CHAPTER ELEVEN
Miles sat in the makeshift conference room at Rothschild's building, staring at the list of eleven jewelers Gregory Marshall had provided.
Each name represented a potential connection, a thread that might lead them to the killer.
He had already started running background checks on the first three, looking for anything that stood out.
Criminal records, financial problems, connections to Kane's network. So far, nothing.
Vic was on her laptop across the table, cross-referencing the jewelers against known associates of previous disciples.
It was tedious work; this was shaping up to be the kind of investigation that required hours of digging through databases and public records—all of which was absolutely necessary.
They had one victim and no leads beyond the symbolism of platinum itself.
"This is going to take all night," Vic said, rubbing her eyes. "Eleven jewelers, each with their own employees, their own client lists. We're talking about potentially hundreds of people with access to Rothschild's collection."
"We'll narrow it down, then," Miles said. "Look for anyone with a grudge, anyone who lost money or status. Kane's disciples are always motivated by some perceived injustice. We’ve also got Agent Kim running a—"
His phone buzzed, and because he'd just mentioned Kim, something made him think (or, rather, hope) it might be her. Detective Linhart. But the number was a local one, and one he had seen at least once before.
"It's Detective Linhart," he told Vic as he picked up the phone. Even before he answered, he couldn't help but feel a slight pang of worry.
“This is Agent Sterling,” he answered.
“Sterling, it’s Linhart.” Her voice sounded tense. “We’ve got another body. It was found at a downtown hotel. It’s clearly the same MO…platinum in the airways."
"When?"
"Discovered thirty minutes ago. The Douglas Hotel, room 447."
"We're on our way."
Miles ended the call and looked at Vic, who was already closing her laptop and gathering her things. She was shaking her head as she said, "Two in two days. Quick and efficient, just like the other disciples.”
They raced out of the conference room and then through the lobby, not speaking a word.
When they got to their rental car, and Miles drove, weaving through Manhattan traffic with focused urgency—which was harder than he’s expected.
He truly wasn’t expecting the New York traffic to be the utter headache that it was turning out to be.
The late afternoon rush was building, cars packed bumper to bumper on every street.
Miles used the horn more than he normally would, cutting through gaps that barely existed.
They reached the Douglas Hotel at 5:35. It was a middle-of-the-road sort of place; it was a far cry from a cheap, chain motel but it wasn’t as glamorous as some of the ones they’d seen during their investigations into the Elementalist’s disciples.
Detective Linhart met them in the lobby, her expression grim.
“What do we know?” Miles asked.
"The victim's name is Michael Williams," she said as they quickly made their way over to the elevator. "Fifty-one, corporate executive for Meridian Financial Group. He rented the room under a false name about a month ago. The woman who found him says they'd been having an affair."
"A month?" Vic asked. "That's a long-term rental for a hotel room."
"Cash payment for the whole stay. He was being careful. From what I gather, they only used it to meet up. It’s not like he was living here. This way, according to the woman he was sleeping with, everything was already taken care of, and they could just come and go as they pleased."
They took the elevator to the fourth floor. The doors opened, and they walked down a hallway identical to a thousand other hotel hallways. Crime scene techs were already working the scene when they reached room 447.
Michael Williams lay on the bed, positioned on his back with his hands folded across his stomach.
He wore a hotel bathrobe and nothing else.
His mouth was parted slightly, revealing that same metallic gleam Miles had seen on Rothschild.
Miles thought it was far too similar to the first victim, making him now assume that the bodies were being intentionally staged in this way.
"Jesus," Vic said quietly.
“Yeah, it’s not much easier to see the second time,” Miles said.
Miles approached the bed, studying Williams's face.
The platinum coating was thorough and professional, just as it had been with Rothschild.
It extended from his lips down into his throat, visible even from several feet away.
The metal had a mirror-like quality that caught the overhead lights.
It was both oddly surreal and disgusting.
"Looks to be the exact same method as Rothschild," Miles said. "Electroplating, sedation, complete coating of the airways."
"Time of death?" Vic asked, looking back to Linhart.
