Hayes studied Miles's face, seeing the conviction there alongside the professional restraint. Miles knew that his reputation was one that was built upon his habit of seeking out wild theories without basis. He just hoped Hayes could manage to see, just this one time, beyond the plain cut and dry.
"Agent Stone doesn't know about your theory," Hayes said slowly. "She's been working these cases from the field perspective, not the analytical angle you're taking."
"Which is exactly why I need to work with her," Miles said. "She has the investigative experience, and I have the scientific analysis. Together we might be able to see what neither of us could alone. And worst-case scenario, let’s say I’m completely wrong, we’dstillbe capturing killers from murder cases that have gone unsolved.”
Hayes checked his watch again, clearly pressed for time. Miles hoped this might work to his advantage. "Stone's not easy to work with," Hayes warned. "She's used to operating independently, and she doesn't have much patience for theories that can't be proven in the field."
"I understand, sir."
"She's also protective of her cases.Ifyou go out there, you'll be working under her lead, following her protocols. No freelancing, no pursuing your own agenda without her approval."
Miles nodded eagerly, baffled and overjoyed that it seemed to be working out for him. "I can work with those parameters."
Hayes stood up, signaling that the meeting was coming to an end. "Agent Stone has a reputation for being direct, Sterling. She'll tell you exactly what she thinks of your theory, and it might not be what you want to hear."
"I'm prepared for that, sir. The case she’s working on…what are the specifics?”
"Three murders, media attention, political pressure for quick results. If you go out there, you'll be walking into a pressure cooker."
"I understand the stakes, sir."
Hayes considered the request for another moment, weighing the potential benefits against the risks. Miles felt a load of tension settling onto his shoulders as he realized this moment might completely validate everything he’d been working on for the past three years.
Or, on the other hand, it could ruin it completely.
CHAPTER THREE
Special Agent Victoria Stone pulled her rental car to the curb on California Street, detaching herself from the hectic flow of morning traffic. A bit of morning fog still clung to the Financial District's towering glass and steel buildings, giving everything a slightly ominous tone. At thirty-five, Vic carried herself with the easy confidence of someone who'd earned her place through thirteen years of hard cases and difficult sights. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail, practical rather than stylish. She had the kind of lean, athletic build that came from regular workouts and an active job, but it was her eyes that people remembered—sharp green and perpetually alert, missing nothing. Today’s dark pantsuit bore the wrinkles of someone who'd landed at the airport just three hours ago, having been pulled out of bed at 1:30 in the morning to fly across the country.
Since then, she’d been coordinating with local authorities and doing her best to get a full understanding of what was going on. And now here she was, at the latest strange crime scene.
The construction site sprawled across what had once been a block of historic buildings, now reduced to rubble and scaffolding as part of the Financial District's ongoing renovation. Orange safety fencing cordoned off the area, but it did little to contain the chaos of police cars, crime scene vans, and curious onlookers that had gathered since the body's discovery three hours earlier. Vic flashed her badge at the uniformed officer manning the perimeter and ducked under the tape.
"Agent Stone?" A burly man in a hard hat and reflective vest approached her, his face grim beneath a layer of construction dust. "I'm Jim Castellanos, site foreman. I'm the one who called this whole mess in."
Vic nearly asked how he knew who she was, forgetting that she was wearing a lanyard with her name, photo, and badge number on it. She studied the man’s face, noting the pallor beneath his weathered features.
"Can you explain to me what happened?” she asked.
"We were clearing debris from the basement level of the old Morrison Building," he said, gesturing toward a partially demolished structure roughly fifty yards away from where they stood. "My crew's been working that section for two weeks, but we had to stop work yesterday because of some permit issues. When we came back this morning..." He shook his head. "Jesus, I've been doing construction for twenty-three years, and I've never seen anything like it." He started walking to the left, waving at Vic to follow him.
They walked deeper into the site, navigating around piles of concrete and twisted rebar. The morning air carried the scent of dust and diesel fuel from the heavy machinery.
"The body was positioned in what used to be a conference room," Castellanos continued.
Vic's mind was already working through the implications. Three bodies in two weeks, all discovered in locations connected to San Francisco's ongoing urban renewal projects. The killer wasn't just selecting victims randomly—they were choosing their crime scenes with the same deliberate care they used in their murders.
The basement level of the Morrison Building opened into a cavernous space that had once housed offices and meeting rooms. It now looked like nothing more than a well-chiseled hole in the ground. Local crime scene technicians moved through the area with methodical precision, photographing evidence and collecting samples. But Vic's attention was immediately drawn to the center of the large room.
The body of a woman identified as Patricia Vance lay in a pool of artificial light cast by portable work lamps. According to what local PD and the small bureau presence had told her, the work lamps were not there the night before. The killer had apparently left them, as if to make sure those who saw the body could truly appreciate what had been done. Like the previous two victims, Vance had been transformed into something that belonged in a museum rather than a crime scene. She was completely nude, and her body was positioned with careful attention to detail, arms at her sides, legs straight and together, lying atop a plastic tarp that protected the concrete floor. But it was the gold coating that made the scene both beautiful and horrifying.
Every visible inch of Patricia Vance gleamed with pure gold leaf, applied with painstaking precision to create a flawless metallic finish. The gold caught the work lights and threw them back in warm, radiant reflections. Her face maintained a peaceful expression, as if she'd simply laid down for a nap and been transformed by some magical process.
Vic had seen violent death in every form imaginable during her thirteen years with the Bureau, but this killer operated according to a logic she couldn't yet grasp. The method was elaborate, time-consuming, and required significant preparation. This wasn't a crime of passion or opportunity; it was performance art with a body count. Some real time and planning had gone into this.
She thought of the first victim, Rebecca Thornfield, found in her gallery's storage room. Thornfield had been a prominent art dealer with connections to collectors worldwide, someone who understood the value of beauty and the price people would pay for it. The irony of her death, transformed into a golden artwork herself, hadn't been lost on the investigating team.
The second victim, Nelson DeWalt, had been discovered in the back room of a shipping warehouse just two days ago. A small-time investor of several online start-ups with a reputation for partying a bit too much and spending money on frivolous things, DeWalt had also been coated in gold leaf with the same meticulous attention to detail.
