The crime scene loomed ahead, a grim stage set with flashing blue lights and the stark yellow of police tape. As Sterling pulled up behind a line of official vehicles, Vivian felt very much out of place. She was usually on the run from these sorts of lights. But now she was willingly walking into them, trying to find and stop a group of thieves and killers.
In an almost hysterical moment, as she stepped out of the car, the line to an old Talking Heads song dashed through her head. “And you may ask yourself…how did I get here?”
She shook her head at the question. She’d lived a crazy life to this point, and it seemed like it was only going to get crazier.
As she and Sterling approached the crime scene tape, Sterling reached out and gently took her by the sleeve. It gave her a moment to study the scene before them. It was a tableau of urgency: the silhouettes of police officers moved briskly in the dark hours of early morning, voices crackled over radios, and the yellow tape marked the boundary between order and chaos.
“Are you going to be okay?”
“Yeah…”
“This is a fresh crime scene. I have no idea how bad it will be.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said, even though the coiling in her guts was starting to indicate otherwise.
Sterling gave her a curt nod as they both ducked under the police tape. His face was set in its usual stoic mask, but she caught the briefest flicker of something in his eyes—a shared understanding of what lay ahead.
As soon as they were beyond the tape, a large man in a police jacket approached them. He looked to be in his fifties, his blue eyes studying them with hope. His face bore the pallor of one who had seen too much. His jacket was unzipped, allowing Vivian to see most of the pin above his left breast. Though only a few letters were visible, she filled in the rest, assuming his name was Kurtz.
“FBI?” Kurtz asked.
“Interpol, actually,” Sterling said, showing his badge. “We think this murder as well as two others that occurred this week are tied to a group that has been wreaking havoc in Europe. Would you care to show us around?”
“Sure thing. Follow me.”
He led them past a few other uniformed officers and down the alley to a nondescript door. It was a lower side entrance hidden in plain sight, seemingly untouched by the grime of the city. With a heavy clunk of locks turning, the door swung open, revealing a dark room that was illuminated by another separate space a bit further back.
“The owner of the building discovered the body forty minutes ago,” Kurtz said. “The victim is Rachel Nguyen, twenty-six. That’s about all we know for right now. And it’s…it’s bad…”
Stepping further into the space, Vivian realized it was a cellar of some sort—though it had been properly finished and decorated. Even being a cellar, it still spoke of an owner who had lots of money and didn’t mind spending it. The air was rich with the scent of aged wood and mustier notes that spoke of wealth. She knew that painting on the far wall would fetch at least three hundred grand and the single table sitting in the center of the room would go for ten grand easy.
But Kurtz led them beyond all of this, further back into the cellar. Separated from the main area by an ornate wrought iron gate stood the wine cellar. It was impressive, row upon row of vintage bottles resting in their wooden cradles. But it wasn’t admiration of the collection of wine that grabbed her attention.
It was the body on the floor. And as she stepped closer, Vivian could smell the strong, alluring scent of spilled wine. It was an odd combination that left her feeling slightly swimmy-headed.
Vivian’s eyes scanned the chaos: shattered glass on the floor, the ruby spill of wine bleeding into the grooves between cobblestones. It mingled with a darker, stickier crimson that didn’t belong amongst the vintage bottles.
Sterling stepped in beside her and then gently nudged past her to get a better look. Meanwhile, Vivian couldn’t tear her gaze away from the body. Rachel Nguyen lay contorted, as if every bone in her body had fought against an unseen assailant. Her face was a canvas of brutality; lacerations crisscrossed her cheeks where glass shards had dug in. A piece of dark green glass from a broken wine bottle was still embedded in her forehead.
And then there were the stab wounds. There were at least six that she could see, but maybe more hidden by all of the blood: one in her neck, four in her stomach, one in her right side. Most were still leaking blood.
Vivian’s stomach churned as she took in the horror. This was not just murder; it was desecration. She’d seen dead bodies before but never in this state—never this mutilated, this fresh. The world felt like it was tilting, swaying. Suddenly, Vivian found it difficult to breathe.
Air. She needed air. With each breath she drew, the scent of blood and broken spirits seemed to saturate her senses further. She turned on her heel, almost stumbling in her haste to escape the cellar.
As she did, she noticed the black mark stamped into the doorframe on the inner side of the cellar’s entrance. The same insignia she’d seen at the former jewelry store where Sarah Johnson had been tortured and killed. She took note of the sight but didn’t pause to observe it. She had to get outside. She had to step away for just a moment…
The alley welcomed her, and the fresh air was like water. She drank it in, taking huge gasps of it as she tried to center herself. She leaned against the building’s side, her hands finding the rough texture of bricks almost relaxing—a reminder that this was indeed still the real world.
