Miles looked down at Martinez, who had given up struggling and now lay on the concrete with the resigned expression of someone who knew his secrets were about to be exposed. "Don’t eventhinkabout moving," Miles growled.
He followed Vic into the basement. Right away, he noticed the sophisticated ventilation system that had been installed to handle chemical fumes. The space had been converted into a makeshift laboratory that rivaled the equipment Miles had seen in Martinez's apartment. Beakers, burners, and other complex apparatus filled metal tables. Along the back wall, a row of wooden shelves held various chemical containers.
But it was the small pile of golden flakes scattered across one of the worktables that made Miles's heart race with excitement.
"Gold leaf," Vic said, carefully photographing the evidence with her phone. "Professional quality, exactly like what we've seen at our crime scenes."
Miles studied the makeshift laboratory, noting the precision with which Martinez had arranged his equipment. This wasn't the workspace of a casual chemistry hobbyist—this was a professional-grade facility hidden beneath a modest apartment building.
"Dr. Andrew Martinez," Vic said, making her way back out of the basement door with handcuffs ready. "You're under arrest on suspicion of murder."
The metallic click of the handcuffs closing around Martinez's wrists seemed to echo in the confined space of the alley. For Miles, it all seemed anticlimactic and a little strange. After all, the lie he’d told Hayes had paid off.
For now, it seemed they had their killer.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The interrogation room felt even more oppressive than it had during their interview with Carmen Rodriguez. Miles settled into the same uncomfortable plastic chair, but this time the windowless walls felt more confining. The metallic table between them reflected the overhead lights in harsh angles that hurt his eyes, and the air felt thick with the tension of a case that might finally be reaching its conclusion.
Andrew Martinez sat across from them, his hands folded on the table now that the handcuffs had been removed. His wire-rimmed glasses had been straightened after their scuffle in the alley, but his UC Berkeley sweatshirt showed dirt stains from where Miles tackled him on the concrete. His earlier panic had given way to a kind of resigned wariness, the expression of someone who understood that his secrets were about to be exposed but wasn't quite sure which secrets his interrogators had discovered.
As for Miles, his left knee and forearm ached slightly, stinging from the skirmish. But it was little more than a phantom pain in the face of realizing that they may very well be on the verge of closing this case—of putting a killer away.
Vic activated the digital recorder on the table and stated the standard information for the record—date, time, participants, and the fact that Dr. Martinez had been advised of his rights and had waived his right to an attorney, which was something they’d both been surprised by. Miles still felt the adrenaline from their chase coursing through his system, but he forced himself to focus on the interrogation.
"Dr. Martinez," Vic began, her tone professional but not hostile, "let's start with your feelings about wealth inequality in San Francisco. During your time at UC Berkeley, you were quitevocal about what you called 'toxic capitalism.' Can you explain those views?"
Martinez shifted in his chair. Miles could practically see his academic instincts coming to the forefront, as he prepared to launch into what was probably a familiar lecture. "The concentration of wealth in the hands of a few individuals while working families are displaced from their communities represents a fundamental corruption of economic principles," he said, his voice taking on the passionate tone of someone who had given this speech many times before. "When people like Patricia Vance can manipulate real estate markets to enrich themselves while destroying the lives of elderly residents and families with children, we're witnessing the complete breakdown of any pretense that capitalism serves the common good."
Miles noted how Martinez immediately referenced Patricia Vance by name, demonstrating detailed knowledge of at least one of their victims. Miles racked his memory, trying to determine if they had mentioned the names of the victims around him or not. "You seem to know quite a bit about Patricia Vance's business practices."
"Anyone who's been paying attention to San Francisco's housing crisis knows about Patricia Vance," Martinez replied, his tone carrying the bitterness of someone who felt personally affected by the issues he was describing. "Her development projects have displaced hundreds of families over the past five years. She's a perfect example of how wealth hoarders use their resources to exploit vulnerable populations."
"Wealth hoarders," Vic repeated. "That's an interesting phrase. Do you harbor resentment against people who fit that description?"
Martinez's jaw tightened slightly, and Miles could see him calculating how much honesty his situation could tolerate. "I think any rational person should resent systematic exploitationon that level. When people use their wealth to harm others, they've forfeited any claim to moral consideration. And if you’re making a habit of arresting people who feel the same, you’re going to pack out the prisons around here."
The last comment, Miles knew, was meant to be a barb but he also understood that there was a good deal of truth to it.
"Have you ever considered taking action against people you consider wealth hoarders?" Miles asked, trying to keep his tone neutral despite the excitement building in his chest.
"I've taken plenty of action," Martinez said defensively. "I've written articles, given lectures, participated in protests. I've dedicated my academic career to exposing the environmental and social costs of unchecked capitalism."
"But have you ever considered moredirectaction?" Vic pressed. "Physical intervention when legal and academic channels prove inadequate?"
Martinez looked genuinely confused by the question, his eyebrows rising behind his wire-rimmed glasses. "Physical intervention? What are you talking about?"
Miles was pretty sure Martinez knew what Vic meant; he was just trying to get her to come out and say it.
"Dr. Martinez," Vic said, shifting to a more direct approach, "we found gold flakes in your basement laboratory. Can you explain what you were doing with that material?"
Martinez's expression immediately became more guarded, and Miles could see him trying to calculate the legal implications of his answer. "I've been conducting some metallurgy experiments as part of my environmental research." He shrugged, as if embarrassed, and added, “It’s a topic I’ve always been passionate about but most of the supervisors at the college were wary of letting me work on it while I was employed there.
"What kind of experiments?" Miles asked.
Martinez hesitated for several long moments, clearly weighing the risks of full disclosure against the evidence they'd already discovered. "I've been studying the environmental impact of gold mining operations, particularly the chemical byproducts that contaminate water supplies in mining regions. The work requires understanding how gold interacts with various chemical compounds under different environmental conditions."
"That's a very specific area of research," Vic observed.
