Probably nothing,he thought, returning his attention to the documents. But after a few minutes, curiosity got the better of him. The sound had come from the direction of the living room, and while he was certain he'd locked the front door, it wouldn't hurt to check.
David stood up and walked out of his office, the scotch making him feel slightly more relaxed than he'd been all day. The living room stretched out before him in the gathering darkness, its familiar furniture taking on different shapes in the dim light filtering through the windows. He reached for the light switch but paused when he detected movement near the far corner of the room.
A figure emerged from the shadows beside the fireplace, moving with deliberate slowness. David's heart rate spiked as he realized someone had been standing there in the darkness, watching him. The intruder was average height and build, wearing dark clothing that had allowed them to blend seamlessly with the shadows.
"Who the hell are you?" David demanded, his voice carrying more authority than he felt. "How did you get in here?" All good questions, but none of them staved off the fear that gripped him in that moment.
The figure stepped closer, and David could see they were wearing some kind of mask or hood that obscured their features.The very edges of the sweater they wore seemed fuzzy and indistinct in the gloom of early night through the windows.
When they spoke, their voice was soft, almost conversational, as if they were discussing the weather rather than breaking into someone's home.
"The weight of gold," the intruder said quietly. "Do you understand its true burden, Mr. Goldberg?"
"I'm calling the police," David said, reaching for his phone. But as he pulled the device from his pocket, he saw the intruder's hand move in his peripheral vision.
Something small and dark flashed through the air toward his head. David had a split second to register that it was some kind of weapon—a small baseball bat or club of some kind, maybe—before it connected with his temple with devastating force.
The pain was immediate and overwhelming, a white-hot explosion that seemed to fill his entire skull. David staggered backward, his vision blurring as waves of agony crashed through his head. He tried to cry out, tried to maintain his balance, but his legs suddenly felt disconnected from his body.
His consciousness flickered like a dying light bulb, and the last thing he remembered was the sound of footsteps approaching across the marble floor, deliberate and unhurried, as if the intruder had all the time in the world to complete whatever they had come here to do.
Then there was only blackness, complete and absolute.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The gold was everywhere, flowing like honey but burning like molten lava as it crept across Miles's chest. He lay trapped on a cold concrete slab, heavy chains binding his wrists and ankles so tightly that the metal cut into his skin with every movement. Above him, unseen hands poured the liquid metal from containers he couldn't see, the gold cascading down in steady streams that pooled around his body before slowly rising to cover him.
The heat was unbearable at first, searing his skin as the molten gold made contact. But as it began to cool and harden, the burning sensation gave way to something far worse—the gradual realization that he couldn't breathe. The gold was forming a shell around his torso, sealing off his airways with methodical precision. He tried to scream, tried to struggle against the chains, but the cooling metal held him immobile as his lungs began to burn with the need for oxygen.
Miles could feel the weight of it pressing down on his chest like a massive stone. His vision began to blur as consciousness started to slip away, but he could still see the reflection of his own terrified eyes in the golden surface that was slowly encasing his face. The metal crept up his neck, across his chin, approaching his mouth with inevitable certainty.
He tried one last time to cry out, to break free from the nightmare that was consuming him, but the gold sealed his lips just as someone called his name from what seemed like a great distance.
"Miles. Miles, wake up."
The voice cut through the horror of molten metal, pulling him out of a fitful sleep. A hand touched his shoulder, shaking him lightly but persistently.
"Miles, come on. Wake up."
He jerked awake with a gasp, his heart hammering against his ribs as the conference room materialized around him. The harsh fluorescent lighting made him squint, and for a moment he couldn't quite reconcile the sterile office environment with the industrial nightmare he'd just escaped. He could almost feel the phantom weight of gold pressing against his chest even though he knew he was safe.
Vic stood beside his chair, her hand still on his shoulder, her expression a mixture of concern and professional understanding. She looked to be fully alert despite what Miles groggily realized must be an ungodly hour of the morning. Her hair was still pulled back in the same practical ponytail she'd worn all day, and he also noticed that she looked shaken…maybe even slightly excited about something.
"Sorry," Miles said, immediately embarrassed by his unprofessional behavior. He straightened in his chair and ran a hand through his disheveled hair, trying to orient himself in time and space. "I'm sorry, I must have dozed off. I didn't mean to fall asleep on the job."
"Don't worry about it," Vic said, stepping back to give him space to fully wake up. "Happens to all of us. I've fallen asleep in more conference rooms and hotel lobbies than I can count. Long investigations will do that to you."
Miles glanced at his watch and felt a jolt of surprise when he saw that it was 4:00 in the morning. The last thing he remembered was reviewing financial profiles of San Francisco's wealthy elite, cross-referencing their business practices with the pattern established by their three victims. He'd been making notes about potential targets, people whose wealth and business methods might make them appealing to a killer motivated by economic justice. But that had been around 1:30, and nowsomehow three hours had vanished into exhausted sleep with his head on the desk.
"Anyway, there was a very good reason for me to wake you up,” she said. “We got a call…”
Miles could hear something in her tone that suggested urgency, and his professional instincts began to override his embarrassment about falling asleep. "What kind of call?"
"Another body," Vic said simply. "Same methodology as the others. Covered in gold leaf, positioned like a piece of art."
The words hit Miles like cold water, instantly clearing the last cobwebs of sleep from his mind. He stood up quickly, gathering the papers he'd been working on before his exhaustion had overwhelmed him. "When? Where?"
"A house in Pacific Heights. The victim is David Goldberg…a name I came across a few times during our research today. His body was discovered about an hour ago by a woman who identified herself as his 'sort of girlfriend' according to the PD on the scene."
