CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Miles navigated through Brooklyn traffic, following the GPS directions that would take them to Daniel Hartley’s address.
Vic sat in the passenger seat, scrolling through her phone for any additional information Kim might have sent.
They spoke very little, both sorting through all they’d learned and letting the urgency and tension of this new lead settle in around them, almost as if directing them.
They crossed over into Greenpoint, a neighborhood that had gentrified in patches but still retained pockets of an older version of Manhattan.
New coffee shops and boutiques sat next to auto repair shops and warehouses that had been there for decades.
The address they wanted was deeper into one of the older sections, away from the waterfront development.
Miles turned onto a narrow street lined with low-rise buildings. Most were residential, four or five stories of old brick with fire escapes zigzagging down their facades. A few had been renovated with fresh paint and new windows, but many showed their age with crumbling mortar and rusted metalwork.
"There," Vic said, pointing to a building halfway down the block.
Miles pulled over and killed the engine.
The building looked like it had been standing since the 1920s.
Six stories of dark red brick, the color of dried blood in the afternoon light.
The ground floor housed a bodega with a flickering neon sign advertising beer and lottery tickets.
A man in a heavy coat stood outside smoking, despite the relatively mild weather.
They climbed out of the car and stood on the sidewalk for a moment, both of them studying the building.
The windows on the upper floors showed varying signs of occupancy.
Some had curtains or blinds, others were dark and empty.
One apartment on the fourth floor had laundry hanging from the fire escape.
"Third floor, apartment 3C," Vic said, checking her phone again.
They headed for the entrance. The front door was propped open with a brick, the security lock long since broken.
The lobby was narrow and smelled of decades worth of cooking odors that had seeped into the walls and carpet.
Garlic, onions, curry, cigarette smoke. The walls were painted a dingy yellow that might have been white thirty years ago.
A row of dented mailboxes lined one wall, most of them hanging open with names scrawled on masking tape.
Miles checked the mailbox for 3C. There was no name, just the apartment number written in faded ink. He pulled open the small metal door. Empty except for a single piece of junk mail addressed to "Current Resident."
An out-of-order sign was taped to the elevator doors, the paper yellowed and curling at the edges.
It looked like it had been there for months, maybe years.
Miles gestured toward the stairwell and they started climbing.
The stairs were concrete, painted gray but worn down to bare stone in the center of each step from decades of foot traffic.
The walls were covered in graffiti, layers upon layers of tags and names.
Someone had tried to paint over it once, but the paint had peeled away in sheets, making it worse.
They passed the second-floor landing. Miles could hear a television playing loudly, some game show with canned laughter and excited audience reactions. A child was crying somewhere else, the sound muffled but persistent.
On the third-floor landing, they paused. The hallway stretched in both directions, dimly lit by overhead fixtures that buzzed and flickered. They moved quietly down the hallway, staying close to the wall.
Apartment 3C was at the end of the dim hallway. Miles knocked firmly on the door and waited. No response. He knocked again, harder this time. Still nothing. It was like Thomas Brennan’s place all over again.
"Mr. Hartley, this is the FBI. We need to speak with you."
There was no response…and it occurred to Miles that he was getting pretty damned tired of knocking on doors and not getting an answer.
Miles tried the doorknob, but found it locked.
He glanced at Vic, who nodded and pulled out her lock picks.
It was yet another of those small bits of almost eerie non-verbal communication that they were getting better at.
Vic got to work right away and within thirty seconds, the door swung open with a soft click.
She smiled briefly as they strafed into the apartment.
Neither of them commented on how they may have just crossed a few lines; being the head of the Elementalist cases, they’d decided a while ago that some lines needed to be crossed and the repercussions would be dealt with later.
Once inside, the smell hit them first. It was not the smell of decay or rot, but something chemical and sharp. Acetone, maybe, or some kind of solvent. Miles drew his weapon and entered carefully, Vic right behind him.
The apartment was a single room. Not a studio apartment with defined living areas, but literally just a room that had been converted into something else entirely.
The walls were bare except for a few water stains.
There was no bed, no couch, no television.
Just a large workbench against one wall and empty floor space.
"He's been living somewhere else," Vic said quietly. "This is just a workshop. Or maybe he sleeps on the floor.”
Miles holstered his weapon and moved closer to the workbench.
It had been cleaned recently and thoroughly.
The surface was spotless, almost gleaming under the overhead light.
But there were marks in the wood where tools had been clamped down repeatedly.
Scratches and indentations that told a story of work done here, projects assembled and disassembled.
Against the far wall sat three large metal filing cabinets, all with their drawers hanging open and empty. Miles pulled one drawer out completely and checked the bottom. Nothing. Not even dust.
