Page 75 of Fatal Pattern

“The killer’s signature,” he said.

“He was still perfecting it back then.”

“Which is why he forgot the drawing.”

“Three years of evolution.” Tori pulled up all four crime scenes side by side. “Tampa was crude, experimental. Orlando more refined. St. Johns showed real sophistication. And Florek . . .”

“Florek was his masterpiece.”

Three years of practice. Three years of refining technique while bodies piled up. The killer hadn’t just been murdering people. He’d been learning, evolving, treating each crime scene like a rough draft toward some perfect final composition.

The smoking gun they’d found wouldn’t just solve Florek’s murder. It might free an innocent man and expose a predator who’d been hunting for three years.

“You should call Orlando PD,” Tori said. “Cole Miller might be innocent.”

Blade was already reaching for his phone. “I’ll put Deputy Gregory on it. I need to call the ADA.”

He speed-dialed Garrison’s direct line.

“Garrison.”

“Rene, we have him. It’s a serial. We have a second crime scene with a matching fractal symbol drawn by the victim. Two more possibles. I need that warrant for Florek’s office. Please.”

Silence stretched for three heartbeats. He could practically hear the gears turning in Garrison’s prosecutorial mind. “How confident are you in the connection?”

“Dead certain. Four victims, three years, same geometric signature. The killer’s been perfecting his craft.”

“I’ll have the warrant in your inbox within the hour.”

He hung up.

“Grab your stuff,” he said, already pocketing his phone. “We’re heading to the law firm.”

Tori closed her laptop with a decisive snap. “McCrary’s not going to be happy.”

“McCrary can file a complaint with my supervisor.”

The drive to the high-rise took ninety minutes through downtown traffic, and the elevator ride to the fifth floor felt endless. When the doors opened, Rich McCrary stood waiting in the lobby, his professional smile replaced by cold fury. His expensive suit couldn’t hide the rigidity in his spine.

“Detective St. James. I assume you have the proper paperwork this time.”

Blade pulled up the warrant on his phone and turned the screen toward McCrary. McCrary’s eyes scanned it, his jaw working like he was chewing nails.

“This is harassment,” McCrary said. “My clients have privileges—”

“Your employee’s been murdered,” Blade cut him off. “This isn’t a witch hunt. It’s a homicide investigation.”

The CSU techs filed past them. Blade directed them toward Florek’s office while he and Tori carted file boxes to the conference room.

The same room. The same massive painting dominating the wall.

The itch started immediately. Stronger now. More insistent. Like a tuning fork vibrating in his skull.

“I need another look at this,” Blade said, setting down the boxes.

What was it about the painting that pulled him in?

Patterns within patterns.