The precinct was waking up when McGee got back.
Day shift filtering in with their coffees and their rested faces. She passed the bullpen with Kane's file under her arm and the USB drive in her pocket, feeling like a ghost haunting the morning.
Captain Sam Fredericks's office was at the end of the hall. Door open. He was younger than most captains McGee had seen — early forties, sharp eyes, sleeves already rolled up at 7 AM. He looked up when she knocked.
"Summers. Come in." He gestured at the chair. "You look like hell."
"Thank you, sir."
"Sit. Talk."
McGee sat. She'd rehearsed this in the car, but now the words felt thin.
"Victor Kane. Hedge fund manager, Meridian Capital. Found dead in his office last night by the cleaning crew. No visible wounds, no signs of struggle, no forced entry." She set the file on his desk. "But the body was staged, sir. He was sitting upright in his chair, hands folded on the desk, eyes open. Like he was waiting for someone."
Fredericks leaned back. "Staged."
"Yes, sir. And security footage shows a man entering Kane's office at 9:14 PM and leaving at 12:17 AM. Three hours, sir. He was in there for three hours."
"Three hours." Fredericks frowned. "Doing what?"
"I don't know. But he knew the cameras. He looked right at one and adjusted his tie." She pulled out her phone, pulled up a still she'd grabbed from the footage. "Suit, black tie, black leather gloves. Guy Fawkes mask. Average build, short black hair — that's all we've got."
Fredericks studied the image. "A mask."
"Yes, sir."
"And you think this isn't a one-off."
McGee took a breath. "Sir, nobody spends three hours staging a body unless they're making a statement. He knew the cleaning schedule — he timed it so the body would be found at midnight. He looked at the camera. He wanted us to see him." She leaned forward. "This wasn't a murder, sir. It was an exhibition. And people who do exhibitions don't stop at one."
Fredericks was quiet for a long moment. He tapped his pen against the desk.
"You've been a detective for eleven days, Summers."
"Yes, sir."
"You know what the simplest explanation is? Rich guy with enemies, someone got to him, made it look clean. One and done."
"With respect, sir — a one-and-done killer doesn't spend three hours arranging the body. Doesn't look at the camera. Doesn't time the discovery." McGee's hands were steady, but her heart was pounding. "This guy meant business. He knew exactly what he was doing."
Another silence. Fredericks looked at the still image again — the masked figure, the adjusted tie.
"What's your next step?"
"Sir?"
"If I let you run with this — what's your next step?"
McGee hadn't expected the question. "The autopsy. I want to know how Kane died — there's no visible cause. And I want to dig into Kane's background. If this guy targets people for a reason, I need to know what Kane did to end up on his list."
Fredericks nodded slowly. Then he set the pen down.
"Alright, Summers. You think he's going to do it again — prove it. Follow the hunch. But I need something solid, and I need it fast. If this goes cold, I'm pulling you back to regular rotation."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
She stood up, file in hand. At the door, Fredericks called after her.
"Summers."
"Sir?"
"Good instincts. Don't waste them."
---
McGee walked back through the bullpen in a daze. She had backing. A captain who believed her — or at least, believed in her enough to let her try.
It felt like relief. It felt like terror.
Her father had believed in the system — in rules, in courts, in the slow grind of justice. She'd believed it too. She was starting to wonder.
She was right about one thing: the man in the mask wasn't done. She could feel it the way you feel weather changing — a pressure behind the eyes, a wrongness in the air.
She just had to prove it before the next body.
Chapter 3