CHAPTER EIGHT
The security office was smaller than Miles expected, tucked behind the lobby desk with barely enough room for two chairs and a bank of monitors.
The head of security for the building was a former NYPD sergeant named Dennis Kowalski.
He’d already queued up the footage from the previous evening, just as Detective Linhart had said.
"This is from six PM yesterday through eight AM this morning," Kowalski said, gesturing to the screens. "Main entrance, service entrance, garage, and all three elevator banks."
Miles leaned forward, watching the time stamps tick by at a partially fast-forwarded pace. Residents came and went, as did a few delivery people. A few visitors stopped at the desk to be announced. People walked by and laughed and chatted and went on with their days. Everything looked routine.
But then, after about twelve minutes of searching, Vic leaned in. "Stop there," she said, pointing to the main entrance camera. "Who's that?"
Kowalski paused the footage. Slightly off to the right, there was a man in a suit carrying a briefcase, standing at the desk. "That's Mr. Chen from 28-B. He came home around seven-thirty. That’s his usual routine."
"And this one?" Miles indicated a woman with shopping bags.
"Mrs. Patterson, 35-A. Regular as clockwork. Bergdorf's every Friday."
They watched for another twenty minutes, but nothing stood out. No one was loitering or acting suspicious. From what Miles could see, no one was trying to intentionally keep their head low or avoid the cameras.
"What about the service entrance?" Miles asked.
Kowalski switched feeds. This camera showed a plain door with a card reader. "This entrance is employees only. It requires a key card to access."
The footage showed maintenance staff, the assistant who'd found Rothschild's body, a few other building employees. All the faces were familiar to Kowalski. All the entries were logged and verified.
"Anyone could have cloned a key card," Vic said.
"Yeah, that’s possible, though a bit unlikely," Kowalski agreed. "But they'd still show up on camera."
Miles studied the timeline. "What about gaps? Any time the cameras were down?"
"None. The system's been running clean for six months. We had it upgraded after a break-in last year."
"Can you show me the garage again?" Miles asked.
Kowalski pulled up that feed. The footage showed cars entering and exiting, residents walking to and from their vehicles, and a FedEx truck making a delivery. Everything appeared ordinary and had a clear explanation
Miles straightened. "He didn't come through any of the main entrances."
"Then how did he get in?" Kowalski asked.
"That's what we need to figure out." Miles looked at Vic. "We need a workspace. Somewhere private where we can spread out."
Kowalski nodded. "There's a conference room on the second floor. Residents use it for meetings, but it's empty today."
"That'll work."
“Come on, I’ll show you where it is.”
Kowalski led them to a private stairwell and then, on the second floor, to a doorway marked Employees Only.
Inside, there were three offices, and he took them into one on the right.
It was modest, with a table, six chairs, and a decent internet connection.
Miles set up his laptop while Vic spoke to Kowalski.
"If possible, I want everything from the past week," Vic said. "Every camera, every angle.”
“That’s a lot of data.”
“I know. But we'll sort through it."
“I’ll get it done,” Kowalski said as he left the room.
Meanwhile Miles opened up the basic information on Diane Rothschild from the case files, but it quickly became clear they needed someone with better access to financial databases and social media analytics.
Agent Kim had proven herself invaluable time and time again, and her ability to dig through digital footprints was exactly what they needed here.
If the killer was selecting victims based on their public displays of platinum jewelry, Sarah could track Rothschild's social media presence and connections faster than anyone.
He pulled up his contact list and dialed her number. She answered on the second ring.
"Please tell me you're calling with good news," Sarah said. “Case closed already?”
"Not quite. It does feel like this is the work of another disciple.”
“Platinum this time?"
“Yeah. And we could use some help with a background check if you’ve got the time."
“Of course. What do you need?”
"The victim's name is Diane Rothschild. She worked in the private equity sector, lived in a penthouse on the Upper East Side. I need you to dig into her background. Everything you can find. Financial records, social connections, enemies if she had any.”
"Sounds simple enough. Give me twenty minutes."
Miles ended the call and returned to his files, pulling up what little information local PD had gathered so far and sent to the bureau. Vic sat down across from him, scrolling through his phone.
"Kowlaksi’s sending the footage within the hour," Vic said. "What are you thinking about entry points?"
"All of these disciples have consistently shown that they’re too careful to make a mistake with security cameras. Which means either he had legitimate access or he found a way in that we're not seeing."
"Legitimate access how? Through an employee or maybe a resident?"
