. Like you said…maybe he’s using people involved in that deal as a list. Ithink you referred to it as ashopping list. Which, well, was sort of morbid."
Vic considered this approach, recognizing both its potential and its limitations. It was a more proactive strategy than their current dead end investigation, but it also required them to make assumptions about the killer's methodology that they couldn't yet prove. Still, it was better than spending weeks interviewing displaced tenants who probably had nothing to do with the murders.
"All right," she said, pulling her laptop closer. "Let's see if we can build a profile of potential victims and figure out who else in this city might be at risk." She grinned and said, “I’d start thinking about what sort of take-out you want because we’re going to probably be here a while.”
CHAPTER TEN
David Goldberg pulled his black BMW into the circular driveway of his Pacific Heights home, the lawn shrouded in the last little remnants of dusk. The engine's purr faded into silence as he sat for a moment in the driver's seat. At forty-seven, he carried the soft build of a man who spent his days behind a desk and his evenings at business dinners. He’d once been fairly athletic; he’d been something of a legend in the small racquetball circles around the city in his thirties. But his once athletic frame was now padded with the comfortable weight that came with success and sedentary living. His thinning brown hair was combed precisely to disguise the expanding bald spot at his crown, and his expensive suit hung perfectly despite the long day of meetings that had left him feeling drained and irritable.
David gathered his briefcase from the passenger seat and walked up the front steps, his Italian leather shoes clicking against the polished concrete. The day had been particularly tedious, filled with meetings about expanding his investment portfolio into overseas tax havens that would shield his clients' wealth from domestic taxation. The whole business was perfectly legal but mind-numbingly boring, involving endless discussions of regulatory frameworks and offshore banking structures that made his eyes glaze over with boredom.
But it was easy money. His clients paid enormous fees for his expertise in navigating international finance laws, and David had built a reputation on his ability to find legal loopholes that could save wealthy individuals millions of dollars in taxes. The work required no creativity, no passion, just a thorough understanding of complex regulations and the willingness to exploit them for profit.
He unlocked the front door and stepped into the marble floored foyer, immediately feeling the house's oppressive silence settle around him. The house represented everything he'd worked toward for the past two decades—a sprawling contemporary structure of glass and steel that commanded panoramic views of the bay. Clean lines and geometric angles spoke of architectural sophistication, while the manicured landscaping and imported stone accents demonstrated the kind of wealth that didn't need to announce itself. The property had cost him eight million dollars three years ago, back when he'd still been married and the future had seemed more predictable.
Now the house felt too large, too empty, echoing with the absence of the family that had once filled its rooms with noise and life. Sarah had taken the kids to her sister's place in Portland after the divorce was finalized, and both Jennifer and Michael were away at college now anyway. The silence that greeted him each evening had become a familiar companion, though not necessarily a welcome one.
The interior boasted soaring ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows that filled the space with natural light during the day but now only revealed the growing darkness outside. Expensive artwork hung on the walls—pieces Sarah had selected during their marriage that now served as reminders of better times.
The living room waited for him, its leather furniture and glass coffee table arranged around a fireplace that he rarely used anymore. Beyond that, his home office waited with its wall of financial monitors and the stack of documents he'd brought home to review. It was where he spent most of his time.
But first, he needed a drink.
He made his way to the wet bar in the corner of the living room, selecting a bottle of Macallan 25 from the collection of single malt scotches that had become his primary form of self-medication since the divorce. He poured three fingers into a crystal tumbler, a familiar routine to end another pointless day.
The divorce had been finalized just over a year ago, the culmination of months of legal proceedings that had dissected twenty-two years of marriage with clinical precision. Sarah had discovered his affair with his assistant through careless texts, though that had really just been the final catalyst for problems that had been building for years. The stress of his work, the long hours, the gradual erosion of intimacy between them—all of it had contributed to the slow collapse of their relationship.
David took a sip of the scotch and felt its warmth spread through his chest as he walked toward his home office. The room occupied what had once been Sarah's studio, its walls now lined with financial charts and market analyses instead of her photography equipment. His desk was a massive slab of black granite that supported three computer monitors and stacks of documents that required his attention.
He settled into his leather chair and opened his briefcase, extracting the contracts and financial reports he hadn't had time to review during the day's meetings. Most of it was routine paperwork related to his clients' offshore investments, but one file contained details of a new opportunity in the Cayman Islands that could potentially save one of his wealthiest clients several million dollars in taxes.
The work was tedious but lucrative. David's commission on the deal would be substantial, adding another layer to his already considerable wealth. He'd learned long ago that money couldn't buy happiness, but it could certainly insulate him from many of life's more pressing concerns. The alimony payments, the empty house, the growing distance from his children—all of it could be managed as long as the income continued flowing.
He was halfway through reviewing a complex investment structure when he heard a soft thump from somewhere deeperin the house. The sound was muted but distinct, like something heavy being set down on carpet. David paused in his reading, listening carefully for any additional sounds. He wondered if something had fallen.
The house was old enough to settle and creak, especially during temperature changes, but this had sounded different. More deliberate, more substantial. He set down his pen and listened for another moment, but heard only the distant sound of traffic from the street below.
