CHAPTER SEVEN
He cleaned the electrodes first, wiping away any residue with a soft cloth dampened in distilled water. The equipment had to be maintained properly. Precision requires care, and care requires discipline.
The workshop was cold this time of year, but he barely noticed.
The single space heater in the corner did what it could, its orange coils glowing in the dim light.
Above him, he could hear the occasional creak of floorboards.
The building had other occupants, though they kept to themselves and he kept to his work.
It was an arrangement that suited everyone.
He set the electrodes in their case and moved to the platinum solution. Half the container remained. Enough for at least two more purifications, possibly three if he was careful with the application. He sealed it and placed it on the shelf with his other materials.
The leather journal sat on the workbench, waiting. He opened it to a fresh page and uncapped his pen.
Subject: Diane Rothschild. Age 62. Private equity.
He wrote steadily, documenting every detail. The time of entry. The sedative used and the dosage required. The positioning of the body. The duration of the electroplating process was ninety-three minutes from start to finish.
Platinum jewelry collection: extensive. 47 pieces total, 31 of which were platinum. The subject displayed a clear attachment to material excess and status symbols.
He paused, considering his next words carefully. Kane had taught him that documentation mattered. That each purification was part of a larger pattern, a greater truth that would eventually reveal itself to those willing to see.
The platinum entered her system as it had entered her life. Gradually. Inevitably. Until it consumed everything necessary for survival.
He closed the journal and placed it back in the drawer beneath the workbench.
Beside it sat three other journals, all filled with similar entries.
They represented four years of study…four years of learning from Kane's writings, understanding the philosophy behind the elements, recognizing the decay that platinum represented.
Wealth is concentrated in fewer and fewer hands. Resources hoarded while others starved. The gleaming surface of platinum jewelry hiding the rot underneath.
Kane understood. Kane had always understood.
He moved to the battered laptop on the corner of the bench and opened it. The screen flickered to life, displaying the browser he'd left open. Society pages. Charity galas. Corporate events. All the places where Manhattan's elite gathered to display their wealth.
He scrolled through photographs from a fundraiser held three nights ago. Cancer research, the caption said. Five thousand dollars per plate. The irony wasn't lost on him. People wearing jewelry worth more than most families earned in a year, pretending to care about the suffering of others.
He zoomed in on a photograph of a woman in a black gown. Her neck was draped with a necklace that caught the camera flash. He studied it carefully. White gold, probably. Pretty, but not what he was looking for.
The next photograph showed a group of executives standing near a bar.
He enlarged it, examining each person methodically.
Two of the men wore wedding bands. Nothing unusual.
But the third man, standing slightly apart from the others, wore a ring on his right hand that reflected light differently than gold.
He zoomed in further. The ring was substantial, masculine, with a flat surface that might have been engraved. The color was distinct. That particular white-silver sheen that only platinum possessed. And not too far away, just on the wrist, was a platinum Rolex as well.
He opened a new tab and searched for the event's guest list. The website had posted it, along with a press release thanking all the generous donors. He cross-referenced faces with names until he found his match.
Michael Williams. Chief Operating Officer, Meridian Financial Group.
Another search brought up Williams's corporate biography.
Fifty-one years old. MBA from Wharton. Twenty-five years in finance.
He was a board member of numerous charitable organizations.
A photograph showed him shaking hands with the mayor at a ribbon-cutting ceremony as done watched on, smiling and clapping.
In the photograph, that glaring, platinum Rolex was clearly visible.
He clicked through more images, building a profile. Williams left his office building around seven most evenings. He lived in Tribeca. Divorced, no children. He drove himself, no driver or security detail. A man who felt safe in his success.
He checked the time on the laptop: 3:47 PM. Williams would leave his office in approximately three hours. It was long enough to prepare, and not so long that he'd lose focus.
He stood and stretched, feeling the stiffness in his back from hunching over the workbench.
He then gathered what he would need. First, there was the sedative, already measured into a syringe.
He’d also be taking a case containing the portable electroplating equipment he'd designed for field work.
Also, gloves and the platinum solution in a reinforced container.
Everything fit into a canvas bag that looked unremarkable enough to carry on the subway.
Kane had taught him that preparation was sacred. That each step mattered, from selection to purification to documentation. The elements didn't lie. They revealed truth through their properties, their reactions, their interactions with the world.
Platinum resisted corrosion. It endured. It seemed eternal, unchanging, perfect.
But it was also dense, heavy, suffocating when applied in the wrong context. Beautiful on the surface, deadly beneath.
Just like the people who wore it.
He returned to the laptop and pulled up a map of Meridian Financial Group's office building.
It was a newer twelve-story building in Midtown.
He knew there was a security desk in the lobby, but nothing excessive.
He also knew that there was executive parking in a structure two blocks away.
Williams's reserved spot was on the third level, according to the information he'd gathered over the past week.
He studied the layout, memorizing exit points and timing. The parking structure had cameras, but they were older models. Easy enough to avoid if you knew where to look.
Above him, footsteps crossed the floor again. Slow, shuffling. Someone heading toward the stairs. He listened until the sound faded, then closed the laptop.
Three hours until Williams left his office. Three hours to run through every detail one more time, to make sure nothing had been overlooked.
He looked around the workshop. Everything in its place. Everything ready. The cold air made his breath visible in small clouds.
Kane would have approved of this. The patience, the planning, the understanding that purification couldn't be rushed.
He picked up the canvas bag and checked its contents one final time. Then he sat down to wait…and that was often the hardest part.