Chapter 2 - The Red Clay Trap
Miller’s heavy brow furrowed, the deep crevasse between his eyebrows darkening like a storm cloud over Lake Michigan. He was accustomed to two types of reactions at dawn: hysterical confusion from the truly innocent, or the frantic, darting eye movements of a guilty man measuring the distance to the fire escape.
He was not accustomed to an architect who adjusted his wristwatch, stepped into a pair of clean leather work boots, and locked his own deadbolt from the outside with the casual demeanor of a man heading out for a morning bagel.
"You're awful calm for a guy who hasn't asked why homicide is on his stoop," Miller muttered, falling into step beside me as we descended the brownstone’s concrete stairs. The wind was whipping off the lake, bitter and smelling of sulfur and wet asphalt.
"You're here about Victoria Vance," I said, stepping onto the sidewalk without breaking stride.
Behind us, Officer Briggs let out an involuntary gasp, his hand twitching toward his service belt before catching himself. Miller didn't gasp, but his entire frame locked up. His jaw set so hard I could hear the porcelain of his molars grinding together.
"Nobody released that name to the press, Hayes," Miller growled, cutting across the sidewalk to block my path to the unmarked Crown Victoria idling at the curb. "The coroner hasn't even finished the preliminary field report. How the hell do you know who died?"
"Because forty minutes ago," I said, looking directly into his watery, bloodshot eyes, "Julian Mercer called your dispatch desk from a burner phone registered to an LLC in Delaware, claiming he saw my silver Honda Civic idling near the southern access road of the Vance estate between midnight and two a.m."
Miller’s face went entirely slack. The color drained from his weathered cheeks, leaving behind a mottled, unhealthy gray.
In my first life, this was the exact moment Miller had pounced. He had used my shock against me, twisting my stuttered confusion into a tacit confession, dragging me downtown before I could even process that Victoria—a prominent client of our boutique firm—was dead. He had told me Julian was "cooperating to clear our business name," convincing me that my partner was desperately trying to help while the real trap snapped shut around my throat.
"Get in the car," Miller said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly register. The folksy detective was gone; the pitbull had taken over.
"Gladly," I said. "Front seat or back?"
"Back. And keep your hands where Briggs can see them."
The backseat of the Crown Victoria smelled of stale tobacco, dried coffee spills, and old vinyl. I leaned back against the hard plastic seat, resting my head against the partition glass. Through the mesh, I watched Miller climb into the front passenger side, slam his door, and aggressively snatch the radio handset from the dashboard cradle.
"Dispatch, this is Unit Fourteen," Miller barked into the mic. "We have the primary person of interest in custody. Transporting to Area One. Have Lieutenant Garza meet us in Interrogation Three."
"Copy that, Fourteen," the dispatcher replied, static crackling over the frequency. "Be advised, the reporting party is already on site in Conference Room B."
I let out a low, dry chuckle from the backseat.
Miller’s eyes snapped to the rearview mirror, glaring at my reflection with pure venom. "You find something funny about a homicide, Hayes?"
"I find Julian’s punctuality hilarious," I said, meeting his gaze in the glass. "He always did hate morning meetings. The fact that he beat you to the precinct means he didn't sleep at all last night. Ask yourself why, Detective."
"I don't need to ask myself anything," Miller snapped, turning his back to me. "I follow the physical evidence. And right now, the physical evidence points straight at your shoes."
"You mean the synthetic red clay?" I asked casually.
The car went dead quiet. Briggs, who was navigating the cruiser onto the expressway ramp, glanced nervously at Miller. Miller didn't turn around, but his knuckles went white against the edge of his clipboard.
"The clay from the Vance estate’s private tennis court reconstruction," I continued, my voice smooth and rhythmic. "The kind that isn't sold in retail supply yards within three hundred miles of Cook County. The kind that someone dumped in my mudroom trash bin around three a.m. while I was supposedly sleeping."
Miller spun around in his seat, the leather of his trench coat squeaking violently against the headrest. "How do you know about the mudroom?!"
"Because I installed four discrete, military-grade optical sensors in the crown molding three weeks ago, Detective," I lied smoothly. There were no cameras in the house—only the files on the SSD in my pocket—but Miller didn't know that. "And at 3:14 a.m., your star witness used a duplicate deadbolt key to walk into my back hallway, place a pair of size-eleven Red Wing work boots behind my umbrella stand, and walk out. Julian wears an eleven. I wear a nine and a half."
Miller stared at my feet.
Beneath the hem of my trousers, my black leather boots were narrow, compact, and unmistakably smaller than the heavy industrial clunkers currently sitting in an evidence locker down at 35th and Michigan.
The Crown Victoria hit a pothole, the jolt breaking the suffocating silence.
May you like
Miller turned back toward the windshield. He didn't speak another word for the remaining twelve minutes of the drive, but through the rearview mirror, I could see the sweat beginning to bead along his receding hairline.
The hunter was suddenly realizing he might be sitting in the passenger seat of an ambush.
