“It’s a loafer. Italian-made and high-end. We’re talking custom shop in Milan, not something you pick up at a mall. The kind of shoe that runs you well over a thousand on the Mainland and isn’t sold anywhere on the island. You can’t get this brand here at all. It would have had to have been brought over.”
“And the size?”
“That’s the other part. We measured against our database and ran it past the lab. It’s consistent with a human male, average to slightly below-average height. Definitely not a shifter. None of our guys are walking around in a size nine.”
“You’re sure on the size?”
“Yes. I’d stake my next paycheck on it being a human. I’ve sent everything through to your phone. The print, the brandmatch, the size analysis, photos of the shoe model from the manufacturer’s site. It’s all there.”
“Good work,” I tell him. “Anything else from the building?”
“Still pulling cam footage from the surrounding streets. Nothing useful yet, but I’m widening the radius.”
“Keep at it. Send me anything you get.”
“Will do, boss.”
I end the call. My phone pings a second later. Garrick’s message lands with a stack of attachments. I scroll through. The shoe is a sleek, dark leather with a thin stitched seam along the side. There’s a brand stamp on the inside of the heel, magnified in one of the photos. It’s Italian script, hard to read at this resolution, but our team will have already run it against the maker’s catalog.
So we’re more than likely looking at a human male of average to slightly below-average height. That narrows it down to several hundred males, all meeting the description. If we look at income and focus on the higher end, we could narrow it down to fifty or fewer. I fire off a text to Garrick to get on it.
He sends me a thumbs-up.
I lock the phone and slide it back into my pocket. Then I cross the rest of the way to the entrance.
The front desk inside is staffed by a solitary male in dark fatigues. He looks up as I come in.
“I’m here to see Magma.”
“Please fill this in, sir. I’m going to need to see some identification.”
I sign the log and slide my ID across.
He glances at the screen in front of him, then up at me. “One moment, Commander.” He picks up the desk phone and turns slightly away. He then announces me to the person on the other end, before putting the phone down.
“Take a seat, Commander. I’ll let you know in a minute.”
I move over to the bank of chairs along the wall and lower myself onto one. The plastic creaks. I lean my forearms on my knees and look at the floor.
I need to explain things, and then I hope he’ll talk to me so I can find a way to get him cleared.
The minutes drag. I check my watch…again.
The male at the desk eventually looks up and waves me back over. I’m already on my feet before he opens his mouth.
“He’s declined the visit, Commander.”
I make myself stand still. “Declined?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But he’s allowed to take visitors, is that right?”
The male shifts. “He is.”
“So he just doesn’t want to see me?” I’m not sure why I’m so surprised.
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
