CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The drive to the address Vic had found for Dr. Martinez took them away from the polished financial district and into neighborhoods where the city's working class was barely able to still hang on.
Miles watched the urban landscape transform outside the passenger window as Vic navigated through increasingly narrow streets lined with aging apartment buildings and small businesses that bore the weathered signs of decades in operation.
The building's entrance was protected by a security door that was on its last legs; its glass panel was spider-webbed with cracks that had been reinforced with clear tape.
A handwritten directory beside the door listed tenants' names in fading ink, some crossed out and replaced as residents moved in and out.
Miles noted that this was exactly the kind of neighborhood where someone like Martinez might end up after losing an academic position.
The rent would be affordable enough for someone surviving on unemployment benefits or temporary work, but the location still provided access to the broader Bay Area job market.
It was respectable but struggling, a place where former professionals could maintain their dignity while rebuilding their careers.
The security door's intercom system looked functional despite the building's overall shabbiness. Vic located Martinez's name among the faded listings, pressed the buzzer, and waited for a response.
"Yes?" The voice that crackled through the speaker was cautious, carrying the wariness of someone who wasn't expecting visitors.
"Dr. Martinez?”
“Um, yeah?”
“This is Special Agent Victoria Stone with the FBI. We'd like to speak with you about some research you might be able to help us with."
The intercom went silent for several long moments, and Miles wondered whether Martinez was going to refuse to speak with them. Finally, the buzzer sounded, releasing the security door's lock.
"Third floor, apartment 3B," Martinez's voice said through the speaker.
They passed through a basic, bland lobby and climbed a narrow staircase.
The building’s fluorescent lighting cast everything in harsh, unflattering tones.
But the building was clean and well-maintained despite its age, suggesting a landlord who cared about the property and tenants who took pride in their home despite its modest circumstances.
Apartment 3B's door opened before they could knock, revealing a man in his mid-fifties with graying brown hair down to his shoulders, and the kind of lean build that suggested either careful diet or regular exercise.
Dr. Andrew Martinez wore wire-rimmed glasses that had been repaired with tape in several places, and his clothing—jeans and a faded UC Berkeley sweatshirt—looked comfortable but dated.
His dark eyes moved nervously between Miles and Vic, and his hands showed a slight tremor that could have been caffeine or anxiety.
"Dr. Martinez," Vic said, producing her credentials with practiced efficiency. "I'm Special Agent Stone, and this is Dr. Sterling, both out of Quantico. Thank you for agreeing to speak with us."
Martinez stepped back to allow them into his apartment, but his body language suggested reluctance rather than hospitality. Miles immediately noticed how the man's eyes darted around the hallway as if checking to see whether anyone else was watching their interaction.
The apartment's living room was small but functional, with furniture that looked like it had been picked up at thrift stores or garage sales. An aged but sturdy folding table held a laptop computer surrounded by stacks of papers and academic journals.
But what struck Miles most forcefully was how the rest of the apartment seemed to overflow into the living space.
Through the doorways leading to the kitchen and bedroom, he could see chemistry equipment, beakers, and things he did not know the names of…
all of which looked far too sophisticated for casual hobbyist use.
Books and scientific journals were stacked on every available surface, creating narrow pathways between towering piles of academic material.
"Please, sit down," Martinez said, gesturing toward a futon near the center of the front room while he remained standing near the window.
His fidgeting was becoming more pronounced, and Miles noticed how the man's eyes kept darting toward the apartment's exit as if calculating distances and escape routes.
He looked…well, not scared but definitely agitated.
"Dr. Martinez, we understand you were terminated from your position at UC Berkeley," Vic began, settling onto the futon in a way that looked casual but positioned her between Martinez and the door. "Can you tell us what you've been doing since then?"
"I've been continuing my research independently," Martinez replied.
There was a tone of annoyance in his voice, carrying the defensiveness of someone who had been forced to justify his activities many times before.
"Just because the university decided my views were too controversial doesn't mean my work isn't valid. "
Miles studied Martinez's apartment more carefully, noting the sophisticated nature of the chemistry equipment he could see in the adjacent rooms. "What kind of research are you conducting?"
"Environmental chemistry, primarily. I'm investigating the chemical signatures left by industrial processes and their impact on urban ecosystems." Martinez's explanation sounded rehearsed. But then again, Miled assumed he had explained this many times during the course of his teaching career.
"That requires fairly sophisticated equipment," Miles observed. "How are you funding this independent research?"
Martinez's fidgeting intensified, and sweat was beginning to bead on his forehead despite the apartment's cool temperature. "I have some savings, and I've been doing freelance consulting work for environmental groups."
Vic leaned forward slightly, her tone becoming more direct. "Dr. Martinez, would you mind if we took a look around your apartment? We're trying to understand the scope of your current research activities."
“And why is that?”
“We’re currently investigating a series of murders…murders of wealthy, prominent people. And given your past interests and passions, we thought you could be a valuable resource.”
“Resource,” Martinez said, as if mocking them. “Or suspect?”
“Well, let’s figure that out, shall we?” Vic said, injecting a bit of snarkiness into her tone. “Now, as I asked…do you mind if we have a look around?”
