"What kind of more?"
"Either concrete evidence linking Diana to other murders in other cities, or we need her to start talking. Right now, all we have is speculation and circumstantial connections."
Miles felt a familiar sense of frustration. They'd caught Diana Hartwell, stopped her from killing Mayor Callahan, and gathered enough evidence to put her away for life. By any reasonable measure, the case was a success. But he couldn't shake the feeling that they'd only scratched the surface of something much larger.
"You know what bothers me most?" he said after a moment. “Other than my head at the moment, I mean?”
"What?"
"The sophistication of it all. The philosophical framework, the careful selection of victims, the symbolic use of gold—it's too elaborate for a lone wolf operation.” He knew he was verging on being too pushy with his idea and theory, but he couldn’t help it. “Diana's smart, but this feels like something that was planned and coordinated by someone with a much broader perspective."
Vic nodded slowly. "I've been thinking the same thing. The way she set up that laboratory, the precision of her methods—it's like she was following a playbook."
"A playbook written by someone else."
They sat in silence for several minutes, both lost in their own thoughts. The muted television continued its cycle of local news, and Miles could hear the distant sounds of hospital activity in the corridors outside.
"For what it's worth," Vic said eventually, "I think we made a good team. Your insights about the gold symbolism, the connection to San Francisco's history—that's what broke the case open. I told Hayes as much."
"Thanks…but we got lucky. If that worker at Diana’s place hadn’t been so talkative, we might never have made the connection to Diana."
"Maybe. But you were the one who recognized the pattern in the first place. The periodic table connection, the symbolic use of elements—that was all you. Even if it doesn’t extend any further than this."
Miles appreciated the praise, but it didn't alleviate the nagging sense that they'd missed something crucial. "I just hope we haven't given whoever's really behind this time to cover their tracks or move to another city."
"If thereissomeone else behind this," Vic corrected gently.
"Right.If."
But even as he said it, Miles knew he didn't really believe in the "if." Somewhere out there, someone was planning the next element-based murder. He had no doubts about it. And if he was right, Diana Hartwell had been caught, but the mastermind remained free.
The thought should have been terrifying, but instead, Miles found himself feeling oddly energized despite his concussion. They'd proven that the pattern was real, that the connections he'd identified were more than coincidence. Now they just had to figure out how to find the person pulling the strings.
He looked at Vic, who was staring thoughtfully at her notebook. "What happens next?"
"We write our reports, we testify at Diana's trial, and we hope she eventually decides to cooperate." Vic stood up and stretched. "And maybe, if we're lucky, some other forensic scientist in some other city will notice a pattern and make the same connections you did."
"That could take months. Years."
"I know." Vic moved toward the door, then paused. "Get some rest, Miles. Doctor's orders. And try not to tackle any morearmed suspects until your head heals. I’m going to hang around San Fran until you’re fully cleared. We can head back home together.”
“Yeah, I appreciate that.”
She gave him a smile and slowly made her way out of the room. After she left, Miles lay back against the hospital pillows and stared at the ceiling. He should feel accomplished. They'd caught a killer, saved at least one life, and solved a case that had stumped local law enforcement for weeks. But instead, he felt like they'd only glimpsed the tip of an iceberg,…and the real danger still lurked somewhere beneath the surface.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
The cabin sat nestled among towering pines on a mountainside so remote that the nearest neighbor lived twelve miles away, down a winding dirt road. It was a road that became impassable during winter storms. At this elevation, the air carried a crisp bite even in summer, and the silence was profound. It was rarely broken at all, and when it was, it was only by the occasional call of a hawk or the whisper of wind through the evergreen canopy.
Inside, a man in his fifties sat at a rough-hewn wooden table, reading by the light of a single lamp. The cabin's interior was spartanly furnished but meticulously organized. Bookshelves lined two walls, filled with volumes on chemistry, philosophy, and human behavior. A stone fireplace dominated the far wall, cold now in the late evening. The only modern concession was a laptop computer, its screen glowing softly in the rustic surroundings.
He had been reading the same article for the third time, digesting each detail as if he were going to be quizzed on it in the future.The San Francisco Chronicle'sheadline was everything he had hoped for: "Museum Curator Arrested in 'Golden Killer' Case Dies by Suicide in County Jail."
The article was thorough, if somewhat sensationalized. Diana Hartwell had been arrested four days ago following a dramatic confrontation at the Golden Gate Museum of Natural History. She had been charged with four murders and one attempted murder, all involving victims who had been suffocated under layers of gold. The piece went on to describe her apparent suicide in her cell, found hanging from bedsheets she had braided into a makeshift rope.
The man closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Diana had understood her role perfectly. Even in death, she continued to serve the greater purpose. He appreciated her and her efforts to no end.
The authorities were calling her a lone wolf, a disturbed individual driven by personal grievances against the wealthy elite. They had no idea how wrong they were. Diana had been precise, methodical, and completely devoted to the mission he had given her. Gold—element seventy-nine on the periodic table—had been her assigned medium, and she had wielded it with artistic brilliance.
