“Exactly.”
The waterfront complex came into view—glass, clean lines, the sort of place that charged extra for proximity to sunlight.Boats glimmered on the harbour below, their wakes slicing the water into mirrored shards.
Marcus pulled up to the entry bay, the midday light bouncing off the chrome trim.Inside, the lobby was cool, over-air-conditioned, and smelled faintly of citrus cleaner.The concierge snapped upright as soon as their badges flashed.
“We’re looking for Dr.Nathan Webb,” Kate said.
The man’s throat bobbed.“He—ah—left about an hour ago.”
“Where was he going?”
The man shrugged. “He got in a taxi.Had a small bag with him.Not like his usual work case.Kinda… travel-ish.”
Marcus already had his radio out.“Control, this is SA Reid.Issue an APB for Nathan Webb, male, fifty-two, last seen leaving Harborline Residences approximately 11:20 a.m., in a taxi.Possibly fleeing jurisdiction.”
Kate leaned in toward the concierge, lowering her voice just enough.“We need to see his apartment.Now.”
“I—I really can’t allow that without a warrant.”
Kate held his gaze.“Listen carefully.If someone is planning to harm another person, you are legally permitted to grant law enforcement access in good faith.You’ll be protected.If you refuse and someone dies, that won’t sit well with Internal Affairs.Or with you.”
A beat.
The concierge swallowed, pressed a keycard to the secure panel, and murmured, “Sixteenth floor.Elevator two.”
As the lift carried them upward, Marcus murmured, “You know that wasn’t quite a threat, but it wasn’tnotone either.”
“It was encouragement.”
“Uh-huh.”
The doors opened on a carpeted hallway that smelled faintly of new paint.Webb’s door clicked open after a moment of keycard coaxing.
Inside—disorder.
Not violent.Not ransacked.But rushed.Intentional haste hanging in the air like static.
Drawers half-open.Closet disgorged.The small safe in the bedroom wall stood open and empty, the LED still blinking red from a forced shutdown.Shirts lay in piles as though he’d rummaged for a favourite and given up halfway.
“Packed in a hurry,” Marcus murmured.
“Or fled.”
Kate moved to the bookcase.The spines were telling: treatises on parental estrangement, philosophical tracts on duty and piety, and—more unsettlingly—true-crime case studies.Serial killer psychologies.Ritual offenders.Historical penance structures.
“This is not a healthy syllabus,” Marcus added from behind her.
On the desk, a framed certification photo caught Kate’s eye.Webb, heavier than in his website portrait—broad-shouldered, thick-necked, his smile stretched too tight.The kind of build they’d seen on the CCTV from two other crime scenes.
Marcus jostled the computer mouse.The screen woke.
A row of open tabs.
Online supermarket.
Facebook messages.
Ebay searches for art supplies
