Page 74 of Fatal Pattern

“Already sending.”

“Thanks, Larry. I owe you.”

He ended the call and turned to Tori. “We’ve got more victims.”

She leaned down and kissed Stryker’s forehead. “We’ll be back soon. Rest. We’ve got everything covered.”

He gave Stryker’s arm a gentle squeeze, feeling the muscle that had once been iron-hard now soft beneath the hospital gown. “Hang in there, brother. We’re getting closer.”

They hurried toward the door, leaving Stryker to his quiet battle.

Blade swiped his badge at the War Room door, the electronic lock disengaging with a sharp click. The lights flickered on automatically, illuminating their investigation hub. Whiteboards covered three walls, dense with timelines and suspect photos. Coffee-stained files created precarious towers on every available surface.

Tori claimed the workstation nearest the main display screen, her laptop coming to life before Blade had even settled into his chair.

“Tampa first,” he said, clicking open Larry’s email attachment.

The crime scene photos loaded pixel by pixel, revealing a horror that made Blade’s jaw tighten. Judge Doreen Kagay, seventy-three, found in her study. Blood spatter painted the walls in arcs that spoke of prolonged violence. Overturned furniture. Shattered picture frames. The same brutality they’d seen at Florek’s house.

“Living alone,” Tori murmured, scanning the report. “Retired. No forced entry.”

He opened the Orlando file next. Software developer Scott Kaufman, forty-five. The photos showed an apartment that looked like a war zone. Underneath the disaster, a similar staging. Furniture positioned just so. Personal items moved to specific locations.

“This one’s still active,” Blade said, scrolling through the case notes. “Victim was killed by his roommate, Cole Miller. Trial starts next month.”

“What evidence do they have?”

Blade scanned the forensics section. “No murder weapon. Roommate was covered in the victim’s blood. Lots of fingerprints. Unidentified male DNA found in the kitchen and bathroom. Loads of circumstantial, including Cole had been having an affair with Kaufman’s girlfriend.”

“Oldest story in the book,” she said. “But what about that male DNA?”

“Looks like they dismissed it as a visitor once they zeroed in on the roommate.”

“Dismissed it?” Tori blinked. “That’s sloppy work.”

“Or convenient work. Why bother testing every known male visitor when you have enough evidence to nail the roommate? That’s a job for the defense.” He pulled up the St. Johns County file. Sasha Robie. An elderly woman. Retired records clerk from the state court system. Another brutal scene. Another case closed with a convenient suspect.

Tori leaned into the glow of the monitor, her cursor hovering over a crime scene photo from Tampa. “Blade, look.”

On Judge Kagay’s mahogany desk, amidst the papers and files stacked and scattered across its surface, sat a yellow legal pad. The original investigator had dismissed the scribbles on the top sheet as “victim’s personal notes, no evidentiary value.”

Blade saw what the Tampa detective had missed. Geometric lines forming an intricate pattern that seemed to repeat.

“Pull up Florek’s sketch,” Tori said.

He opened the image from Florek’s desk blotter. Different, but related. Where the Tampa drawing was a simple Star of David with smaller stars nestled in every point, Florek’s was a web of intersecting triangles radiating outward.

“They’re related,” Tori said, her fingers flying across her keyboard. “Look.” She pointed at the screen. “Keplerian fractals. ‘Self-similar patterns created by iteratively applying geometric transformations based on regular polyhedral.’”

“English, please,” he said. “Heck, I’d even take Spanish at this point.”

Tori grinned. “Think of a snowflake. Each branch has smaller branches that look exactly like the big one. Fractals repeat the same pattern at different sizes. Instead of branches, our killer’s using platonic solids.”

“That’s less opaque.” But it still wasn’t quite clear. “In my world, platonic doesn’t describe shapes. It only describes our relationship.”

Tori’s fingers froze above her keyboard. Her eyes widened, then narrowed as she processed his words, a flush creeping up her neck. “Just . . . here. Look.”

She overlaid the Tampa symbol on the crime scene. The match was unmistakable.