CHAPTER ELEVEN
The gold was everywhere, flowing like honey but burning like molten lava as it crept across Miles's chest. He lay trapped on a cold concrete slab, heavy chains binding his wrists and ankles so tightly that the metal cut into his skin with every movement.
Above him, unseen hands poured the liquid metal from containers he couldn't see, the gold cascading down in steady streams that pooled around his body before slowly rising to cover him.
The heat was unbearable at first, searing his skin as the molten gold made contact.
But as it began to cool and harden, the burning sensation gave way to something far worse—the gradual realization that he couldn't breathe.
The gold was forming a shell around his torso, sealing off his airways with methodical precision.
He tried to scream, tried to struggle against the chains, but the cooling metal held him immobile as his lungs began to burn with the need for oxygen.
Miles could feel the weight of it pressing down on his chest like a massive stone.
His vision began to blur as consciousness started to slip away, but he could still see the reflection of his own terrified eyes in the golden surface that was slowly encasing his face.
The metal crept up his neck, across his chin, approaching his mouth with inevitable certainty.
He tried one last time to cry out, to break free from the nightmare that was consuming him, but the gold sealed his lips just as someone called his name from what seemed like a great distance.
"Miles. Miles, wake up."
The voice cut through the horror of molten metal, pulling him out of a fitful sleep. A hand touched his shoulder, shaking him lightly but persistently.
"Miles, come on. Wake up."
He jerked awake with a gasp, his heart hammering against his ribs as the conference room materialized around him.
The harsh fluorescent lighting made him squint, and for a moment he couldn't quite reconcile the sterile office environment with the industrial nightmare he'd just escaped.
He could almost feel the phantom weight of gold pressing against his chest even though he knew he was safe.
Vic stood beside his chair, her hand still on his shoulder, her expression a mixture of concern and professional understanding.
She looked to be fully alert despite what Miles groggily realized must be an ungodly hour of the morning.
Her hair was still pulled back in the same practical ponytail she'd worn all day, and he also noticed that she looked shaken…
maybe even slightly excited about something.
"Sorry," Miles said, immediately embarrassed by his unprofessional behavior. He straightened in his chair and ran a hand through his disheveled hair, trying to orient himself in time and space. "I'm sorry, I must have dozed off. I didn't mean to fall asleep on the job."
"Don't worry about it," Vic said, stepping back to give him space to fully wake up. "Happens to all of us. I've fallen asleep in more conference rooms and hotel lobbies than I can count. Long investigations will do that to you."
Miles glanced at his watch and felt a jolt of surprise when he saw that it was 4:00 in the morning.
The last thing he remembered was reviewing financial profiles of San Francisco's wealthy elite, cross-referencing their business practices with the pattern established by their three victims. He'd been making notes about potential targets, people whose wealth and business methods might make them appealing to a killer motivated by economic justice.
But that had been around 1:30, and now somehow three hours had vanished into exhausted sleep with his head on the desk.
"Anyway, there was a very good reason for me to wake you up,” she said. “We got a call…”
Miles could hear something in her tone that suggested urgency, and his professional instincts began to override his embarrassment about falling asleep. "What kind of call?"
"Another body," Vic said simply. "Same methodology as the others. Covered in gold leaf, positioned like a piece of art."
The words hit Miles like cold water, instantly clearing the last cobwebs of sleep from his mind. He stood up quickly, gathering the papers he'd been working on before his exhaustion had overwhelmed him. "When? Where?"
"A house in Pacific Heights. The victim is David Goldberg…a name I came across a few times during our research today. His body was discovered about an hour ago by a woman who identified herself as his 'sort of girlfriend' according to the PD on the scene."
Miles felt his pulse quicken as he processed this information.
He’d seen the name a few times, too. Goldberg was an investment banker whose business practices fit the pattern they'd identified in their previous victims. If the killer had targeted him, it confirmed their theory about the selection criteria while also representing a significant escalation in the timeline. However, in the research he’d done, Goldberg hadn’t really stood out in any specific way.
"Investment banker, right? Specializing in offshore tax havens for wealthy clients. Exactly the kind of predatory financial practices we identified in the other victims."
"That's what I figured when I got the call," Vic said, holding the conference room door open for him. "Which means either we're getting better at predicting this killer's targets, or we're dealing with someone who's accelerating their timeline."
They hurried through the empty corridors of the field office, their footsteps echoing in the institutional silence.
Miles's mind was already racing ahead to the crime scene, wondering what new details this murder might reveal about the killer's methodology and motivation.
He just hated that someone else had to die in order for them to have that hope.
Four victims now, all following the same elaborate pattern, all connected by their wealth and questionable business ethics.
All completely covered in gold.
"What do we know about how the body was discovered?" Miles asked as they waited for the elevator.
"The police told me a woman named Jessica Breeding has been seeing Goldberg casually for a few months. She had a key to his house and would sometimes come by late at night...just for hook-ups, I’m assuming.
She came by for one tonight and found him positioned in his living room, coated in gold like the others. "
The elevator arrived and they stepped inside.
As it carried them down, the small space felt charged with urgency.
Miles could feel his mind shifting into high gear, preparing to process whatever evidence they might find at Goldberg's house. And because he wasn’t exactly a seasoned vet at crime scenes, he also felt a dawning excitement that he knew he needed to keep tampered down.
"Any signs of forced entry?" he asked as the elevator came to a stop and brought them to the lobby.
"Unknown at this point. Local PD secured the scene, but they're waiting for us before conducting a thorough investigation."
They hurried to the car and the night began to feel as if it was unfolding quickly—not too big of a stretch, considering that dawn was less than two hours away.
The drive through San Francisco's empty predawn streets gave Miles time to fully shake off the lingering effects of his nightmare and his impromptu nap. Vic navigated the mostly deserted roads, often referring to her GPS so they didn’t get lost. The city looked different at this hour, its familiar landmarks softened by fog and streetlight, creating an almost ethereal atmosphere that seemed appropriate for the case.
"You okay?" Vic asked as they climbed through the hills toward Pacific Heights. "You seemed pretty distressed when I woke you up."
Miles considered lying, dismissing his nightmare as unimportant, but something about Vic's straightforward manner encouraged honesty. "Bad dream about the case. About being covered in molten gold."
"Oh, that’s an occupational hazard," she said matter-of-factly. "Violent cases have a way of infiltrating your subconscious. I once spent three weeks dreaming about a serial arsonist case, waking up convinced I could smell smoke."
The tension in the car built as they approached Goldberg's neighborhood.
Miles found himself studying the lay of the land in the late morning darkness.
Pacific Heights revealed itself as a bastion of San Francisco's old money, its streets lined with architectural masterpieces that commanded panoramic views of the bay.
Even in the predawn darkness, the neighborhood's wealth was evident in the manicured landscaping, the expensive cars parked in circular driveways, and the sheer scale of the houses that occupied lots worth millions of dollars.
Goldberg's address led them to a contemporary structure of glass and steel that seemed to glow from within.
Its interior lights created geometric patterns against the darkened yard below.
Police cars lined the street in front of the house, their red and blue emergency lights painting the surrounding landscape in alternating colors.
Crime scene tape had already been strung around the property, and uniformed officers moved with the purposeful efficiency of a well-coordinated investigation.
Vic parked behind one of the police cars and they both sat for a moment, studying the scene before them. The house looked peaceful from the outside, its clean lines and expensive materials giving no hint of what violence or depravity awaited inside.
"Ready?" Vic asked, reaching for her door handle.
He felt slightly embarrassed that she even had to ask as he said, "Ready." But he wasn't sure that was entirely true.