CHAPTER SEVEN #2
“I’ve flagged a few users posting extreme rhetoric,” Poppy said. “But no major red flags yet. Nothing that jumps out as ritualistic or Cox-adjacent. I’ll keep digging.”
“Poppy,” Kate said gently, “this is really good work. Thank you. But I need you to look at another angle. Sorry.”
“Well,” Poppy eventually said, “I guess someone has to do it, seeing as you are off in Boston with superior pastries and harbor views.”
“I don’t know where you got that idea,” Kate replied. “This office is a cupboard with delusions of grandeur.”
Before Poppy could reply, Kate’s phone chimed with a second incoming call.
GABE LEVINE
Kate’s spine straightened. “Poppy, I’m really sorry—Gabe’s calling. I need to take this.”
“Oh, sure, abandon me again—”
“I’ll send you an email in a few minutes with a couple of extra steers.”
She hung up. Blushed. A couple of extra steers? She was about to double Poppy’s workload all over again. But if anyone could handle it…
She drew a breath and answered Gabe's call.
*
New York accents travelled. You could be four states away, minding your own business, and suddenly someone would drop a “Benny Hawnst” that transported you straight back to a Brooklyn stoop.
Vinny Spinetti was exactly that type.
Manager of numerous Boston buildings for fifteen years, with the air of a man who had spent every one of them coaxing elderly plumbing and temperamental elevators into obedience, Vinny lit up the moment he heard Marcus speak.
“That’s a Brooklyn brogue, no?” Vinny asked, eyebrows shooting up as he led Marcus into the cramped building office just off the lobby. “What part? No, don’t tell me. B-boy, Bensonhurst, right?”
“Bay Parkway,” Marcus said, smiling. “Between 71st and 72nd. That’s a remarkable skill you’ve got there.”
Vinny slapped the desk. “I grew up on 70th! You know the Biancardi brothers? The old man ran the tailor’s?”
“I used to get my school pants hemmed there,” Marcus said. “His youngest—Anthony—played shortstop on my cousin Mikey’s team.”
Vinny pointed at him. “I knew you looked familiar. You got that same ‘I survived Italian Little League’ face.”
They both laughed, the kind of shared cultural shorthand that collapsed years and geography without effort. For a moment, the grimness of the investigation loosened its grip.
But only for a moment.
Marcus cleared his throat. “Vinny, I appreciate this. But… should we get to it?”
“Yeah.” The shift was instant—Vinny’s warmth gave way to the weary professionalism of a man responsible for a lot of tenants and too many problems. He turned to the monitor on his desk. “Let’s take a look.”
He clicked through the CCTV feeds until he reached Monday night.
“There,” Vinny said, pointing.
The figure appeared at 8:31 p.m. on the ground floor camera: a thickset man in dual-color maintenance overalls, carrying a metal toolbox. The overalls were snug—too snug—straining across his shoulders. He wore a baseball cap pulled low, shadowing his face.
“You recognize him?” Marcus asked.
Vinny snorted. “Not a chance. And nobody on my team looks anything like that.”
Marcus watched the footage as the man pressed the elevator button, stepped inside, and vanished from the frame. Two minutes later, another camera caught him emerging on the seventh floor.
Then—nothing.
Until 8:47 p.m., when the same man strolled out of the seventh-floor elevator again, toolbox in hand, posture smooth, unhurried. Calm, almost frighteningly casual. He walked straight to the ground floor.
At 8:50 p.m., the front entrance camera captured him leaving the building.
Marcus leaned forward. “Any other footage?”
Vinny scratched his jaw. “Well… there should be the service entrance at the back.” He clicked to switch feeds.
The screen displayed only a black void with a timestamp.
“Camera went offline Monday afternoon. Tech’s supposed to come tomorrow.
Could be coincidence, but…” He lifted both hands. “Yeah. I know how it looks.”
Marcus exhaled through his nose. “Convenient for him.”
“Too convenient,” Vinny said darkly.
Marcus replayed the footage, slowing it down. The guy moved like someone trying to look like they belonged—but not used to the clothes, not used to the job. There was intent in the walk, confidence, but not familiarity.
“You said none of your team fit his description?”
Vinny shook his head emphatically. “No way. We got three guys covering twelve buildings in this area. Two Vietnamese brothers—Thuan and Minh—short and skinny. You’d swear they’re about to blow away in a stiff wind.
And the other kid—Jermaine—he’s six-foot-five and could dunk a basketball flat-footed.
This guy?” He tapped the screen. “He’s built like a freezer unit. ”
Marcus nodded. “Any chance one of them lost a pair of overalls?”
“I checked.” Vinny folded his arms. “All accounted for. But those overalls—blue and yellow? They’re pretty standard. For example, I’ve seen them on greasers at the docks. The yellow acts as hi-vis.”
Marcus frowned. “Why would your people need to be in hi-vis?”
“They don’t. They’re just cheap overalls. It was a different crew when I took over from the job; they had them back then, so I’m afraid I can’t tell you where they came from.”
“I was afraid of that.”
Vinny’s expression softened. “But hey—I wanna help. So…” He pulled a notepad from a drawer, scribbled something down, then tore off the sheet and handed it to Marcus.
“That’s the supplier we use for all the maintenance and cleaning stuff. You can ask ’em if they stock ‘em, who they sell to. Maybe get lucky.”
Marcus took the note. “Thanks, Vinny. This helps.”
Vinny gave a grim nod. “Whoever that guy is, Detective… he didn’t belong in my building. I know my people.”
Marcus pocketed the note and straightened. “We’re going to find him.”
“Good,” Vinny said quietly. “Because Miss Hayes… people say some things about her, ok, maybe she had her skeletons. But who’s perfect, y’know? She deserved better.”
Marcus agreed.
And as he left the building office, he felt the first glimmer of something useful—an angle, a thread, a place to start pulling.
The killer had disguised himself carefully.
But he must have gotten those overalls from somewhere.
*
The bullpen outside Kate’s temporary office was running hot—phones chirping, printers clattering, someone arguing half-heartedly with a vending machine that had eaten their dollar. The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed above it all, a kind of mechanical tinnitus she’d stopped noticing hours ago.