CHAPTER TWELVE
Miles drove toward the apartment building, once again reminded why he hated New York traffic as the hour wound down to six in the evening, while Vic scrolled through Michael Williams's social media accounts on her phone. The traffic had thickened while they’d been at the Douglas Hotel but was lightening up a bit now that they were heading away from Midtown.
"He's all over Instagram," Vic said. "Corporate events, charity dinners, golf outings. The guy loved being photographed."
"Does he wear the watch in the photos?"
"Yeah, it’s present and accounted for in every single one where his wrist is visible. Here he is at some fundraiser last month. There's the Rolex. Here's him at a ribbon-cutting ceremony. Same watch. It's in literally every photo."
Miles took a left turn, following the GPS directions toward Tribeca. "So, he was proud of it. Made sure people saw it."
"More than proud. It was part of his identity.
Look at this caption." Vic held up the phone so Miles could glance at it during a red light.
The photo showed Williams with his arm around another executive, both men smiling.
The caption read: Closing deals and making moves. #Success #Platinum #NeverSettle
"Subtle," Miles said. “And platinum as a hash tag.”
"He wanted everyone to know what he was wearing without coming right out and pointing it out." Vic kept scrolling. "And it's not just the watch. He mentions it in comments, replies to people asking about it. Someone asks where he got it and he writes back with the jeweler's name and everything."
"Which jeweler?"
"Whitmore Auction House, according to this. He bought it there two years ago. In the comments, he left a link to their website."
“Well, there we go. That’s an easy link between Rothschild and Williams. They both did business with Whitmore Auctions. Rothschild had her collection appraised there. Williams bought his watch there.”
“Yeah. I mean, it’s circumstantial but it’s something.”
"What about the infidelity angle?" Miles asked. "Do you think the wife found out about the affair and hired someone?"
"It crossed my mind, but it doesn't fit with Rothschild. She was a widow, no jealous spouse in the picture. And the method is too specific, too symbolic. This isn't about revenge for cheating. It's about platinum and what it represents."
Miles turned onto a tree-lined street in Tribeca where the buildings were renovated warehouses converted into luxury residences.
The Williams address was a three-story brownstone with tall windows and a small front garden behind wrought-iron fencing.
The facade was red brick with white trim around the windows and door.
It looked expensive without being ostentatious, the kind of place that whispered old money even though it was probably purchased with new.
Miles parked on the street, and they walked up the short path to the front door.
He noticed that the unit that had been sent out was parked out front.
Two cops were sitting in the car, one of them talking on the phone: apparently, they’d already spoken with the wife.
A woman answered before they could knock.
She was in her early forties with auburn hair pulled back in a ponytail.
Her eyes were red and her expression was hostile.
"You're the FBI agents," she said. It wasn't a question. “Detective Linhart called and told me you were coming.”
"Special Agent Sterling and Special Agent Stone," Miles said, showing his credentials. "We're here to speak with Mrs. Williams."
"She's barely holding it together,” the woman said. “The police already told her about Michael. She doesn't need you two making it worse."
“And who are you, ma’am?” Vic asked.
“I’m her sister, Leane. I’m trying to make sure she makes it through this nightmare as easily as possible.
"Listen, we understand this is difficult," Vic said. "But we need to ask her some questions about her husband. It could help us find who did this."
Leanne hesitated, then stepped aside. "She's in the living room. And if she asks you to leave, you leave. Understood?"
"Understood," Miles said.
They followed Leanne through a narrow entryway into a spacious living room with exposed brick walls and hardwood floors.
Large windows let in the evening light. Fiona Williams sat on a leather couch with a box of tissues in her lap.
She was younger than Miles expected, maybe late thirties, with blonde hair and delicate features. Her face was blotchy from crying.
"Mrs. Williams," Miles said gently. "I'm Agent Sterling, this is Agent Stone. We're very sorry for your loss."
Fiona looked up at them with hollow eyes.
"They said he was murdered. That someone killed him in a hotel room.
" Her voice broke on the last words. "He was having an affair. The police didn’t exactly tell me, but they did a terrible job keeping a straight face.
All this time I thought he was working late and he was with some woman in a hotel. He just…he…that bastard…"
Leanne moved to sit beside her sister, putting an arm around her shoulders. "You don't have to talk about that right now."
"Yes, I do. They need to know." Fiona wiped at her eyes with a tissue. "I didn't know about the affair. I had no idea. Does that make me an idiot? That my husband was renting a hotel room for a month and I didn't notice?"
"You're not an idiot," Vic said. "People hide things. That's on him, not you."
"Did your husband mention anyone threatening him?" Miles asked. "Anyone he was having problems with?"
"No. Michael didn't talk about work much.
He'd come home stressed sometimes but he never said why.
I just assumed it was normal job pressure.
" Fiona twisted the tissue in her hands.
"He'd been more nervous lately. The past few weeks especially.
I thought maybe there was a big deal going south or something.
But it was probably the affair. Probably guilt finally catching up to him. "
"What about enemies?" Vic asked. "Anyone who might have wanted to hurt him?"
"Michael worked in finance. I'm sure people didn't like him, but he never mentioned anyone specific. He was good at his job. He made a lot of money. That's all I really knew. Whenever a conversation would get too close to the heart of his work, he’d get this fucking…this attitude. He’d…he’d…”
She went from angry to gut-wrenchingly sad in the space of about two seconds. Her angry words turned into huge sobs. She buried her face in her hands and rocked back and forth as Leanne hurried over to hug her.
Miles glanced around the room. There were framed photographs on the mantle above the fireplace.
Some showed Williams at various events, always smiling, always polished.