"The medical examiner estimates between two and four this afternoon," Linhart said. “According to the woman he was meeting with, a Hannah Glenn, she discovered him around 4:15. Maybe as late as 4:20.”
Miles walked slowly around the bed, taking in every detail. Williams looked peaceful despite the horror of his death. His hair was neatly combed, his hands positioned with care. The killer had staged this scene just as carefully as Rothschild's.
"Where's Ms. Glenn now?" Miles asked.
"Downstairs in a private office. One of my officers is with her."
"Is she in any state to speak with us?”
“Well, she was understandably shocked, but I think she can—”
“Hey, Miles?”
Vic had moved to the bathroom while Miles had been speaking with Linhart. Miles turned toward her voice and started toward the bathroom. “Yeah?”
"You need to see this."
He joined her in the bathroom and saw what she had found.
It seemed simple and rather harmless at first, but given the angles of this case, it was a pretty big clue.
A platinum Rolex sat on the counter, the metal gleaming even in the harsh light.
The watch was expensive, easily worth fifty or sixty thousand dollars.
"He left it here," Vic said. "Just like the jewelry with Rothschild."
“You don’t think the victim simply took it off?”
“Possibly. But why take a watch off for sex? Seems weird, right?”
"Right," Miles said. "The jewelry was arranged and displayed. This is just sitting here like Williams took it off himself."
"Maybe the killer was interrupted. Didn't have time to stage it properly."
Miles considered that but something felt off. The killer had taken the time to position Williams's body, to fold his hands, to make everything look peaceful. Why rush the staging of the watch?
"Let's look at him again," Miles said.
They returned to the bedroom. Miles studied Williams's left wrist. There was a distinct tan line, a pale band of skin where the watch had protected it from the sun.
And there, just visible on the inside of his wrist, was a faint impression.
The shape of the watch band pressed into the skin over time.
"This makes me think he wore it constantly," Miles said. “So…yeah, I doubt he took it off just for a little rendezvous.”
"So, the killer took it off him and put it in the bathroom."
"With Rothschild, the jewelry was part of the statement. Here it feels different. But I’m not quite sure why."
"Maybe it is a bit different. Or it’s the same message but expressed differently.”
Miles knew this was right. Sure, one Rolex wasn’t quite as impressive as Rothschild’s jewelry collection, but it was still worth a hell of a lot of money—and made primarily with platinum.
The killer was selecting victims based on their use of platinum as a status symbol; that much was clear. But the staging felt inconsistent.
"Let's go find the woman who found him," Miles said. “Maybe she’ll be able to clear some things up.” He turned to Detective Linhart and said, “Can you take us to her?”
Linhart nodded and waved at them to follow her.
They went back down to the lobby and followed Linhart to the manager's office behind the front desk.
Within that large office, there was a smaller office in the back, inviting and comfortable.
Hannah Glenn sat on a small couch with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
She was young, maybe twenty-five, with striking features that suggested modeling or acting.
Her eyes were red from crying and her hands shook as she held a cup of water.
An officer stood near the door, a forlorn look on his face. Linhart led Miles and Vic by the officer and into the room. Glenn looked up to them with a heavy wariness in her eyes.
“Ms. Glenn,” Linhart said, “These are Agents Sterling and Stone, with the FBI. They were hoping they could ask you some questions.”
Glenn nodded but didn't seem to fully register their presence. She sipped carefully from her water, her shaking hands making the task difficult.
"Ms. Glenn," Miles said gently, pulling up a chair to sit across from her. "I know this has been traumatic and I’m sorry to. But I need to ask you some questions about Michael Williams."
"Okay." Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I just…God, I’m just happy someone is trying to figure out what the hell happened…”
"How long had you known him?" Vic asked.
"A month. Maybe five weeks. We met at a party in Tribeca.
He was charming and said he could help my career.
" She laughed bitterly. "That's what they all say, right?
He told me he was going to leave his wife.
That we'd be together properly. I believed him.
" She wiped at her eyes. "God, I'm so stupid. "
"You're not stupid," Vic said. "He lied to you. That's on him."
Glenn looked up at Vic, seeming to see her for the first time. "Everyone's going to know now. About the affair, about us meeting here."