"I do, actually" Martinez said immediately, his voice sharp with panic. "Absolutely not. You don't have a warrant, and I haven't done anything wrong. This is harassment."
His angry refusal was telling. An innocent person might be annoyed by federal agents wanting to search their home, but Martinez's response suggested someone who was hiding something significant.
"Dr. Martinez," Vic said, "we're not here to harass you. Honestly, we're hoping you might be able to provide some insights into the financial community that these victims were part of."
Something in Vic's words seemed to snap something inside Martinez.
His already nervous demeanor shifted into outright panic, his eyes widening as the implications of their visit became clear to him.
Miles saw the exact moment when Martinez realized they weren't just asking for academic consultation—they were investigating him as a potential suspect.
Without warning, Martinez bolted toward the apartment door, moving with surprising speed for someone who had seemed so nervous and uncertain just moments before. He yanked the door open and sprinted into the hallway, his footsteps echoing off the narrow walls as he headed for the staircase.
"Shit," Vic muttered, immediately giving chase.
Miles followed close behind, adrenaline surging through his system as they pursued Martinez down the apartment building's narrow stairwell.
The confined space amplified every sound—footsteps, heavy breathing, the metallic clang of Martinez's hand slapping against the stair railings as he took the steps two at a time.
Miles was surprised to discover how much he was enjoying the physical challenge of the chase.
His years of college swimming had maintained his cardiovascular fitness, and he found himself keeping pace with Vic despite her obvious experience with this kind of pursuit.
The analytical part of his mind that usually dominated his work was temporarily overwhelmed by the pure physical excitement of the chase, the primal satisfaction of pursuit and potential capture.
Martinez burst through the building's main entrance and into the small courtyard that separated the apartment building from the street.
But instead of heading toward the street where he might disappear into traffic or crowd, he veered toward the back of the building.
It was clear he knew the lay of the land well as he dashed in the direction of a narrow alley that led to the building's rear entrance.
Miles and Vic followed, their footsteps echoing off the brick walls of the confined space.
Miles could see Martinez ahead of them, determined but not all that fast. Apparently, his academic lifestyle hadn't prepared him for extended physical exertion.
As they rounded the corner of the building, Miles saw Martinez heading toward a set of basement doors that were built into the building's foundation.
The heavy metal doors looked like they led to utility areas or storage spaces, places that would normally be locked and inaccessible to tenants.
But Martinez wasn't trying to hide in the basement—he was trying to reach something down there.
"Stop, Martinez!" Vic shouted, closing the distance between them as Martinez fumbled with what appeared to be a key or access card for the basement doors. Vic’s hand was hovering over her holstered Glock, ready for action if it came to that.
Miles reached Martinez just as the man managed to unlock one of the doors, tackling him before he could disappear into the darkness below.
They went down hard on the concrete, Martinez struggling briefly before the combined weight of both federal agents convinced him that resistance was futile.
It was the first time in more than three years Miles had been forced to get physical with a suspect and it showed when the wind went rushing out of him and the pain of slamming into another body registered much more than he remembered.
"What's in the basement, Martinez?" Vic demanded, breathing heavily from the chase but maintaining her professional composure.
"Nothing," Martinez gasped, his earlier panic now replaced by the defeated exhaustion of someone whose desperate gamble had failed. "Just storage."
But as Miles got to his feet, hauling Martinez up with him, Vic was already investigating the basement doors.
She pulled them open easily and stepped into the space beyond.
Miles helped keep Martinez restrained while watching Vic disappear into the underground area.
She apparently found a light switch because the place was fully illuminated a few seconds later.
"Miles," Vic called from below, her voice carrying a note of excitement that made his pulse quicken. "You need to see this."
Miles looked down at Martinez, who had given up struggling and now lay on the concrete with the resigned expression of someone who knew his secrets were about to be exposed. "Don’t even think about moving," Miles growled.
He followed Vic into the basement. Right away, he noticed the sophisticated ventilation system that had been installed to handle chemical fumes.
The space had been converted into a makeshift laboratory that rivaled the equipment Miles had seen in Martinez's apartment.
Beakers, burners, and other complex apparatus filled metal tables.
Along the back wall, a row of wooden shelves held various chemical containers.
But it was the small pile of golden flakes scattered across one of the worktables that made Miles's heart race with excitement.
"Gold leaf," Vic said, carefully photographing the evidence with her phone. "Professional quality, exactly like what we've seen at our crime scenes."
Miles studied the makeshift laboratory, noting the precision with which Martinez had arranged his equipment. This wasn't the workspace of a casual chemistry hobbyist—this was a professional-grade facility hidden beneath a modest apartment building.
"Dr. Andrew Martinez," Vic said, making her way back out of the basement door with handcuffs ready. "You're under arrest on suspicion of murder."
The metallic click of the handcuffs closing around Martinez's wrists seemed to echo in the confined space of the alley. For Miles, it all seemed anticlimactic and a little strange. After all, the lie he’d told Hayes had paid off.
For now, it seemed they had their killer.