But her deep breathing did little to steady her; the cool air did nothing to cleanse the imagery seared into her mind. Vivian felt a twinge of shame for the weakness that had forced her outside while Sterling remained composed and methodical. Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the victims, to their interrupted stories. And as she pushed herself off the wall, determined to swallow the bile of fear and revulsion, Vivian had her first real doubts. If this was the sort of thing that was expected of her in trying to help nail this case shut, she wasn’t sure if she had it in her. Canvassing crime scenes was one thing—looking for clues and digging up leads—but she wasn’t prepared for this.
But she knew she had to go back in. If she didn’t, Sterling would come out here to check on her. And that would be embarrassing, especially after all of the compliments he’d given her in front of Director Garnett. She did her best to draw up her nerve and confidence, taking another series of deep breaths. As she did so, she caught a snippet of conversation from a bit further down the alley, among the gathered cops closer to the crime scene tape.
“Who else had keys to the cellar?” The voice broke through the fog of her thoughts. It was crisp, authoritative—a policeman. When she turned to see who was speaking, she saw that the question was directed to a man wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of jeans. And if the cop was asking about keys, Vivian assumed this man was the building owner.
“Only my wife and the cleaning lady,” came the response, tinged with the distinct tremble of shock. “But my wife is visiting her sister in Paris.”
Intrigued despite herself, Vivian straightened up. The cleaning lady. Not a likely candidate for murder but given the circumstances, she didn’t think she could ignore it. Besides…in her time as a thief, she’d not only posed as other people in order to get information, but she had also heard of her competitors going to astronomical lengths to secure a heist. She’d once known a man who’d spent two years pretending to be a real estate developer—complete with an LLC and two employees—just to get close to artifacts from the Roman Empire.
“Excuse me,” she interjected smoothly, stepping closer to the conversation. Her eyes locked onto the owner’s, seeking the truth beneath the surface. “I heard you mention your cleaning lady. What hours does she work?”
The man looked confused, probably because here she was among cops and dressed as if she were just out for a few errands. “And who are you, exactly?” he asked.
“I’m here with the Interpol agent currently in your cellar. Working alongside him as a contractor of sorts.”
“She’s right,” Office Kurtz said from the group of cops behind them. “I saw her come in with him.”
“I see,” the owner said. Now that she was standing directly across from him, she guessed him to be in his late sixties or so, and his white hair was combed back smooth and stylish. “Well, she comes in twice a week—Mondays and Thursdays,” he answered, his gaze darting between the officers and Vivian. “Always gone by nine at night, without fail.”
“Are there security cameras around the building?”
“Yes…multiple. Twelve in all, yes, we do.” He frowned, looking guilty, when he added, “They’re all over the building, though I rarely check them unless there’s an incident.”
Vivian’s mind raced. In her former life, cameras were obstacles, challenges to be circumvented. Now, they could actually help. There was something almost poetic about it—the hunted turning hunter, the thief relying on tools that had once threatened her livelihood. Poetic, yes. But she still wasn’t sure how she felt about it.
“How easy would it be to view the footage from tonight?”
“Easy enough, but I assure you…Jenna had nothing to do with this.”
“I think we should have a look anyway.”
The owner looked to the cops, as if for confirmation. As he did, Sterling came out of the cellar, looking rather ashen at the sight he’d just mentally cataloged. “What’s up?” he said.
“This is the owner of the building,” Vivian said. “I’ve asked if we can see his security feeds.”
“Does he think he knows who may have done it?”
It was the owner who spoke up, shaking his head. “No, I saw nothing. But your partner here seems to think my cleaning lady may have been involved.”
“Sir, what’s your name?” Sterling asked.
“Jacob Barker.”
“Mr. Barker, if Ms. Fox thinks it’s worth a look, I think we should have a look.”
“Very well,” Barker said, looking a bit uncertain and nervous. “Follow me.”
Barker led them back into the cellar, but he took a sharp right almost immediately after entering the door. They entered into a thin yet well-decorated hallway and then came to an elevator. Barker pushed a button and the doors slid open.
Though Vivian did her best to remain calm, she found herself entering the elevator as quickly as she could…wanting to be as far away from the gruesome sight in the wine cellar as quickly as possible.
***
The elevator carried them to the top floor—the third, not counting the cellar—and to a den with a small office space at the back. There, Vivian saw a large desk, housing a laptop and a desktop monitor. They passed through the den, adorned with bookcases, expensive furniture, and a view of several streets’ worth of rooftops.