"Maybe. Or someone Rothschild knew and trusted enough to let in."
Vic considered this and shrugged. "Yeah, there were no signs of forced entry. No struggle. She was sedated in her own bed."
"Which suggests she was comfortable. Either asleep already or relaxed enough not to be alarmed when he entered."
They worked independently for a bit, Miles getting better acquainted with Rothschild while Vic got on the phone with someone downstairs, asking who she’d need to speak with in order to get a blueprint of the building.
No more than ten minutes passed before Miles's phone buzzed.
It was a text from Kim: Preliminary search complete. Calling now.
The phone rang just a moment later.
"That was fast," Miles said, putting Kim on speaker. Vic looked up and gave the call her undivided attention.
"Well, that’s mainly because Diane Rothschild left a pretty substantial digital footprint," Kim said.
"I'm sending you links as we talk, but here's the overview.
She was widowed fifteen years ago, and her husband—who was some sort of financial big-wig—left her everything, which was considerable.
She continued working but didn't need to. No children, no close family."
"Enemies?"
"Not that I can find. Everyone I'm seeing online describes her as pleasant and professional. A little reserved, maybe, but not controversial. I mean, I can’t even dig up any negative news articles or legitimate social media beefs with her. I did, however, came across a small blip. The crime scene photos showed that the killer had sort of staged her jewelry, right?”
“Yeah,” Miles said.
"Well, it’s clear that Rothschild had a thing for expensive jewelry, particularly platinum. She was photographed wearing it constantly. Charity galas, fundraisers, corporate events. The woman loved to be seen."
In his laptop, Miles pulled up the links Sarah was sending.
Photographs loaded on his screen, many showing Rothschild at big social events—museum openings, parties and galas, benefit dinners, and on and on.
And in every single one, the woman practically sparkled from all the jewelry she was wearing.
"She wasn't shy about her wealth, that’s for sure," Miles said.
"Not even a little. I've found at least thirty photographs from the past year alone where she's prominently displaying platinum jewelry. High-end stuff, too. We're talking pieces worth tens of thousands each."
Vic leaned closer to the laptop. "So, she made herself a target."
"Looks that way," Sarah said. "If someone's selecting victims based on platinum jewelry, Rothschild would have been easy to identify. She's all over the society pages and the social media feeds of the NYC elite."
Miles clicked through more photographs. Rothschild at a wine tasting. At a fashion show. At a private auction preview. And she was always dressed elegantly, always wearing something that gleamed platinum-white under the camera flashes.
"What about her social circle?" Miles asked. "Who did she spend time with?"
"I'm cross-referencing guest lists from events she attended. Give me a few more minutes on that. But it's mostly other people in finance, a few artists and gallery owners, some philanthropic types. The usual Manhattan elite."
"Any connection to jewelry stores or auction houses?" Vic asked.
"Funny you should ask." Kim’s keyboard clattered in the background. "I just found something right before I called. Rothschild had a collection of her jewelry appraised two weeks ago."
"Where was this?" Miles asked.
"Whitmore Auction House. It's one of the prestige places in Manhattan. They handle estate sales, high-end jewelry, art, that kind of thing."
"Why was she getting an appraisal?"
"Not clear yet. Could be for insurance purposes, or maybe she was thinking of selling some pieces. I'm trying to get more details, but their client information is pretty locked down. If you’re there in town, maybe it would be a worth a visit."
“Makes sense,” Vic said. “They would have had open, full access to the jewelry the killer took such an interest in.”
"Sounds like our first real lead," Miles said. "Thanks, Sarah."
Miles ended the call and looked at Vic. "For all we know, the killer works at the auction house. Or maybe simply somehow got access to their client records."
"It's a connection," Vic agreed. "First one we've got."
Miles pulled up a search for Whitmore Auction House. Their website was elegant but understated. Established 1923, they specialized in fine jewelry, art, and estate collections. In neat and bold script, a simple statement appeared a few times on the home screen: Appraisals by appointment only.
"Do you think they'll cooperate?"
"They will when we show up with a warrant." Miles checked his watch and saw that it was nearly 3:30 already. "But we can start with a conversation first. See what they're willing to tell us voluntarily. Maybe it’ll go smooth enough where a warrant won’t even be necessary.”
“Let’s go find out.”
They hurried out of the conference room less than half an hour after getting set up.
And as Miles felt the urgency of the case starting to build he tasted something like venom in the back of his throat when he thought of Kane, sitting in prison, comfortable and out of harm’s way… with his plan still being carried out.