Chapter 21 #2
Blade pulled up the warrant on his phone and turned the screen toward McCrary. McCrary’s eyes scanned it, his jaw working like he was chewing nails.
“This is harassment,” McCrary said. “My clients have privileges—”
“Your employee’s been murdered,” Blade cut him off. “This isn’t a witch hunt. It’s a homicide investigation.”
The CSU techs filed past them. Blade directed them toward Florek’s office while he and Tori carted file boxes to the conference room.
The same room. The same massive painting dominating the wall.
The itch started immediately. Stronger now. More insistent. Like a tuning fork vibrating in his skull.
“I need another look at this,” Blade said, setting down the boxes.
What was it about the painting that pulled him in?
Patterns within patterns.
The lines and spirals seemed to shift, each curve leading to another, smaller version of itself.
Tori stepped beside him. No questions. No commentary. Just the quiet understanding of a partner who knew when to let him work. Her shoulder hovered inches from his, close enough that he felt her breathing rhythm match his own.
This wordless collaboration had become second nature.
No need to explain his process or justify the time spent staring at what others saw as decoration.
She trusted his instincts the same way he’d learned to trust her analytical mind.
The partnership freed him to sink deeper into the visual puzzle, to let his subconscious make connections his rational mind might miss.
“There’s something in this painting. Can’t pinpoint it yet.”
He let his eyes go unfocused. Not looking at the swirls of blue and green paint, but through them. Searching for the pattern within the pattern.
The colors shifted. Depth emerged where none should exist. And then—
Blood rushed faster through his veins.
Hidden within the layers was a face. Hollow eyes. Slack mouth. The unmistakable features of Judge Doreen Kagay from the Tampa file photo.
“What in the world . . .” Was he seeing this for real, or had he imagined it?
“What’s wrong? What do you see?” He felt her rise on her toes beside him.
“I don’t want to influence you. Tell me if you see something weird.”
“Like your face?”
He shot her a look.
“Sorry.” She stepped closer, her expression shifting from playful to focused. Then she gasped. “Not your face, but a face. Tell me I’m not seeing—”
“Shh.” Blade glanced toward the doorway.
Tori clamped her hand over her mouth.
“We have to play it cool,” he said, even though his pulse hammered at his collar.
“What does it mean?” Tori whispered.
“Not sure yet, but follow me.”
He headed toward the lobby, forcing his stride to stay casual. Ryan Petersen passed them in the hallway with a wave. The bruises had shifted to a sickly green-yellow that made Petersen look jaundiced.
In the lobby, Blade approached the reception desk and stopped short. The woman behind the counter wasn’t Madison. This young woman wore clear glasses and a polite smile. He’d been distracted by McCrary when they’d arrived and hadn’t noticed her.
“Excuse me,” Blade said, flashing his badge. “Where’s Madison?”
The woman looked up, blinking. “Madison? I’m sorry, I don’t know who that is. I’m Kristin. I’m just a temp. How can I help you?”
Blade glanced at Tori. Had Madison been fired for talking to them? The timing felt too convenient. “How long have you been here?”
“Couple of days.” Kristin adjusted her glasses. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Actually, yes.” He gestured toward the painting behind the reception desk, forcing enthusiasm. “I’m really drawn to these paintings. Who’s the artist?”
Kristin followed his gaze. “Oh, I’m not sure.”
“Is the information lying around back there?” He peeked over the counter-height desk. “You know, in case a client wants to know.”
“Uh.” She glanced around, more confused than searching. “I don’t think so. But I can look up the delivery record if you’d like.”
“That’d be great.”
While Kristin clicked through her computer, Blade studied the painting. His eyes searched for another hidden face, but either he was looking too hard or it wasn’t there. The swirls of color remained just swirls.
Tori nudged him and leaned close. “Bottom left. Follow the blue spiral down.”
He shifted his focus, and there it was. The angular features of Scott Kaufman, the software developer from Orlando. The face emerged from the brushstrokes like a photograph developing in a darkroom.
“Here we go,” Kristin said. “They came from Gallery Showcase in the Miami Design District.”
“Would it be okay if I took a picture?” Tori asked. “I have a few friends who would just love to see these.”
“I don’t see why not.”
Blade’s phone vibrated against his hip. He’d been so focused on the paintings that he’d missed several calls. The screen showed Corbin’s name. He couldn’t wait to bounce this off him, but later.
When Tori finished photographing, they thanked Kristin and returned to the conference room. His phone buzzed again.
“Your phone’s been going off,” Tori said.
“It’s Corbin.” He answered with a grin. “Brother, you’re not going to believe this—”
“Blade.” Corbin cut through his excitement.
The grin died on his face. “What’s wrong?”
Tori moved closer, close enough to hear.
Silence stretched for three heartbeats before Corbin spoke again.
“My father was murdered.”