Miles nodded. "We can get the victim samples from the coroner. But that brings up our real question—do you know anylocal experts in metallurgy? Museum professionals maybe? And we’re trying to determine the source our killer might be using. I wonder if you might know of anyone who would have access to that amount of gold.”
Martinez was quiet for a moment, then his expression shifted. "Yeah, actually. I can kill two birds with one stone for you there."
"How so?"
"There's this kid—Jonathan Rivers. College-aged chemistry major. He had been working at one of the local museums until about two years ago." Martinez paused, shaking his head. "Poor bastard got fired for stealing a twenty-four-karat gold nugget from their collection."
"Stealing gold?" Miles exchanged a look with Vic.
"Yeah. I knew him a bit. He was brilliant, but he had problems. Mental health issues, I think. After he got caught, everything fell apart for him. Kicked out of school, lost his job, his whole future basically imploded."
"Where is he now?" Vic asked.
"County jail, last I heard. Got caught trying to steal gold from some local family that still owns mining claims. Happened a few months back."
Miles felt something click. "Dr. Martinez, is there any chance our killer might have gotten gold from that same source? From these mining claims?"
Martinez shrugged. "I have no idea about your killer specifically, but itwouldmake sense. Local source, easily accessible, probably untraceable. Most commercial gold gets mixed and processed through so many hands that tracking its origin becomes nearly impossible. But if someone had direct access to a local claim..." He trailed off.
"What do you mean?" Vic pressed. Miles could hear the impatience in her voice.
"Well, think about it. If you're going to commit murders using gold as an accessory or whatever, you need a reliable supply that won't be traced back to you. You can't exactly walk into a precious metals dealer and buy fifty ounces without raising questions. But if there's a local source—especially one that's not heavily monitored—you could take what you need without anyone being the wiser. And there are a few, but one in particular is actually sort of close. Sort of a mine…"
Miles leaned forward. "What mine are we talking about?"
"It's not really considered an active mine anymore. It's an old relic left over from the Gold Rush days. Used to be a small tourist destination up until the late nineties or so. It shut down when one of the owners and operators died, I think.”
"What's it called?" Vic asked.
Martinez smiled grimly. "Locals call it Hartwell Hole. It's kind of a mock name—the real designation is probably something more official, but everyone just knows it by that. A big old hole in the ground…used to be a mine but now is pretty much just a crater."
"Hartwell Hole?"
"Yeah. The Hartwell family has owned the land for generations. They still live out there, I think. It's about an hour north of the city, up in the hills. The whole area is dotted with old mining claims from the 1800s, but theirs was one of the few that kept producing into the modern era."
Miles felt the pieces starting to align. "So if someone wanted to get their hands on significant amounts of gold without leaving a paper trail..."
"They'd need access to a source like that," Martinez confirmed. "Especially if they had some kind of relationship with the owners, or knew the layout of the property. But honestly…I mean, I doubt anyone has pulled any actual gold out of any mines around here in a long time."
Martinez’s final caveat didn’t seem to dissuade Vic. She was already on her feet, looking to Miles. "Might be worth a trip out there to see if anyone on the land inadvertently spoke to our killer. Someone who might have seemed interested in the gold, asked questions about quantities or access."
“Sounds good to me,” Miles said.
"Thank you," Vic told Martinez through the glass. “I’ll be sure to make it known that you were very cooperative with us. It might help lessen whatever charges you’re looking at.”
As they hurried back to the lobby again, Miles checked his watch. “It’s only 1:30. An hour both ways…we’ve got time, right?”
"Yes,” Vic said. “For me, it’s not even a question.”
As they walked toward the exit, Miles felt the familiar surge of momentum that came with a breaking case. They weren't just chasing theories anymore—they had concrete leads, specific locations, real people to interview.
As they drove out of the city toward the hills, Miles couldn't shake the feeling that they were approaching a crucial turning point in the case. The killer had been careful, methodical, almost academic in their approach. But everyone made mistakes eventually, and local sources always left traces.
With four bodies in the killer’s wake, Miles could only hope they had left some sort of trace along their crooked, deadly path.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
The drive north took them through increasingly sparse neighborhoods until the urban sprawl gave way to rolling hills dotted with scrub oak and manzanita. Vic navigated the winding two-lane road while Miles worked on his laptop, the screen bouncing slightly with each curve and bump.