In several of the photos, the platinum Rolex was visible on his wrist. He looked around for only twenty seconds or so before Fiona had shifted gears again.
She was still fuming and apparently, that was winning out over sorrow right now.
"Your husband wore a platinum Rolex," Miles said when he thought she seemed open to more questions. "Did he own any other platinum jewelry?"
Fiona nodded. "His wedding band. He had it plated in platinum about a year ago to match the watch. He said tungsten looked cheap next to platinum and he wanted everything to coordinate."
"Do you remember who did the plating?"
"Some jeweler in Manhattan. I don't remember the name. Michael handled all of that himself." She looked down at her own hands, at the simple gold band on her finger. "He cared more about his jewelry than I did. I just wore what he bought me for anniversaries."
"Can you think of anything else that might help us?" Vic asked. "Anything unusual about his behavior or routines?"
She thought about it for a moment, wiping the tears that ran down her cheek away quickly, as if she was ashamed of them.
"He was distracted. That's all I can tell you. He'd forget conversations we'd had, forget things he was supposed to do. I thought he was just overworked." Fiona's voice hardened slightly. "Turns out he was just too busy lying to me."
Leanne stood up suddenly. "I think that's enough. My sister just found out her husband was murdered and cheating on her all in one fell swoop. She doesn't need you two asking the same questions the police already covered."
Miles held up a hand. "Just one more question.”
Leanne sneered but said nothing else.
“Mrs. Williams, did your husband ever mention feeling like he was being watched? Or did you notice anyone unusual around the house?"
Fiona shook her head and for the first time since they’d arrived, she looked slightly concerned about the question. "No,” she finally answered. “No, nothing like that."
"All right." Miles handed her his card. "If you think of anything else, please call me. Day or night."
Fiona took the card but didn't look at it. She just stared at the tissue box in her lap, tears streaming down her face. Diane walked them back to the front door, her expression tight and her steps so hard that it seemed like she was trying to stamp a hole in the floor.
"She loved him,” Fiona said. “Even after finding out about the affair, she still loves him. That's what makes this so awful."
"I can’t begin to imagine what she’s going through," Vic said. “But I hope you understand that we’re only trying to do our jobs—to find out who did this.”
"Are you? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like my sister's husband got himself killed by sneaking around with some model in a hotel room. Maybe this is just karma."
"This wasn't karma," Miles said. "This was murder. Premeditated and deliberate.”
"Bu for what reason?"
"We're still working that out." He didn’t see the point in letting her know that he was the victim of a national case—of a case the majority of the country had seen or heard about on the news or online.
Leanne opened the door. "Well, work it out somewhere else. Fiona doesn't need any more questions today."
They stepped outside and the door closed firmly behind them. Miles and Vic walked back to the car in silence. The street was quieter now, the evening settling in with that particular quality of urban twilight where the city seemed to hold its breath before the night truly began.
"That was a waste," Vic said once they were in the car.
"Not entirely. We confirmed Williams had the wedding band plated in platinum. That's another connection. And she mentioned he'd been more nervous lately."
"Because of the affair, probably"
"Maybe. Or maybe he noticed something. Maybe he realized something was going on. Maybe his nerves were because he’d started to suspect he was being followed or spied on in some way."
Vic buckled her seatbelt. "If he did, he never reported it. No police report, nothing."
Miles started the car and pulled away from the curb. "The disciples are patient. They watch their victims for weeks sometimes, learning routines and patterns. Williams might have felt like something was off without knowing why."
"And Rothschild?"
"Same thing probably. A vague sense of unease that she couldn't pin down." He sighed and said, “Of course, there’s no way to know for sure now.”
They drove in silence for a few blocks. Miles kept thinking about Fiona Williams sitting on that couch, grieving a husband who had betrayed her while also being murdered—the warring of emotions, back and forth.
The duality of that pain seemed almost unbearable.
She couldn't even mourn cleanly because the affair complicated everything.
"The wedding band," Vic said suddenly. "If Williams had it plated in platinum, that's another piece of jewelry we need to account for. Was it on his body?"
Miles tried to remember the crime scene.
Williams had been positioned on the bed with his hands folded.
Had there been a ring? He couldn't recall seeing one.
“You know, I don’t think so. We'll need to check with the ME.
If the killer took the wedding band along with the watch, that changes the staging. "
"Or maybe Williams stopped wearing it. Some men take their rings off when they're having affairs."
"Maybe. But Fiona said he had it plated to match the watch. A man that concerned with coordination probably kept wearing it."
“I’ll text Linhart and see if her or the ME can get an answer for us,” Vic said.
Miles nodded. They needed to know about the wedding band. If it was missing, that was significant. If it was on the body, that was significant, too. Either way, it was another piece of platinum jewelry connecting Williams to the killer's methodology.
Miles merged onto a wider avenue, heading back toward Rothschild's building where they had set up their makeshift operations center. The jeweler list was waiting for them there, along with all the tedious background work that might eventually lead them to a name, a face, a location.
"Kim should have background on Williams by now," Vic said after her text was sent. "Financial records, work history, everything. Maybe there's another link to Rothschild we're not seeing."
"There has to be," Miles said. "The killer chose them both for a reason beyond just the platinum they wore. There's a pattern here we're missing."
He thought about the jewelry laid out at Rothschild's scene and the watch sitting on Williams's bathroom counter.
Two different presentations of the same message.
Wealth displayed through platinum. Status bought with incorruptible metal.
The killer was making a statement about society, about inequality, about the gap between those who could afford platinum and those who couldn't.
It was classic Kane philosophy. Use the element as both symbol and weapon. Turn what the victim valued into the instrument of their death.
Miles just hoped they could decode the pattern before the next victim wore their platinum for the last time.