"Let him wait for his lawyer.We'll cut him loose once the paperwork's done."Miles grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair."But right now, we need to find Daniel Hartley.Because even if by some chance he’s not the killer, weknowhehas the expertise to answer just about every question we have.”
“But…I know that look in your eyes, Miles.You think he’s the killer?”
Miles nodded as he felt urgency building in his chest “Yeah, I do.”
They left the conference room and headed for the elevators.Miles could feel the investigation tightening around a single point, the way it sometimes did when all the disparate threads finally started pulling in the same direction.They had a name, a motive, a technical profile that matched.
What they didn't have was time.
The elevator doors opened and they stepped inside, heading to what he hoped was the last stop of this grueling case.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Miles navigated through Brooklyn traffic, following the GPS directions that would take them to Daniel Hartley’s address.Vic sat in the passenger seat, scrolling through her phone for any additional information Kim might have sent.They spoke very little, both sorting through all they’d learned and letting the urgency and tension of this new lead settle in around them, almost as if directing them.
They crossed over into Greenpoint, a neighborhood that had gentrified in patches but still retained pockets of an older version of Manhattan.New coffee shops and boutiques sat next to auto repair shops and warehouses that had been there for decades.The address they wanted was deeper into one of the older sections, away from the waterfront development.
Miles turned onto a narrow street lined with low-rise buildings.Most were residential, four or five stories of old brick with fire escapes zigzagging down their facades.A few had been renovated with fresh paint and new windows, but many showed their age with crumbling mortar and rusted metalwork.
"There," Vic said, pointing to a building halfway down the block.
Miles pulled over and killed the engine.The building looked like it had been standing since the 1920s.Six stories of dark red brick, the color of dried blood in the afternoon light.The ground floor housed a bodega with a flickering neon sign advertising beer and lottery tickets.A man in a heavy coat stood outside smoking, despite the relatively mild weather.
They climbed out of the car and stood on the sidewalk for a moment, both of them studying the building.The windows on the upper floors showed varying signs of occupancy.Some had curtains or blinds, others were dark and empty.One apartment on the fourth floor had laundry hanging from the fire escape.
"Third floor, apartment 3C," Vic said, checking her phone again.
They headed for the entrance.The front door was propped open with a brick, the security lock long since broken.The lobby was narrow and smelled of decades worth of cooking odors that had seeped into the walls and carpet.Garlic, onions, curry, cigarette smoke.The walls were painted a dingy yellow that might have been white thirty years ago.A row of dented mailboxes lined one wall, most of them hanging open with names scrawled on masking tape.
Miles checked the mailbox for 3C.There was no name, just the apartment number written in faded ink.He pulled open the small metal door.Empty except for a single piece of junk mail addressed to "Current Resident."
An out-of-order sign was taped to the elevator doors, the paper yellowed and curling at the edges.It looked like it had been there for months, maybe years.Miles gestured toward the stairwell and they started climbing.The stairs were concrete, painted gray but worn down to bare stone in the center of each step from decades of foot traffic.The walls were covered in graffiti, layers upon layers of tags and names.Someone had tried to paint over it once, but the paint had peeled away in sheets, making it worse.
They passed the second-floor landing.Miles could hear a television playing loudly, some game show with canned laughter and excited audience reactions.A child was crying somewhere else, the sound muffled but persistent.
On the third-floor landing, they paused.The hallway stretched in both directions, dimly lit by overhead fixtures that buzzed and flickered.They moved quietly down the hallway, staying close to the wall.
Apartment 3C was at the end of the dim hallway.Miles knocked firmly on the door and waited.No response.He knocked again, harder this time.Still nothing.It was like Thomas Brennan’s place all over again.
"Mr.Hartley, this is the FBI.We need to speak with you."
There was no response…and it occurred to Miles that he was getting pretty damned tired of knocking on doors and not getting an answer.
Miles tried the doorknob, but found it locked.He glanced at Vic, who nodded and pulled out her lock picks.It was yet another of those small bits of almost eerie non-verbal communication that they were getting better at.Vic got to work right away and within thirty seconds, the door swung open with a soft click.She smiled briefly as they strafed into the apartment.Neither of them commented on how they may have just crossed a few lines; being the head of the Elementalist cases, they’d decided a while ago that some lines needed to be crossed and the repercussions would be dealt with later.
Once inside, the smell hit them first.It was not the smell of decay or rot, but something chemical and sharp.Acetone, maybe, or some kind of solvent.Miles drew his weapon and entered carefully, Vic right behind him.
The apartment was a single room.Not a studio apartment with defined living areas, but literally just a room that had been converted into something else entirely.The walls were bare except for a few water stains.There was no bed, no couch, no television.Just a large workbench against one wall and empty floor space.
"He's been living somewhere else," Vic said quietly."This is just a workshop.Or maybe he sleeps on the floor.”
Miles holstered his weapon and moved closer to the workbench.It had been cleaned recently and thoroughly.The surface was spotless, almost gleaming under the overhead light.But there were marks in the wood where tools had been clamped down repeatedly.Scratches and indentations that told a story of work done here, projects assembled and disassembled.
Against the far wall sat three large metal filing cabinets, all with their drawers hanging open and empty.Miles pulled one drawer out completely and checked the bottom.Nothing.Not even dust.
"He cleared everything out," Vic said.She was examining the floor near the window."There are marks here where something heavy sat for a long time.Probably more equipment."
“I wonder how long ago he moved out,” Miles commented as he walked the perimeter of the room slowly, taking in every detail.The electrical outlets along the walls showed signs of heavy use.Scorch marks around the plastic faceplates suggested high-wattage tools had been plugged in repeatedly.Near one outlet, he found a small fleck of metal shavings caught in a crack in the floorboard.