"He cleared everything out," Vic said. She was examining the floor near the window. "There are marks here where something heavy sat for a long time. Probably more equipment."
“I wonder how long ago he moved out,” Miles commented as he walked the perimeter of the room slowly, taking in every detail.
The electrical outlets along the walls showed signs of heavy use.
Scorch marks around the plastic faceplates suggested high-wattage tools had been plugged in repeatedly.
Near one outlet, he found a small fleck of metal shavings caught in a crack in the floorboard.
"Platinum," Miles said, hunkering down to get a better look at the tiny fragment. "Or something that looks like it. We'll need forensics to confirm."
Vic opened the single closet. Empty except for wire hangers. She checked the ceiling, then got down on her hands and knees to look under the workbench. "He didn't just clean out his equipment. He sanitized the entire space. There's nothing here that would help us."
Miles felt frustration building in his chest. They were so close.
They had a name, they had an address that had turned out to look suspicious as hell, but the suspect had stayed one step ahead.
He walked to the window and looked out at the Brooklyn street below.
Pedestrians moved along the sidewalk, oblivious to the fact that a killer had worked in the room above them for months.
"Check the bathroom," Miles said.
There was a tiny bathroom off the main room, barely large enough for a toilet and sink. Vic disappeared inside and emerged thirty seconds later shaking her head.
"Nothing. Not even soap. He cleared out everything."
Miles looked around the empty room one more time.
The space felt haunted somehow, filled with the ghost of work that had been done here—terrible, deadly work.
Deadly work. But there were no clues left behind to tell them where the killer had gone or what he was planning next. If Hartley was their killer, of course.
But with every second that passed, he was becoming more certain he was.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw Detective Linhart's name on the screen.
"Sterling," he answered.
"Agent Sterling, this is Linhart. I overheard something at the precinct tonight that I thought you should know about, and…and, shit, I wish I’d have thought if it sooner."
"What is it?” Miles asked, placing the call on speaker mode so Vic could listen in.
"A few of our officers were complaining about being assigned extra security detail tonight for the Diamond Gala at the Metropolitan Museum.
Apparently, it's Manhattan's most exclusive charity event…. they do it every year to raise money Well, that’s why they say they do it. But it’s just an excuse for the rich assholes of the city to stand around and make each other feel good if you ask me.
All the city's wealthiest elite will be there wearing their finest jewelry. "
Miles felt something click into place in his mind. The Diamond Gala. An event where hundreds of people would gather, all wearing expensive jewelry. Platinum jewelry. Good God, it would be like a lantern to a moth.
"How did we not know about this?" he said, more to himself than to Linhart.
"It's not exactly the kind of thing most people pay attention to unless you run in those circles," Linhart said.
"I honestly feel like an idiot for not thinking of it sooner, but society galas aren't really on my radar.
But when I heard those guys bitching about the overtime, it hit me.
If this killer targets people wearing platinum, that event would be like a buffet for him. "
Miles was already moving toward the door, Vic following close behind. "What time does it start?"
"Doors open at eight. The main event runs until midnight."
Miles checked his watch and saw that it had already somehow come to be 4:40 in the afternoon.
"We need to get ahead of this,” he said.
“Call the museum security right now. Tell them what's happening.
And contact those units assigned to extra security.
Brief them on the situation. We're dealing with a killer who's extremely intelligent and methodical.
They need to be looking for anyone acting suspicious, anyone paying too much attention to the guests' jewelry. "
"I'm on it. What's your next move?"
Miles and Vic were already running down the stairs. "We're heading to the Met now. We need to scope out the venue, identify vulnerabilities, figure out how this guy might try to strike. And Linhart, the suspect's name is David Hartley. Get that information out to your units immediately."
"Consider it done."
Miles ended the call as they burst out onto the street. The afternoon sun was still bright, but they only had a few hours before the gala began…a few hours to prepare for whatever the killer had planned.
"He's going to strike at the gala," Vic said as they climbed into the car. It wasn't a question.
"I'm certain of it," Miles said, starting the engine. "All those wealthy people in one place, all wearing expensive jewelry. Including platinum. It's exactly the kind of target he's been building toward."
"But we don't know who specifically he'll go after."
"No, we don't. Which means we need to be ready for anything."
Miles pulled into traffic and headed toward Manhattan, his mind already running through scenarios.
The killer had been meticulous so far, planning every detail of his attacks and not leaving a shred of evidence behind.
He wouldn't walk into a crowded gala unprepared.
He would have a plan, a specific target, a way to get close without raising suspicion.
They just had to figure out what that plan was before it was too late.