“Results pending.But I don’t think our guy would be that stupid.”
Kate nodded, vaguely.“So he brings the photos with him.That makes sense.If his victims are estranged from their parents, he can’t bargain on them having a photograph ready to hand.”
Kate rose and moved toward another object positioned carefully at the periphery—a painting, small but richly worked, perched on the floor near the bookcase.She leaned closer.
A medieval knight, rendered with almost obsessive attention to detail.The armor gleamed with gilded tracery; the surcoat displayed a lavish coat of arms—a stag rampant over a field of azure, a section featuring three birds; cormorants, she suspected.The knight’s expression, though small in scale, was serene.Dutiful.Knightly.
A symbol.
A statement.
Another sermon.
“Who’s the art historian now?”Marcus asked quietly.
Kate shook her head.“The coat of arms… the posture… he’s building a language.”
Behind them, Sullivan entered, rubbing a hand across his jaw.
“We’re trying to confirm whether that painting belongs to the victim or if our guy brought it with him,” he said.“But I’m guessing where your money is.”
Kate nodded faintly, still staring at the symbols.
“No forced entry,” Sullivan went on.“But here’s the kicker—CCTV’s dead.The whole system.Gone.”
Kate turned.“All of it?”
“Every camera in the building,” Sullivan replied grimly.“Switched off around 10.30 last night.Twenty years ago, we’d have narrowed this down to a handful of trained electricians.”He shook his head.“Now any ornery hermit with a grudge and an internet connection can download a How To from the Dark Web.Makes our lives a little more exciting.”
“Exciting isn’t the word I’d pick,” Marcus muttered.
Sullivan continued, “We’re pulling footage from every street camera within a half-mile radius.Guy didn’t teleport.He got here somehow.Then we think he got in through the service entrance at the back.Picked the lock, judging by the scratch patterns.”
Kate nodded.“He’ll slip up somewhere.They always do.”
Marcus’s phone vibrated.He checked it, brows lifting.
“Well,” he said, “here’s one bright spot—Martin Shepherd disobeyed our order not to leave town.”
Kate looked up sharply.“What?”
“Yeah,” Marcus said, almost amused.“To his advantage.Turns out he drove to New York yesterday afternoon to attend a fundraising seminar.Stayed overnight.Left a digital trail from his hotel, his phone, his parking app.He was at a Midtown Hyatt when Garrett was killed.”
Kate exhaled slowly.“So he’s not our guy.”
“Nope.Still a freakin’ idiot, though.”
Before Kate could respond, Sullivan reappeared in the doorway, phone held up like a chalice.
“Got something,” he said.
They followed him to the tech station in the hall, where a grainy, black-and-white frame was frozen on a laptop screen.A figure moved through the field of view—caught by a storefront camera about a block up from Garrett Holdings.
The timestamp read Tuesday 10:40 p.m.
The figure was bulky.The same, or very similar, ill-fitting, overalls.It wasn’t possible to tell the colors, but it seemed there were two involved.A baseball cap shadowed the face almost entirely.In one hand, he carried a canvas bag that sagged heavily at the bottom.
He walked with the unhurried pace of someone who had planned this moment down to the breath.