But Vivian ignored the den. She was focused on getting to the desk to look at the footage Jacob Barker was currently hunting for.
“This is it,” Barker said as they walked into the little office. “I have an IT guy come by once a week to make sure everything is up and running. But I know how to operate it. So let me just back up here to show you when Jenna left tonight.”
As he worked his way through the night’s footage, showing twelve different angles of his four-floor home (counting the basement), Sterling did his best to get relevant information out of him.
“Mr. Barker,” Sterling said, “do you know what things were taken tonight?”
“Yes,” he hissed angrily in a quick and sudden change of mood. The questioning was apparently getting to him. “A string of pearls and an authentic Japanese samurai sword.”
“Have you had anyone come to you recently interested in buying either of them?”
“No. I put the sword up on an auction a few months ago but no one was willing to pay what I was asking, so I kept it.” He clicked a few more times on his wireless mouse and then stepped back from the monitors. “Right here. You can see Jenna leaving the building.”
Vivian watched the screens flicker as past images sprang to life, revealing corridors, entrances, and the deadened stare of the wine cellar door. Sterling also leaned forward, his eyes sharp. Timestamps skipped like stones over water, from daylight to dusk, to the heart of night.
“There, pause it,” Sterling commanded suddenly.
On screen, the figure of the cleaning lady—Jenna—pressed against the timestamp of 9:06 PM, her departure coinciding with the owner’s claims.
“That’s her?” Vivian asked.
“Yes, that’s Jenna,” Barker confirmed.
Then the footage rolled on, lapsing into stillness. On two occasions, it jolted back to life when Barker himself stepped into view, but by 10:55, everything in the house was still and quiet.
But at 12:18, there was motion again. It was along the first floor, headed to the back of the hallway. Someone entered the front door and walked the length of the hallway. It was plain to see that it was Jenna, though she had changed her clothes. There was no hesitation, no fumbling—this was someone familiar with the area and not wanting to waste any time.
Barker stood quiet for a moment, his mouth working soundlessly. “I… I had no idea she came back.”
“The front door…what would she need to get in without setting off an alarm?” Sterling asked.
“The key and the code. I change the code twice a month, but she always gets it.”
“And who else has access to the code?”
“Just her and my wife. But as I told the cops outside, my wife is currently in Paris.”
“Any idea why Jenna may have come back?” Vivian asked.
“None. There have been a few times where she left something here by accident. But she has always texted or called to let me know she was coming back by.”
The tension in the room ratcheted tighter. Vivian watched Jenna moving with a purpose down the hall until she was out of sight.
“What’s at the end of that hallway?” Vivian asked.
“A bathroom and a stairwell.”
“Does that stairwell lead to the cellar?”
“Yes.”
They watched the footage creep by, waiting for Jenna to reappear in the frame, but it never happened.
“Mr. Barker, what’s her full name?” Sterling asked.
“Jenna Caldwell.”
“Age?”
“Um…I’m not sure. In her thirties.”
Sterling’s brow furrowed, and Vivian noticed the subtle shift in his demeanor. Something clicked, and he reached for his phone with a haste that spoke volumes. His fingers flew over the screen, pulling up the files for Sarah Johnson’s case.
“What are you looking for?”
“That name…Jenna Caldwell. It sounds familiar.”
As Sterling searched, the footage on Barker’s screens continued to show empty halls. According to the sped-up footage, more than an hour had passed since Jenna showed up at 12:18. “Mr. Barker,” Vivian asked, “are the front door and cellar exits the only way out of the house?”
“Yes. Well, there’s a fire escape off of the balcony on the second floor but I’ve never used it. Why?”
“Because if she came in through the front for an innocent reason—let’s say she left something behind like you said she’s done in the past—then she would likely exit the same way, right?”
“Right…”
The shock on his face told Vivian that he understood what she was getting at—that perhaps Jenna had exited through the cellar door. And if that was the case, it was incredibly suspicious, given what had happened down in the cellar sometime between 2:30 and 3:00.
“Got her,” Sterling said out of nowhere.
Vivian looked at Barker’s monitors, thinking Sterling had seen Jenna on one of the feeds. But no…they were all still empty as they caught up to real time. She turned to Sterling just in time to see him holding out his phone for her.
“Jenna Caldwell, right there in Sarah Johnson’s report.”
“Why?” Vivian asked.
“Because she’s listed as a former employee of the jewelry store that used to occupy the space. Employed there as a cleaner.”
They exchanged a silent glance that communicated volumes. And with the halls still empty on the screens in front of them, the silence and the lack of new footage seemed to give them all the answers they needed.