Miles grabbed a breakfast burrito from a food truck parked outside a Starbucks. Vic opted for black coffee and a croissant that she ate in three efficient bites. They'd both agreed that stopping for a proper meal would waste time and halt their momentum but Miles's stomach had been growling audibly since they'd left Goldberg's house. The burrito was mediocre at best—scrambled eggs, cheese, and questionable sausage wrapped in a flour tortilla that had seen better days—but it provided the fuel he needed to stay focused and alert.
After their brief breakfast and coffee refuel, they made their way to the address they'd found for Camen Rodriguez’s business. It turned out that Rodriguez’s office occupied the second floor of a converted warehouse in the SOMA district, a neighborhood that had undergone rapid gentrification over the past decade. The building's exterior had been renovated to appeal to the tech companies and creative agencies that now dominated the area, with exposed brick walls and large windows that gave it a deliberately industrial aesthetic. A trendy coffee shop occupied the ground floor, its minimalist interior filled with freelancers working on laptops and young professionals conducting meetings over artisanal lattes.
They climbed a narrow staircase that had been painted in bright colors, its walls decorated with local artwork that added to the building's consciously hip atmosphere. The contrast between the building's youthful renovation and its serious governmental function struck Miles as oddly appropriate for San Francisco.
The second floor opened into a surprisingly large loft-style office space that had been divided into work areas by a series of modern room dividers and glass partitions. The ceiling soaredoverhead, supported by exposed steel beams that had been painted white to maximize the natural light streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. The space buzzed with activity despite the early hour, with five different investigators hunched over computers, talking on phones, and spreading documents across collaborative worktables.
Whiteboards covered in financial charts and case timelines dotted the space, while evidence boxes and filing cabinets were arranged along the walls. The overall effect was of a newsroom or startup office rather than a government agency, suggesting an organization that valued collaboration and innovation over bureaucratic hierarchy.
"Can I help you?" A young man wearing jeans and a button-down shirt approached them as they paused near the entrance, taking in the scope of the office space.
Vic produced her credentials with practiced efficiency. "Special Agent Stone, FBI. We're looking for Carmen Rodriguez."
"She's over there," the man said, pointing toward a corner of the office where they could see someone working at a desk surrounded by an impressive stack of documents. "Fair warning—she's been pulling all-nighters on a big case, so she might be a little cranky."
They navigated through the maze of desks and partitions, passing investigators who looked up briefly from their work before returning to their computers and case files. Carmen Rodriguez sat behind a desk that looked like a hurricane had blown through a financial records warehouse. Binders, spreadsheets, and legal documents covered every available surface, while multiple computer monitors displayed what appeared to be banking records and real estate transactions. She was a woman in her late thirties with shoulder-length black hair that showed signs of being repeatedly run through by herfingers during long hours of concentration. Her dark eyes moved rapidly across a computer screen, and she made occasional notes on a legal pad with the kind of focused intensity that suggested she was completely absorbed in her work.
She wore a simple black sweater and dark jeans, practical clothing that suggested someone who valued comfort and functionality over appearance. Her desk held the detritus of someone who had been working for hours: empty coffee cups, food containers from nearby restaurants, and a small mountain of crumpled papers that had been discarded during her analysis.
"Ms. Rodriguez?" Vic said, approaching the desk with her badge visible.
Carmen looked up from her computer screen, her expression immediately shifting from concentration to wariness. “Yes? Can I help you?”
Vick again showed her credentials and made introductions. Rodriguez took a moment to process the sight of two federal agents standing beside her desk. "FBI? What's this about?"
"We'd like to ask you some questions about your recent investigations into financial crimes involving several prominent San Francisco residents."
Carmen's posture stiffened, and Miles could see her mentally calculating the implications of federal agents asking about her work. Her eyes moved between Vic and Miles, assessing them with the kind of professional skepticism that came from years of investigating people who made their living through deception and manipulation.
"Which residents specifically?" she asked, her tone becoming more guarded.
"Patricia Vance, David Goldberg, and Rebecca Thornfield, and Nelson Dewalt," Vic replied. "We understand you've been building cases involving their business practices."
Carmen stood up abruptly, her chair rolling backward as she rose to her full height of maybe five-foot-six. "What kind of cases are we talking about here? Because if this is about my investigation methods or my access to financial records, I can assure you that everything I've done has been completely within the scope of my authority."
Miles could see the defensive anger building in her expression, the reaction of someone who felt like their professional integrity was being questioned. But there was something else in her demeanor as well—a kind of nervous energy that suggested she knew more about the situation than she was willing to admit. That, or she had been pulling all-nighters like the receptionist had said and she was a bit fried.
"We're investigating the murders of the four individuals I just named," Vic said calmly. "All four have been killed within the past two weeks, and we're trying to understand who might have had detailed knowledge of their business activities."
Carmen's face went pale as the implications of Vic's words sank in. "Murders? You’re telling meallof them are dead?”
“Yes.”
The anger went out of Carmen’s face for a moment as she digested this. She considered it for about ten seconds in silence, starting at both of them. But then some of that anger returned, as quick as lightning. “Are you suggesting that I'm somehow involved in killing people?"
"We're not suggesting anything," Miles said, trying to adopt the same neutral tone that Vic used during interviews. "We're simply trying to understand the connections between the victims and identify anyone who might have had access to information about their financial crimes."
But Carmen was already moving, gathering papers from her desk with hurried, agitated movements. "This is ridiculous. I'm a financial crimes investigator, not a murderer. If you want toquestion me about my work and disrupt what has turned out to be a very important case, you can go through my supervisor and schedule a formal interview. This is…this is justbullshit."
She pushed past Miles, heading toward the stairwell. She did so without any real warning or explanation. She’d simply heard enough and decided she didn’t have time for this. She walked away with the determined stride of someone who had decided that the conversation was over. Miles exchanged a quick glance with Vic, not quite sure how to handle this sort of situation. He knew he had the authority to stop her if it came down to it…but he wasn’t sure if this situation called for such rash actions.
"Ms. Rodriguez, please wait," Vic called after her, but Carmen was already pushing through the door that led to the stairwell.
Vic moved quickly, her longer stride allowing her to catch up with Carmen just as she reached the landing between floors. Miles followed close behind, adrenaline starting to pump. He’d been in a few physical altercations in the course of his career, but they had never amounted to much. But this case felt more dangerous…more unpredictable. His heart rate spiked as he realized they were about to have a confrontation in a public stairwell with someone who might be connected to four brutal murders.
"Ms. Rodriguez, stop," Vic said firmly, positioning herself between Carmen and the stairs leading down to the street. "Running away from federal agents is not going to help your situation.”
Carmen spun around to face them, her dark eyes flashing with anger and what might have been fear. "I'm not running away from anything. I'm walking away from what feels like harassment and intimidation when I don’t have time for such nonsense.”
