"You have twenty-four more hours," Hayes said finally. "If this Martinez lead doesn't produce significant developments, I'm pulling you both back to Quantico. The local PD is already questioning whether they need federal assistance, and I can't afford to have this case become a political embarrassment."
"Understood, sir," Miles replied, relief flooding through him despite the tight timeline Hayes had imposed.
"And Sterling? This Martinez angle better be more than academic speculation. I need arrests, not theories."
The call ended, leaving Miles and Vic alone in the small office with the weight of Hayes's ultimatum hanging between them. Miles could feel Vic studying his face, probably wondering whether he had actually identified a legitimate lead or simply bought them time through creative deception.
"So," Vic said after a moment, her tone carrying a hint of amusement despite the seriousness of their situation. "Do you make a habit of lying to your supervisor?"
"No," Miles replied, running a hand through his hair as he considered the implications of what he'd just committed them to. "But I know Hayes well enough to understand how to pacify him when he's under political pressure. He needed to hear that we had a specific lead to pursue, not more theoretical analysis."
"And do we actually have a specific lead to pursue?"
Miles considered the question carefully, drawing on his memories of the research they'd conducted over the past day. "You know, Andrew Martinez might not be a bad lead, actually. Assuming he has at least some sort of understanding of the financial pulse of this city, he may be an invaluable resource. Even if he's not our killer, he might have insights into the connections between our victims that we haven't considered."
Vic nodded slowly, seeming to accept his reasoning despite the unconventional way they'd arrived at this investigative direction. "A fired chemistry professor with strong opinions about wealth inequality. It's not the worst theory we've pursued."
"Plus, if he was terminated from UC Berkeley for controversial views about capitalism, he might have detailed knowledge about prominent San Francisco financial figures who stand for the problems he was criticizing. Maybe he could helpus understand the killer's selection criteria, even if he's not involved in the murders himself."
"All right," Vic said, gathering her materials and heading toward the door. "Let's go find Dr. Andrew Martinez and see if we can make younota liar.”
As they left the field office and headed toward their car, Miles reflected on how his relationship with Vic had evolved over their brief partnership. She'd trusted him enough to let him take the lead with Hayes, and now she was willing to pursue an investigative direction based on his improvised reasoning. Whether that trust was justified remained to be seen. But at least they had twenty-four more hours to prove that his theoretical approach could produce practical results.
Dr. Martinez might hold the key to understanding their killer's motivation and methodology. Or he might be exactly what Miles feared—another dead end that would consume their remaining time and ultimately prove that Hayes's skepticism was warranted.
Either way, they were about to find out whether Miles's desperate little lie would save their case or send them home with their tails tucked between their legs.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The drive to the address Vic had found for Dr. Martinez took them away from the polished financial district and into neighborhoods where the city's working class was barely able to still hang on. Miles watched the urban landscape transform outside the passenger window as Vic navigated through increasingly narrow streets lined with aging apartment buildings and small businesses that bore the weathered signs of decades in operation.
Dr. Andrew Martinez's lived in a four-story apartment building that occupied a corner lot in what appeared to be a transitional neighborhood. The building had probably been impressive when it was built in the 1960s, but forty years of deferred maintenance had left it looking tired and slightly shabby. The tan stucco exterior showed water stains from decades of Bay Area fog, and several of the windows were covered with plywood or aluminum foil instead of proper curtains. A few potted plants on fire escape landings provided the only real decoration.
The building's entrance was protected by a security door that was on its last legs; its glass panel was spider-webbed with cracks that had been reinforced with clear tape. A handwritten directory beside the door listed tenants' names in fading ink, some crossed out and replaced as residents moved in and out. Miles noted that this was exactly the kind of neighborhood where someone like Martinez might end up after losing an academic position. The rent would be affordable enough for someone surviving on unemployment benefits or temporary work, but the location still provided access to the broader Bay Area job market. It was respectable but struggling, a placewhere former professionals could maintain their dignity while rebuilding their careers.
The security door's intercom system looked functional despite the building's overall shabbiness. Vic located Martinez's name among the faded listings, pressed the buzzer, and waited for a response.
"Yes?" The voice that crackled through the speaker was cautious, carrying the wariness of someone who wasn't expecting visitors.
"Dr. Martinez?”
“Um, yeah?”
“This is Special Agent Victoria Stone with the FBI. We'd like to speak with you about some research you might be able to help us with."
The intercom went silent for several long moments, and Miles wondered whether Martinez was going to refuse to speak with them. Finally, the buzzer sounded, releasing the security door's lock.
"Third floor, apartment 3B," Martinez's voice said through the speaker.
They passed through a basic, bland lobby and climbed a narrow staircase. The building’s fluorescent lighting cast everything in harsh, unflattering tones. But the building was clean and well-maintained despite its age, suggesting a landlord who cared about the property and tenants who took pride in their home despite its modest circumstances.
Apartment 3B's door opened before they could knock, revealing a man in his mid-fifties with graying brown hair down to his shoulders, and the kind of lean build that suggested either careful diet or regular exercise. Dr. Andrew Martinez wore wire-rimmed glasses that had been repaired with tape in several places, and his clothing—jeans and a faded UC Berkeley sweatshirt—looked comfortable but dated. His dark eyes movednervously between Miles and Vic, and his hands showed a slight tremor that could have been caffeine or anxiety.
"Dr. Martinez," Vic said, producing her credentials with practiced efficiency. "I'm Special Agent Stone, and this is Dr. Sterling, both out of Quantico. Thank you for agreeing to speak with us."
Martinez stepped back to allow them into his apartment, but his body language suggested reluctance rather than hospitality. Miles immediately noticed how the man's eyes darted around the hallway as if checking to see whether anyone else was watching their interaction.
The apartment's living room was small but functional, with furniture that looked like it had been picked up at thrift stores or garage sales. An aged but sturdy folding table held a laptop computer surrounded by stacks of papers and academic journals.
